Rules of '48

by Jack Cady

  Miss Stacy Hall taught science at Highland Junior High, and Miss Sarah Jones taught the same at Jackson St. Colored Junior High. Both young women, had they been willing to wait for a kid to grow up, could have married any boy in their classes.

  Miss Stacy had longish auburn hair, blue eyes, slim figure, and graceful, graceful hands. Her fingers, when doing diagrams at the blackboard, seemed like magics, dancing.

  Miss Sarah had eyes sparkly as stars at midnight; but dark as midnight, also. Her skin was high-yeller Creole, her figure buxom. She answered sass with sass; the teacherly kind.

  Jim would learn just enough science to squeak past, but would really learn how to make full-time, standard-type, generalized dreams: a cottage for two, flowers along a white fence; if only she would wait.

  Howard took to science like a duck hunting puddles, and began making dreams with a point to them: a store of his own, and Miss Sarah in a big white house, occasionally charming customers at the store—(in the dream, Howard's mother took care of the books which was only practical). If Miss Sarah would only wait.

  It wasn't gonna happen. When Jim biked from the auction to school during September, he did so with the dull ache of one who owns futile dreams. Still, it was his dream, and the very biggest. Much better than dreams of being a fireman or an airplane pilot.

  Howard, walking to school, walked with the same dull ache; but the dream of a store and a big white house were parts that a man could hold onto.

  And, when one stops to think about it, both boys handled 'love' about as well as everyone else. And, since commerce could not exist without valentines, Mother's Day, fluffy puppies and smiling babies, it's worth looking at how everyone else was doing.

  Lucky loved Mrs. Lucky, and no fool, he. If there was a speck of emptiness in their shared lives, it came through a lack of children. Lucky solved the lack by teaching his trade to young boys. He also promoted Israel, but sanely, because he figured some Zionists were as crazy as Thomas the stuffed rooster.

  Mrs. Lucky, equally practical, solved lack of kids by taking care of Lucky. She probably never realized that Lucky cared for her beyond the usual complexities of love. She didn't really know that Lucky, having read the newspapers, sometimes felt groundless. She did not know that she was his main and sometimes only reason to strive.

  Wade took love for granted. If asked he would throw the question back at the questioner. "If that wasn't the point, why in the fatback hell would I be bustin' the seat of my pants?" Wade would not use the word 'love' because he couldn't. It just wasn't in the man.

  Mrs. Wade, Viola, loved her kids, and supposed to herself that she loved her husband. He was, after all, tolerable on Sundays.

  Lester loved the memory of a Chicago-girl-communist named Mona; a union girl so far to the left she figured Roosevelt's New Deal was a right-wing conspiracy. And, like Jim and Howard, Lester loved a dream. A house, a wife, kids of his own; but the woman couldn't be Mona, and there wasn't no other woman in sight. Saturdays nights, Lester went 'high lonesome'.

  And the next door neighbor, Isaac, the one with the dead mother and the dead brother? He could only have memories, because surely dreams were silenced. Perhaps he dreamed of honor, or perhaps in those dwindling days of summer, his mind wandered back to pre-Hitler Warsaw where horse-drawn carriages still moved along quiet streets, and where markets were alive with shouts.

  He had lived in a nation where the well-to-do lived very well, and the majority did not. Illiteracy stood at 50 percent, the peasantry still worked dawn to dusk, and even when there was no war (which was seldom) life expectancy was low. Entertainment in the countryside came from visiting musicians, or gypsies, or chatter among neighbors on market days.

  The population was predominantly Catholic. This had been a continuing problem off-and-on for Jews. The Catholic church was smart enough not to kick an economically productive group out of the country, but popes and nobles managed to shift Jews from city to country, then country to city; always at a profit to the Church.

  Hitler marched on Poland at the beginning of September 1939. By then Isaac was an established concert musician. He had performed in Vienna, which in those days was the height of artistic achievement. As Nazis swarmed across Poland two factors kept Isaac alive.

  The first was music. In the late 19th and early 20th century classical music held sway in Europe. Concert musicians were treated with respect, awe, and were often as popular as superstar rockers of a later day. Jewish musicians of note were kept alive as performers for German colonels and generals.

  The second was love. Her name was Hela Powlowski and she was a violinist who was capable if not notable. She was small with bright smile, dark hair, delicate face. When at her best, her hands danced on strings like clever little birds. She was 24 and shy except when playing music. He was 36 and inexperienced. The year was 1943. They agreed to marry three days before she disappeared.

  Treblinka work camp changed into an extermination camp in 1943. Rumor ran rife. Isaac searched for her during every stolen and dangerous moment, but he had no power to find her, leave alone help. Still, searching kept him alive.

  In late '44, a broken Isaac Samuelwicz was also sent to Treblenka. Nazis were everywhere preparing to retreat. They had no further need for amusement.

  Saturday, September 13th

  Furniture Factory Sale

  New glass appeared in the windows of Charlie Weaver's place. Tables and chairs disappeared, and it was rumored that a longish-haired stranger left town cursing every redneck in Louisville; a group that included Mayor Farnsley, Police Chief Heustis, School Superintendent Carmichael, Ministers of The Word, doctors, lawyers, professors, river-boat gamblers (the stranger believed they still existed), and the general run of populace from (A)uctioneers to (Z)ulus.

  Cops did not look for the vandal. It was quite clear that Louisville was inexperienced and not ready for a high class coffee house and art boutique. After all, the city was only just beginning to handle television, as WHAS had started its first broadcasts in March.

  It would become equally clear that the ruling power of the city deluded itself. Government and institutions proudly claimed that, while segregation existed (and maybe a little prejudice) tensions did not; and even people who drove pink Lincolns could live comfortably in this city of certifiable culture. Mr. Mayor and Mr. Chief cop, and Mr. School Superintendent, though generally well-intended, sounded, more-than-a-little . . . well . . . 'full-of-it'.

  Still, the part about culture was true. Louisville had an excellent orchestra (music not yet considered a political threat), a concert program for children, and a museum in the basement of the main library. It had a very good streetcar college, plenty of religious schools, little theater groups, and it 'put up' with nice ladies who took lots of watercolor classes.

  "Knew that place would go sour from the first," Lester told Jim as they drove past Charlie Weaver's and headed for Indiana. "Figured the joy-boy would go broke. Should-of known a redneck would get him." Lester drove easy, and looked easy in his mind. As they passed Cave Hill Lester looked across the rolling acres of tombstones. "Charlie. I bet Charlie crapped himself a brick."

  Jim thought he understood 'joy-boy'. "They made us buy athletic supporters for gym class," he told Lester, and wasn't sure why. "One kid told another kid it was a gas mask. The other kid draped it over his ears."

  "Kids." Lester chuckled; Lester a naturally happy man. "I reckon Howie will show up with Lucky."

  On the Clark Bridge two-lane traffic ran medium heavy this Saturday morning as yellow and red over-the-road trucks headed for Indianapolis. Plenty of pickups, plus Cads and Lincolns, seemed headed for the furniture factory. When Lester and Jim arrived there wasn't a parking space to be had.

  "We'll settle it someplace on the street," Lester said about the truck, and started cruising. "Sweet Jesus take me home," Lester said. "Look at this here." They rolled past a parked stake truck, chipped blue paint with streaks of orange. No sign of the country boy.


  "Jim," said Lester, "this is gettin' serious." He no longer sounded happy; wrinkles on his brow, his eyes deeper-brown and sad-like. "I'm takin' you back and droppin' you off. You tell your daddy."

  "You gonna fight?"

  "Not never, can I help." Lester still sounded sad. Then he sounded mad. "Always the same old shit. Always. I'll park a-ways off, come in the back."

  "I'll come with."

  "And get in the middle of somethin'? I couldn't face your momma."

  A crowd of men stood in front of the factory as Lester dropped Jim. They smoked cigars, gossiped, and traded brags this Saturday morning. Furniture dealers, junk dealers, and discount guys mixed in with factory owners. The factory guys wore fine clothes, drove fine cars, and came for production tools, not inventory. Near them, but standing separate, a few women stood chatting, their dresses orange and yellow and blue; colorful as flowers growing above concrete.

  He hurried to find his dad. Inside the factory, just inside the door, Mr. Evans had set up his catering stand with sandwiches and silver-shiny coffee urn. Men strolled, studied the sale, and some made notes. This crowd might be too big. The bigger the crowd, the harder it is to keep it focused.

  Wade took the news in stride. "Some guys," he said to Daniels who stood with him, "are so dumb they couldn't tell sheep shit from raisins, if they found them in the same piece of pie." To Jim he said, "If that bastard comes in, you hike on over and stand in front of your mom. It's what men do." He watched the crowd and was already working up a sweat. He passed Jim his car keys. "Go get my goddamn cane."

  Auctioneers use sturdy canes for pointing, not walking. It's an appliance. The auctioneer can rap with it. He can bang a machine tool to get a ring-a-dink, or a garbage can to get a rattle. He can draw a line with it, moving a crowd's attention across wide spaces. It's even more handy than a Louisville slugger, being somewhat thinner and easy to swing.

  Jim came back with the cane the same moment Lester arrived. "I can't feature trouble," Lester told Wade. "Too many folks."

  "The bastard wants to make noise." Wade looked over the gathering crowd as he searched for the country boy. "He don't want trouble, just wants to cause it. He wants pay-back. I know these jerk-offs."

  In an all-day sale, which this was gonna be, Wade would lose five pounds sweating, and at least a pound of muscle. Lester's shirt would turn sodden, and he'd have sweat on his brow heavy as Mr. Louis Armstrong's. Fine and dandy. Fresh sweat smells nice. Stale stuff stinks.

  "We sell first floor, second, third," Wade said to Jim. "Why?"

  For once, Jim wasn't on the spot. He could answer that one. "Office stuff ain't worth much and you use it to warm the crowd. The check-out goes on behind you, instead of having stuff hauled through the sale."

  "I got to refine the crowd. By the time we get to machinery we'll have a real small crowd. I'll work 'em different." Wade paused. Reluctant. "Your answer was okay," he admitted. "Pretty good."

  "Lucky," Lester said. "Lucky and Howie just come in, and ain't that fine."

  Auctions begin when the auctioneer mounts his stool, or with a big crowd, a short ladder. They always begin with announcements, and with terms of the sale while the clerk tries to get a few numbers written down ahead of time. The crowd drifts in from corners of the building, or from outside. It gradually takes a roundish shape, with men gossiping on the fringes.

  The auctioneer's opening spiel resembles announcements in church; which is to say, more fun than listening to the sermon. The announcements give the auctioneer a chance to make friends with the crowd. More importantly, it's the time when he takes control, which is generally an easy job. This time turned different.

  Wade began a big song-and-dance about the factory owner, who, having made a bundle, was headed for Florida and other interests. It was basic-bull and expected. Even mice hiding in the walls knew the guy had busted. Then Wade turned to terms of sale, "You buy as-is, where-is, without guarantee or warranty of any kind. You get it like you got your wife, for better or worse.

  "Juice is off on the machinery. When we get there we'll turn it on so you can see equipment operate . . ." Wade looked toward the front doorway just as the country boy eased through and toward the crowd. Wade pointed with the cane. "And you, my friend, can turn around and walk your fanny down the road." Wade sounded amused. What an actor.

  "Public place. Public auction," the country boy yelled. "Nary a damn you can do about it." The guy was red-faced, but cold sober and ready for fight.

  A murmur started. The crowd's attention broke. Wade was gonna have plain misery getting it back, unless something happened quick.

  "There is somethin' I can do," Wade said, and his voice sounded so amused that he might bust out laughing. "It's not a public place, but that's beside the point." He turned from looking at the country boy, and waved a slow arc with his cane. The crowd's eyes followed the arc, away from the country boy.

  "This fellow is a hell of nice guy," Wade told the crowd, "but he's got a doctor problem. Brains keep drizzling out his ears." Amid laughter Wade turned back to the country boy. " . . .hate to see a man waste valuable time. You can make bids, my friend, and you can wiggle your nose like a bunny, but it's not about to work. I won't take your bid." Wade sounded droll, like first cousin to Mr. Bob Hope. At the same time he lowered the cane, tapped Lester to make him aware, which was not necessary a-tall.

  Jim headed for the office to protect his mom. No reason to believe he wasn't gonna get killed doing it.

  "Public auction," the guy yelped.

  "My auction," Wade said, "Let's get rolling." He turned to a bunch of junk; warm-up stuff before starting on office equipment.

  "Got a line of orphans," Lester hollered. "Cute as kittens. Twenty of 'em. Needs adopting." He picked up an end table, holding it high. A line of miscellaneous tables stood along the wall, mismatched singles.

  "Ten bucks," the country boy hollered.

  "Sold to Daniels, one semoleon." Wade looked to Lester. Winked. "Lemmie hear something good."

  "Hallelujah," Lester yelled like a Holy Roller. "Come down through the ceiling Lord, I'll pay for the shingles."

  Laughter from the crowd. Lester raised a box of miscellaneous junk real high and did a little dance.

  "This ain't the end of it, you nigger-lovin' bastard." The country boy yelled, his voice high, screamy, near hysterical. "And you can kiss your pet nigger goodbye." He stomped, left, slammed the door.

  A murmur. The crowd looked at Lester. The crowd looked at Mr. Evans. Mr. Evans stood quiet, his head lowered; Mr. Evans getting by, making it, a colored gentleman.

  Lester pissed, and showing it. "Bring help," Lester said in the direction of door. "Bring a hell of a lot." He was past caring: half the crowd on his side, and half the crowd resentful because colored were supposed to 'yassuh'. Crowd so quiet you could hear traffic swish on the street. Sale busted.

  Wade's finest moment. In his whole life. Most likely.

  "I pay as good wages, or better, than any man here," he told the crowd, his voice quiet. "That means I can pick and choose. I can't get better help than who you see. And no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't either." His voice, quiet and firm, remained firm but stopped being quiet. "We are businessmen and this is business. Let's get goddamn cracking."

  Murmur from the crowd. An embarrassed chuckle. Then a laugh. Wade started to sell. Lester worked quietly for a while, then gradually got off the ground. In half an hour Lester was flying high, and Wade had the crowd back in his pocket.

  With Wade and Lester working, and with his mom safe, Jim went looking for Howard. It took five minutes. Howard stood by Lucky.

  "Don't wander just yet," Lucky said to Howard. Something's going on." He pointed as the junk dealer Fudd pushed through the crowd and toward Wade. "Your dad is a smart man," he told Jim. "Let's see how he handles this one."

  Auctioneers can get stuck in two ways:

  The first is to get caught while walking a bid. Sometimes inexperienced, or just pl
ain cheap buyers jump onto an item. They bid two bucks on something that should have an opening bid of twenty. Instead of screwing around with buck-bids, and letting the crowd fall into a cheap way of thinking, the auctioneer goes, "Got two, now ten, and twenty," and then starts calling for thirty. He doesn't really have twenty, but he's walked to where the bid should open; plus he's shut down the cheapskate. If asked about his bidder, he says the bid was left by a man who had business elsewhere.

  Seldom—but it can happen—he doesn't catch another bid. In that case he marks the item down to a fictional buyer because he's bought it himself. He then runs the item through his next auction and generally takes a small loss. Walking a bid is part of the cost of doing business.

  The second way to get stuck happens when an amateur buyer gets stars in his eyes, buys a whole lot of stuff, and then—because of a flat bank account, or buyer's remorse—walks away and is never heard from again. Legally, the buyer has entered a contract with his bids, and the contract is enforceable. Practically speaking, it takes time and money to sue. Meanwhile, all the stuff sits and takes up space. It's cheaper for the auctioneer to sell it a second time at another sale. Second-time stuff almost always loses money. Plus, it produces added expense in time and labor.

  Thus, when Fudd got eager, and started pressing forward, he sent a signal that both Lucky and Lester caught; and one that Wade was about to catch. Fudd sent the signal because he couldn't have been more dumb had he been a doorknob.

  He should have let a list of goods accumulate, twenty units here, thirty there. Instead he stepped right in as Wade knocked down nine hundred tables at a buck-seventy-seven-and-a-half. "Lots of ten," Wade said.

  "Take 'em all," Fudd said.

  Pause. Wade stopped like a run-down clock. Daniels whispered an amazed chorus of cuss words. Lester turned to look at Fudd, and Lester did some quick figuring. "That's more'n fourteen hundred bucks," he whispered to Fudd. "Your whole store ain't worth that much. What's happening."