by Gina Cresse
Although I do own the Plan B outright, there was still the matter of monthly slip fees, boat bottom cleaning, annual boat painting, personal property taxes, insurance, fuel for my Jeep, food, and all the other necessities of life that required some sort of monthly income. To accommodate that unfortunate requirement, I performed a plethora of income-earning activities. On Friday and Saturday nights, I was a cocktail waitress at King Rooster’s Bar & Grille—a restaurant in the marina where I lived. The work was mindless and sometimes demeaning, but the tips were great, and it was really the only steady, reliable income I had. The rest of the time, I read the legal sections of our local newspaper looking for probate sales, foreclosure sales, and auctions. I didn’t have a lot of capital to invest in anything big, but once in a while, I could pick up some interesting small items—like jewelry and watches—and resell them for a profit. Lately I’d become interested in a particular kind of auction, the kind I planned to attend that day.
We Americans are a funny lot. When I was a little girl, I didn’t remember ever seeing a self-storage complex. What did people do with all their stuff back then? Did they throw it away when they didn’t have room for it anymore? Maybe they kept all the stuff they owned in their house or garage until they died, and left the disposal of the valuables to the survivors. Today, it seemed everyone had more stuff than they had room. Why? What had changed in the last thirty years? I counted fifty self-storage complexes in the phone book just in my little community alone. Maybe a lot of people lived on their boats like me, but didn’t want to give up their washers, dryers, and sofas in case they decided that boat living wasn’t really for them. I didn’t know for sure, but I did know that when people failed to pay their storage rent, eventually the owners of the complexes auctioned the contents of the units to help offset their losses. I had been to several of those auctions, and I really enjoyed the anticipation of buying something really valuable for next to nothing. It was like a treasure hunt. Sometimes you ended up with an empty cardboard box, but there was always the chance you might wind up with a chest of gold.
Mostly, I wound up with semi-useful appliances that I could resell through my friend Jason, who owned a small used-appliance sales and repair shop downtown. He was the one who clued me in on the auction I was headed for. Apparently, there was a misprint in the paper that announced the auction. It actually started one hour earlier than was stated in the ad. They never really let you inspect the contents of the units very well before you bid on them, so it was always a gamble when you risked cash for something unknown. The less competition in bidding, the better for me since I was no longer bringing home that substantial annual salary that I had become accustomed to—in my prior life.
I rolled out of my bunk and staggered to the bathroom. Oh, I mean head. Boats don’t have bathrooms, as my neighbor informed me, which is where he was when I accidentally parked my boat in his slip. I don’t think park is the correct term either. I think dock is the word I should use. I had a lot to learn about the boating business. I did know the things that looked like ropes were not actually called ropes, but lines. They sure looked like ropes to me, but each time I use the term, I got a funny look and a correction from whichever expert was helping me out that day. I did appreciate the assistance I got from the local sailors. If it weren’t for them, I’d never get to sail outside of my slip. But, they were all so picky about using the right words for things. Non-technical terms like “thingamabob” and “doohickey” went right over their heads. They were really nice people, but I would have to say for the most part, they were technical-term snobs.
I fixed myself the usual low-fat, low-sugar, low-taste breakfast and turned on the radio. It was August, and although the air was foggy, the day was going to be bright and a beautiful seventy-five degrees. I loved the weather in San Diego—land of the short thermometer. It beat the heck out of the summers in the valley I came from, where summertime temperatures could regularly exceed one hundred degrees.
After breakfast, I fed Marty, my pet goldfish. Actually, he was Marty number four. I don’t think I had that goldfish business down to a science yet, either. They kept going belly up on me. If that Marty didn’t survive, I was going to switch to some other kind of fish. Jason suggested some type of plastic fish substitute—a faux fish. He said it would be more humane than subjecting another poor living creature to my apparent lack of skill in fish ownership. He was probably right. Personally, I thought the lady at the pet shop where I bought all my Martys was selling me defective fish. I believe she was doing that to encourage me to buy a more expensive type of animal, probably a parrot.
I showered and dressed in my most professional attire—a pair of white shorts, an over-sized red-and-white striped T-shirt, and deck shoes. I put on a jacket to fend off the morning chill. If nothing else, I had perfected the sailing wardrobe and certainly looked like I should know what I was doing. I checked my watch. It was six-thirty. Ninety minutes to get ready in the morning was typical for me since starting my Plan B life.
“See ya later, Marty,” I said as I stepped through the hatch onto the deck, turning back to lock the Plan B. I gingerly hopped off of my beautiful boat onto the dock and quickly headed toward my Jeep in the marina parking area.
“Good morning, Mr. Cartwright,” I called to my neighbor, who was out polishing some piece of chrome on his yacht. I’d often been tempted to ask him how little Joe and Hoss were, but after the parking incident, I didn’t think he’d appreciate my sense of humor. I decided I’d better wait until he really got to know and love me before I start kidding around with him.
“Good morning, Miss Lace. Early day for you, isn’t it?” He seemed surprised to see me out and about at this hour.
“Auction today. Wish me luck. I could use the extra money for those sailing lessons you suggested,” I said, grinning. I watched his expression for a reaction. Yes, there was a smile. I thought I might finally be getting to him.
I walked quickly past some of my neighbors’ slips. Most of the boats in the marina were weekend toys. Only a few of us actually lived on our boats. I could hear Mr. Rowden banging some pots and pans inside his ill-kept fishing boat, Voluntary Solitary. He spent most of his time out fishing. He must have been having some mechanical problems lately. I hadn’t seen him spend that many days in a row tied up to the dock since he had to have his engines rebuilt last season. I swear I had nothing to do with the bent thingamabob connected to the doohickey that turned the propeller.
Chapter Three
Jason, already at A-1 Mini Storage when I arrived, waved as I pulled into the parking lot. The manager was just unlocking the office as I parked my Jeep in the small lot outside the chain-link fence. The complex seemed to have many more security features than others I’d seen. The rates were higher too—I guessed to cover the extra costs for 24-hour security guards and surveillance cameras.
“Morning, Dev. I see you dragged yourself out of bed in time to get here before the auction ends,” Jason said with a smile on his face.
“Oh come on, Jason. You know I used to get up at five every morning when I was part of the rat race. I can get up with the rest of the early birds—if I have to,” I said.
“Come on in folks,” said the man with the keys. “You’re an eager bunch. Aren’t you?”
There were about a dozen anxious people waiting with us outside the doors. We filed in and followed the manager into the office.
“Okay, folks. We’re gonna get started on time this morning,” the manager announced as he pulled a clipboard from the wall and began flipping through pages. “I’m gonna open up the units so you can look inside, but you need to stay behind the lines.”
He handed us maps of the complex. They each had twenty yellow X’s marked on them. I kept looking for the You Are Here X, so I could put the thing in perspective. I forgot to mention that I was directionally challenged. I didn’t have an internal compass like a lot of people did. I was so glad I lived at the ocean so at least I could almost always tell whic
h way was west.
I followed Jason out the door. “Hey, Jason. How do you read this thing?” I asked as I hurried to keep pace with him.
“You’re kidding. Right?”
“No. Where are we, say, in relation to this yellow X here?” I asked as I arbitrarily pointed to a mark on the map.
“Jeez, Dev. How’d you ever manage to program a computer?” Jason asked as he stopped and pointed out where we were on the map.
“Easy, Jason. You don’t need to know the difference between east and west when you’re writing an application to pay bills or track inventory,” I replied indignantly.
“Sorry, Dev. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“That’s okay, Jason. Little comments like that reconfirm my belief that I’m making the right decision to stay single the rest of my life.”
“Come on. You know you don’t want to be alone the rest of your life. Don’t you ever wish for a little romance? Everyone’s got to have someone. Where would Romeo be without Juliet?”
“Alive,” I answered.
“Very funny. If you’d just give some poor guy a chance, you’d see that all men aren’t jerks.”
“Like who?”
“Like me, Devonie Lace.”
Oh, great. This was not the direction I wanted to go. We’d had that conversation a dozen times and he still didn’t get it. I’d come to cherish my freedom and independence and was not anxious to mess it up by introducing a significant other into my life. Marty, the goldfish, was as much commitment as I cared to make at that point. Years ago, I’d made the foolish mistake of letting someone get too close. I’d put all my faith and trust in him, and he let me down. Since then, I found it much safer to keep everyone at arm’s length, at least emotionally. That way, I couldn’t get hurt, although it did get a little lonely sometimes. “Jason, we’ve been over this. Just tell me where these little units are.”
“Fine Dev. Have it your way. You just head down this row and around the corner to the right. All the small units are on the far end down there,” he said as he pointed down the long row of steel roll-up doors. “Want me to walk you over there so you don’t get lost?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I can handle it,” I said as I started to walk off. “Oh, and by the way, Jason, lookup ‘jerk’ in the dictionary. It’s a picture of you.”
The man with the keys opened the six small units being auctioned off. Four of them were combined into two separate lots, and the other two were being sold as individual units. I peered into the first one on the end—nothing but cardboard boxes with no labels or markings at all. They could be full of old clothes and a bunch of worthless junk. On the other hand, they could be full of priceless treasures. You just couldn’t tell. About seven months ago, I passed up bidding on a unit that looked worthless. As it turned out, the unit contained a rare coin collection that proved to be worth thousands of dollars. The delinquent tenants of the unit didn’t realize the value of what they had.
The next pair of open doors revealed a little more information. Again, it was full of cardboard boxes, but at least these were labeled. Some were marked TAXES with the year designated. Some were marked OLD COLLEGE TEXTBOOKS, and another was marked DIVORCE PAPERS. It was easy to see why someone would let that storage unit go, especially if finances were bad enough to quit paying some bills. I decided not to bid on that one.
The last unit held the most promise. There were two small safes, three brief cases, a small file cabinet, and what looked like a laptop computer in a black carrying case. There was a second case—probably a printer—but my view was partially blocked and I couldn’t see the whole thing. The rest of the crowd headed down the row toward my claim. I wished I could quickly shut the door until they passed. It was obvious this unit contained at least something of value.
“Look Beth, I think that’s a computer in that case,” a man said to his wife as he pointed at my find.
“No way, Mel. You’ve already got two of those darn things. We’re bidding on that unit with the nice Kenmore washer and dryer set. Now, come on.”
“Yep. Mel is whipped,” I whispered to myself as Beth pulled the reluctant Mel by the arm away from the unit.
Another man, in a light green shirt and pastel colored plaid shorts, was coveting my unit. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with a bit of a beer belly and a receding hair line that just started to show gray at the temples. His mustache was grayer than the hair on his head, and it was trimmed sort of crooked on one side. He wore a red fanny pack that was adjusted too loosely. From the back, he reminded me of one of those monkeys with the bright red bottoms during mating season. He turned to me and said, “Looks like one of those laptop computers in there. Huh?”
“It’s probably just the case,” I said. “Why would anyone store a computer? If it was any good, they’d be using it, don’t you think?”
He smiled and scratched his head. “You’re probably right. I wonder what’s in those safes?” he said as he leaned over to get a better look.
I could tell he was going to be a problem. I decided the best action to take would be to seem disinterested. I walked over to the first unit and studied the boxes—like a sports fan standing in front of the rows and rows of television sets in a department store—watching the same game on twelve TVs. Four more people were drooling over my unit, and I didn’t like it at all. I checked my watch. The bidding would be starting in about fifteen minutes. They probably wouldn’t get to my unit for about thirty minutes after that. I started calculating exactly how much I could afford to bid, then I decided to take a look at the rest of the lots before the bidding started.
Jason was camped out at the Kenmore washer and dryer unit. Little did Mel and Beth know that Jason would be their toughest opponent. I’d seen that look in Jason’s eyes before. He wanted that pair of appliances and nothing would keep him from having them—except maybe an overly-competitive husband trying to make his wife happy.
By the time the auctioneer got to my unit, there were at least twenty people gathered around the door. I set myself up as close to the center front as possible.
“Okay. This looks like a pretty promising lot here. Let’s start the bidding at five hundred,” the auctioneer said.
Five hundred dollars? Was he kidding? I looked around at the rest of the faces. No one was jumping.
“Fifty dollars!” I called out, bravely.
“You gotta be kidding, lady. Just one of those safes is worth five times that amount,” he answered back.
“Do you have a hold on this lot?” I asked him.
“No, ma’am.”
“The combination to those safes? Because if I have to bust them open, they’ll be worthless.”
He shook his head.
“Then fifty dollars is my bid.”
He gave me a distressed look, then returned to the business at hand.
“I have fifty! Do I hear seventy-five?” he yelled out to the crowd.
“Fifty-five!” I heard from somewhere behind me. It was Mel. Then I saw Beth punch him in the arm.
“Ouch! What’d you do that for?” he cried out.
“You know darn well what for,” she said, angrily.
“Sixty!” I countered.
“One hundred!” came from the man in the green shirt. I could see trouble on the way. I could not afford to spend more than two hundred and fifty dollars today, or I would be fishing for my dinner for the rest of the month. I wondered what Marty would taste like with tartar sauce and French fries.
“One hundred and one!” I called out.
The small, vertical crease in the auctioneer’s forehead deepened as he glared at me through two squinting eyes. His irritation with me was hard to hide. “Lady. Just so we’re not here all day, why don’t we try to keep this to—”
“Is there a rule that says I have to bid in certain increments?” I asked.
He gave me a look that would make a junkyard dog turn tail and run. “I have one hundred and one. Do I hear one hundred and te
n?”
“One hundred and fifty!”
Oh, great. It was a third bidder I had never seen before. I was beginning to sweat.
“One hundred and fifty-one!” I called out.
There was that look again. I smiled and batted my big, blue eyes at the auctioneer, but he didn’t seem to be amused.
There was a slight pause. For a moment, I thought I had done it. Then, from the man in the green came a loud and defiant, “Two hundred dollars!”
Before I could get my two hundred and one out, the third bidder spoke up. “Two fifty!”
I looked at him with an injured expression and raised my hand. “Two hundred and fifty-one!” Oh my God, what was I doing? I’d stepped over my limit. I couldn’t lose control. Not now. It was time to back out and let the other two bidders duke it out.
The green shirt bid two seventy-five and it looked like he was going to get it. There was silence for a moment.
“I have two hundred and seventy-five dollars. Do I hear three hundred?”
I looked at the man in green. He smiled smugly and stuck his tongue out at me. He could’ve been a shill, planted by the complex owner to purposely raise the bidding amounts at the auction. I didn’t care at the moment. He’d made me mad. I raised my hand with determination and called out, “Three hundred dollars!”
The auctioneer was growing impatient. “I have three hundred going once, going twice. Sold to the little lady in the front for three hundred dollars. You can pay in the main office. When we’re done with all the lots, you can bring your vehicle in and load it up.”
Wonderful, except that I was fifty dollars shy of my bid. Where was I going to get the extra cash to pay for it?
“Hey, Dev. Congratulations,” a voice from behind me said.
“Jason. Thanks. Want to buy a safe for fifty bucks?”
“You need fifty dollars to cover your bid?”
“How’d you guess?”
