FANCY THAT!

Strange items valued at auctions...

            FANCY THAT!   

 

 

          The sketch, at least for the time being, is set in the rather swank office of Miss Pamela Worthington. She is the Sales Director of Christie’s Auction House in London. An American gentleman by the name of Charles Franklin is in the office with her. The purpose of the meeting is to go through the formalities of payment with regard to an item at the auction for which he had made the winning bid.     

          We’re still ‘on book’ with this one, as they say in the theatre, so James and Jeanette will be reading from the script. Try not to let that be a distraction. Now, you two are looking very comfortable on the sofa next to the photo of Mr. Noel Coward. The house is packed to the rafters and the curtain has just gone up…

 

 

          --Mr. Franklin, I would like to begin by congratulating you on your winning bid at this afternoon’s auction.

--Thank you. Thank you very much.

--You are now the proud owner of the famous yellow and green number ‘10’ jersey worn by the incomparable Pele during the final game of the 1970 World Cup Championship.

--Yes. So I am.

--I might also add that your bid of one hundred fifty seven thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds is far and away the highest price ever paid for a used football jersey that we here at Christie’s have hitherto had the privilege of getting rid…I mean, of passing off…passing on, rather, to our esteemed clientele. I hope I made myself clear there.

          --Yes, quite clear. Thank you. It happens, however, to be the highest price ever paid at any auction house for a ‘used’, as you so charmingly put it, soccer jersey.

          --Ah yes, soccer. You’re an American Mr. Franklin, of course. In America people refer to football as soccer, don’t they?

          --No, in America we refer to football as football. And, we refer to soccer as soccer.

          --Yes, well, when in Rome and all that. Far be it from the English to stand on a technicality of that nature with an American. God knows we learned our lesson about that sort of thing two hundred and fifty years ago, what? Hah, hah…

          --One might have thought so, yes.

          --Right. May I offer you a drink, Mr. Franklin? Something stiff, perhaps. Scotch, bourbon, a small bottle of gin…?

          --Sorry, is it Mrs., Miss, or Ms.Worthington? Your card didn’t seem to indicate one way or the other.

          --No it doesn’t. I like to retain a certain degree of mystery. It’s the female prerogative, don’t you know. 

          --Ah, yes. In any case, I just meant to apologize if I seem a tad surly. My mind has been elsewhere. Something stiff is probably exactly what I need to loosen up. If it isn’t too much trouble, a scotch and soda might be just what the doctor ordered.

          --No trouble at all, Mr. Franklin. (She presses the button on her desktop intercom and a female voice responds: “Yes, Miss Worthington?)

          --Agnes, dear, we’d like a couple of adult beverages in here please. A scotch and soda, easy on the soda, and the usual for me, thank you.

          --Well, Miss Worthington, so much for that degree of mystery. I suppose you’re going to leave me guessing for as long as possible as to what your usual adult beverage is.

 --The usual is a very dry martini, Gordon’s gin…stirred, not shaken.

          --With all due respect to Bond, James Bond, of course.

          --Oh, absolutely. And speaking of Mr. Bond, I understand that some years ago you purchased at auction the steel-rimmed bowler belonging to the character Odd Job from the movie Goldfinger. (The drinks are brought in and served… “Thank you, Agnes.”)

          --Yes, that’s right. Interesting that you should be aware of it. (Holding up his glass, “Cheers”.)

          --Cheers, indeed. We make it a point to be as familiar as possible with the purchase history of our competitions’ clients. Especially those clients who, how shall I put this, who exhibit rather peculiar…no, let’s say, unique tastes.

          --Well, to tell you the truth, Miss Worthington, my tastes are quite conservative.

--Really? (She opens up a gray, cloth bound folder lying in front of her on the desk and begins to read off a list of items.) Six life jackets from the Titanic, Al Capone’s baseball bat, Hemingway’s double-barreled shotgun, Gandhi’s enema bag, Sylvia Plath’s oven, a box of bar soap produced at Auschwitz and my personal favorite, the pink, bloodstained dress last worn by the then Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy during a brief, though memorable, visit to Dallas, Texas. Now, with all due respect Mr. Franklin, this purchase history of yours would suggest that your tastes are either anything but conservative or that you subscribe to a school of conservatism with which I am unfamiliar.

--My, I am impressed. You people do your homework, don’t you? And yes, I can certainly understand your, ah…your confusion. First of all, let me correct you on one little minor point. The dress, which you refer to, was not last worn by the late Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.

--No?

--No. In fact, it’s been worn several times since Dallas and the week after next it’s going to be worn again.

--You’re joking!

--I most certainly am not joking. When I said earlier that my mind was elsewhere it was in reference to this upcoming occasion. And, it is for this occasion that, for the tidy sum of one hundred fifty thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds, your firm has had the good fortune to get rid of that ridiculous looking soccer jersey.

--(Speaking into the intercom, Miss Worthington says: Agnes, another round of adult beverages, please. Make mine a double, thank you.) Mr. Franklin, my confusion to which you recently alluded grows in leaps and bounds. If the matter isn’t of an extreme level of confidence would you mind explaining yourself just a tad?

--No, I don’t mind explaining myself. In fact, I often find it therapeutic. The identity of my clients is highly confidential. The nature of my business, on the other hand, is what you might describe as one of those open secrets. I am fairly well known amongst a certain class of people.

--What class of people might that be, sir?

--Well, to put it bluntly, it is that class of people who, essentially, have no class. The world, of course, is crawling with them. Fortunately for me, however, many of these people do have a great deal of money and because they are so utterly boring and so dismally incapable of generating interesting conversation they often rely upon their material possessions to speak for them. Your business, Miss Worthington, caters perfectly to their needs.

--I beg your pardon, Mr. Franklin, but I think we have some very interesting clients. Clients who I imagine are quite capable of generating compelling conversation.

--You imagine. Have you actually met any?

--Why, yes. Yes. I’m sure that I have. (To the intercom: Agnes, dear, how are you coming along with those adult beverages?…That’s a good girl.)      Now let me see…Yes, a most distinguished looking gentleman…Was it last week? No. It was…it was…Oh, Agnes, there you are. (Miss Worthington drains half the martini in one gulp.) Ah, that’s so refreshing. Very well stirred, Agnes. Very well stirred, in deed. One of your better efforts I should say. Agnes has a marvelously limber wrist, Mr. Franklin. Great for stirring. You don’t knead bread do you, dear? No, of course, you don’t. Bread kneading builds up too much muscle mass in the wrists, which impedes the supple agility required for artful stirring. Yes, that will be all for now, dear. Do stay within voice range though, thank you so much.

--Cheers, Miss Worthington.

--Oh absolutely. Cheers, Mr. Franklin.

--You were saying…

--Was I?

--About one of your interesting clients. A most distinguished looking gentleman that was here recently, although, apparently not last week.

--Ah yes…yes. I believe his name was Koorstra. He was Dutch. He purchased a painting by the American Impressionist, Mary Cassett.

--A still life, no doubt.

--That’s correct. A bowl of fruit…a bowl fruit resting upon a table, as I recall. Not the sort of thing that one would be likely to come across in your portfolio.

--I appreciate some of the Impressionists. Not Mary Cassett, particularly, but others. I do happen to own a couple of Francis Bacon’s works.

--Somehow that hardly comes as a surprise to me, Mr. Franklin. Brilliant artist, of course, but tending towards the macabre. I wouldn’t fancy waking up to the sight of one of his paintings every morning. Now please, if you will, continue with telling me where your mind was straying with regard to Pele’s jersey and Jacqueline Kennedy’s pink dress.

--I thought you were going to tell me why this Dutch gentleman was so interesting. Ah, never mind. Perhaps later. Obviously all rich people are not boring. I just happen to have made a great deal of money catering to those who are. My particular focus is upon a sub group of boring rich people. Namely, boring rich people who can think of nothing better to do with their time than indulging in bizarre eccentricities. The list of items that you read off earlier are all for rent. I rent them out for a considerable sum of money. The pink dress and the Pele jersey, for instance, are being leased for an evening by a wealthy couple of male homosexuals. They’re hosting a masquerade frolic next month somewhere in Amsterdam. One of them is Dutch, although I seriously doubt it is the Dutchman of your acquaintance. My Dutchman would have little use for a still life painting of a bowl of fruit regardless if it were resting upon a table or not. He and his mate are boring rich people with extraordinary sexual appetites of a most eccentric nature. In fact, if frequent flyer mileage benefits were awarded to genitalia these two cocksuckers would be on Mars by now.

--I shudder to think of what use some of the other items on that list…

--Best not to think along those lines Miss Worthington. I can tell that you are a young woman of delicate sensibilities.

--Al Capone’s baseball bat!?

--My goodness, Miss Worthington, you are shuddering. Perhaps I have misjudged your sensibilities.

--Why Mr. Franklin, what on earth could you possibly mean by that? Honestly!

--Forgive me, Miss Worthington. I suppose a man in my line of business tends to become rather jaded after a while. Although, if you don’t mind my saying, you do have quite an alluring shudder. Is it something you practice or does it come naturally to you?

--I’m afraid it runs in the family. Not that it’s any of your business, but my mother has been known to shudder at the slightest provocation.

--I see.

--Sylvia Plath’s oven? You lease that out often?

--It’s fairly popular.

--Suicides?

--Two clients have used it for that purpose.

--Successfully?

--No. Failed attempts on both occasions.

--I have no respect for people like that. It seems to me that regardless of how depressed people may be as a consequence of their miserable and incompetent lives they should at least be able to kill themselves without mucking things up.

--Well, you’re are woman of high standards, Miss Worthington. I admire that. As for the oven, it’s mostly used for small, private dinner parties. I understand that it is very good for casseroles and chicken potpies. Soufflés are another matter. One client had to pay a hefty restoration fee when her soufflé aux champignons exploded.

--What a shame. I just adore champignons. They’re mushrooms, right?

--They are in France, yes.

--Well Mr. Franklin, I suppose we should proceed to the business at hand. I understand you will be presenting us with a check drawn against an account you have with Barclay’s Bank here in London.

--That’s correct.

--Very well. I’ll just have Agnes bring in your purchase, now. Would you care for another Scotch and soda?

--Sure, why not?

--(To the intercom: “Agnes, dear, please bring in the Christie’s cardboard box. I believe it’s the one on the shelf behind your desk. And, while you’re at it, two more adult beverages, if you please. Thank you so much, dear.) Agnes is such a peach. Marvelously attentive young girl. I’d be positively at sea without her.

--She looks familiar.

--Does she now?

--Yes, but I can’t place her. Oh well…

--Interesting. You may, however, have her confused with someone else. Agnes spent her formative years attending convent schools in Switzerland. Her father was an extremely successful currency trader. Then, unfortunately, things started to go terribly wrong. His wife, Agnes’ mother, drowned in a yachting accident while they were cruising the Greek islands. Shortly thereafter the father lost everything in a trading scandal and committed suicide.

--Successfully, I assume.

--Yes, but then he was part German. They’re a competent race.

--Often boring, though.

--True. I think it has something to do with their language. Too many consonants and not enough vowels, if you know what I mean. Even on those rare occasions when they do have something interesting to say it still sounds dreadfully tiresome.

--Unlike the French, for example.

--Exactly. A Frenchman could describe a day in the life of his pet sloth and make it sound fascinating. Anyway, poor Agnes has been orphaned and fending for herself since she was seventeen. She’s now twenty-four and…ah, here she comes…Agnes, you mind as well have the honor of presenting Mr. Franklin with his purchase. That’s a good girl. You can go freshen up now if you’d like, dear. We’ll be wrapping up business here shortly and then I have something special for you to…to exercise that marvelously limber wrist of yours. (Agnes exits with a bit of a shudder and a slight blush forming upon her cheeks.)

--Pardon me for making the observation, Miss Worthington, but the young lady seems to have a similar shudder to your own.

--Really? Well perhaps there’s something contagious about it. Hah, hah. Anyway, cheers, Mr. Franklin. If you’ll open up the box I trust you will find the foot…the soccer jersey in sparkling condition and ready for a frolic on that pitch of a different sort to which you referred earlier.

--(Mr. Franklin opens the box, stares for a moment and then, with a bemused look on his face, “Well my, my…what have we here?” He thereupon holds up a spiked, suede bra with matching panties and a leather whip.)

--“Oops!” exclaims Miss Worthington as she begins to shudder uncontrollably.  

 

 

“And that, dear audience,” said Genevieve, “is as far as it goes for the time being.”

“Well, bravo!” said Sean.

“Oh, it needs a lot of work but we’re going to have fun with it. Now I don’t know about the rest of you but this ol’ one-legged madam is past her bedtime. Mac, it’s been a hell of an evening. I wish you many happy birthdays to come but I hope you’ll consider this one to have been memorable.”

“Absolutely, Genevieve. Many thanks…many thanks to all of you.”

Genevieve then presented me with one of her Lalique brandy snifters as a birthday present and as I rose to say goodnight to them all Sean christened the crystal vessel with a generous dose of Jameson for my voyage home.

“Take the matchstick with you,” he said. “Use it to light up that second Cohiba I gave you.”

 

Excerpt from ‘At the Bamboo Bar’ via Amazon