Open Writing

“Does the young man come with the scale?” asked Petronella, viewing a good-looking hunk who stood flexing his muscles on a large industrial scale. Swarthy and sexy, he gave her the onceover and turned his smoldering eyes to a Barbie doll behind her.

Willem leaned over. The scale still registered “O”.

“You will definitely have to fatten up,” he said.

“Ja,” added Petronella, “eat plenty of mealie-pap.”

Totally deflated, the Adonis abandoned the scale.

The venue was the weekly local auction at Petit in the midst of the farming community of Bapsfontein. Farmers and their families converged weekly to meet, buy and sell. Pap and wors, hamburgers, hot chips, coffee, beer and colddrinks were gorged right throughout the evening.

At one end of the hall were arranged stoves, microwaves, washing machines, dryers, chairs, tables and wardrobes and other furniture. Tents, ropes, tyres and miscellaneous farm tools and equipment were on display. At the other end were computers, TV’s,HiFi’s, radios, kettles, irons, mixers and other electrical houseware items. Tables were piled high with crockery, pots, pans, utensils, ornaments, curtains, toys and other bricbrac. A separate section was reserved for cigarettes, soap powders, coffee, tea,
colddrinks, mustards, shampoos and much much more.

Each client registered and received a number. All bids were recorded on a computer and at the end of the evening an invoice reflected all purchases. For the smaller items cash was immediately paid, the item given a sticker and handed over to the bidder.

The atmosphere was jolly but tense. The great challenge was to outbid everyone else.

Bidding was brisk.

“Where can I start on a kettle?” shouted the auctioneer.

A very determined woman was bidding for it. “Twenty rand,” then “twenty-five rand,” then “thirty.”

The auctioneer stopped. “Lady,” he said, with a note of exasperation, “you are bidding against yourself. We’ll make it thirty. OK?”

Embarassed, she grabbed the kettle, pretending not to hear the titters around her.

“Hmmm…” said Petronella reflectively, eyeing a dilapidated guitar with one string.

“Sarel would love that. My grandson has just found a new venue for his band,” she commented to the sourpuss next to her. “Near the Primrose Cemetary. Nice and quiet, away from everyone.”

“Oh, good,” came the reply. “The dead centre of Primrose will now be a’rocking and a’rolling. My house faces the cemetery,” she continued morbidly. “The weeds are knee high and vandals have broken most of the gravestones. I have written to the Council and requested them to paint what’s left of the stones in psychedelic colours to brighten the place up a bit.”

A hippy with long lanky untidy hair stood in front of Petronella. She could not resist it. She gave the mane a tug and down it coursed on to the floor revealing a very bald head.

“Look what you’ve done,” he screamed at her. “Cost me a fortune to have it fixed.”

Petronella turned to buxom woman who was bidding for a stainless steel milk bucket.

“Now, if I bought that bucket I would definitely buy a koei with it,” she advised knowledgeably. This wisdom was greeted with a blank stare. “Yes, definitely.”

A badly chipped enamel pisspot was on show. “Well used – a real antique,” she said to the fossil next to her. He nodded, obviously well acquainted with the article.

Suzie, a sexy young thing wearing a short mini and a very tight T-shirt fancied a Cowboy hat. “I want to look like a pop star,” she said, trying it on. The bidding was keen and all six hats were soon atop their new owners.

Three beautiful old dining room chairs came up next. Petronella wondered if they were real antiques. She decided to ask.

“Eight hundred, eight hundred-and-fifty…” shouted the auctioneer. Up shot Petronella’s hand. “Excuse me, are the chairs…” She got no further. “Gone to that lady.”

He pointed in her direction.”What is your number, heh?” It took a great deal of persuasion by Willem to explain that indeed his mother was slightly senile and that this was her first visit to an auction.

He took her by the arm and led her to an armchair. “Ma, please. Don’t even scratch your nose or lift your finger. Next time you won’t be so lucky. Just relax, watch and listen.”

A large copper vase came up. The auctioneer kept pointing in Petronella’s direction.

The bidding went higher and higher. “One hundred-and-fifty!”

Petronella jumped up, frantic.

“I don’t want it!” she screamed. “I don’t want it!”

The man sitting in front of her, his shoulders shaking with laughter, interrupted: “But, I do, lady.”

Stella, her daughter-in-law, grabbed her arm. “Sit down,” she hissed.

Petronella decided to concentrate on the people around her. She had the DNA of a fox terrier and into her empathetic ears many a story unfolded.

Bernice told her that she did not really mind going to auctions.

“When I get home from work,” she confided, “my husband has the dinner cooked. He then looks at me with those moo-cow eyes and tells me that we are off to the auction. I move from chair to chair whilst he runs up and down, then, when he gets home he is so tired that he flops into bed and falls asleep, so it gives me a good night’s rest.”

Curled up in an armchair opposite her was Nadine, deeply immersed in a Mills and Boon love story. Her husband, Ben, nudged her on the shoulder. “Come,” he said, “I’ve found a real bargain.”

Disgruntled she replied: “I’m just at a very exciting part of the story and now you come here and bother me.” He walked away in a huff.

Vivienne, eating a hamburger, was heavily pregnant. Her hair was done in the Afro style, tiny little ringlets with red beads.

“How do you get it like that?” asked Petronella, fascinated.

“I’m actually a hairdresser,” came the reply. “I spent six months in Nairobi learning all about Black hairstyling. It’s a different technique entirely. I met my Nigerian husband there.”

Petronella wondered if the baby’s hair would need curling.

Next to her sat Hendrik, an eighty-eight year old ex SAR train conductor. He told her that he had just invested in a wheelchair, crutches and a walker. “Just in case.”

His late wife never used them but he kept them in his room and dusted them every three months. He told her that he had his funeral all organized. He had even picked out his coffin at the parlour. “Just in case.” Then one day he decided to check on his coffin and found that it had disappeared – used for someone who had beaten him to it! He was so annoyed that he bought a camera to photograph the replacement. “Just in case.”

Unfortunately, there were still twenty-three photos on the spool. Petronella said that she hoped he would not die before the other photos had been taken and the spool developed.

She suggested that he use up the spool. “Just in case.”

“My father has one hell of a problem,” confided Rosie. “He can’t get a rise.”

“Really,” sympathised Petronella. “Rotten firm he’s working for.”

“Oh. No, no, no. I mean a sexual rise.”

“Has he tried Viagra?” came the suggestion.

“My mother says it doesn’t help.”

“Shame,” came the answer.

Petronella went up to collect a packet of Brooklax. “Indigestion?” asked the auctioneer.

“Oh, no,” she whispered into his ear. “I am going to bake my daughter-in-law a chocolate cake. She was very nasty to me the other day.”

Petronella sensed something warm put on to her lap. Much to her surprise she found that

it was a small Chiwawa wrapped in a baby’s blanket. “Just hold him for me,” said the owner. She was bidding for a rolling pin . Her husband objected.

“You bully me enough,” he shouted.

The Chiwawa became agitated, and Petronella felt a warm trickle between her legs.

“Start at fifty rand!” the husband shouted. He wife bought two. They went for two rand.

“Glug! Glug! Glug!”came from under the chair. Inspection revealed two youngsters finishing off a can of beer.

There was a tremendous crash as a steel shelf fell over on to the floor and five small children scurried in all directions. “Keep your kids under control,” shouted the auctioneer. No one took any notice. Children played hide-and-seek under the tables and chairs, and jumped on the mattresses. Dogs sniffed around working their way through leftovers.

Finally, the auction was over.

Petronella walked to the exit carrying a large bottle of household cleaner in her left hand and a box of high foam washing powder in the other. All items had stickers on them. The checker at the door was enjoying a large tom glass of beer. He was decidedly the worse for wear. As she approached him he leaned forward and leered at the labels.

“Leave my tit alone!” yelled Petronella, and swung the packet of soap powder upwards hitting him on the nose. The box burst open. The soap got into his eyes and his mouth and the beer fuzzed up like a miniature volcano. There was literally big snot and trane.

Willem tried his best to pacify the choking man. Soap bubbles were spluttering out of his mouth. Quite a crowd had gathered.

Petronella had quietly disappeared. ….auctions were such great fun.

© Marianne Hall 1999