Roadshow

I was no newcomer to the antique and collectibles business – my father and his father before him, John Bailey, Jr. and John Bailey, Sr. had made a living and fed their respective families over the decades, eventually including me, buying artifacts from the past and selling them to the present – but I will say that taking the act on the road was new to me.

In the traditional collectibles business, there’s a bit of time travel involved. You pry a single chip of history from the mosaic of the past and bring it forward to represent its times. A very sedate and dignified operation.

The roadshow business opens wide the auditorium doors and invites one and all to bring any item they have ever wondered about in the basement or the attic and take a chance on its worth.

A lot of people know the Antiques Roadshow on PBS, but Josh Standish, organizer of our show, was betting that there was room for two competitors in the business.

We of course didn’t have PBS as a buyer and partner or the Roadshow’s commercial production company managing the filming, lighting, editing, and music….then again, we didn’t have their expense.

Whereas the Antiques Roadshow made its money in ticket sales and sponsorship by regional companies, The Standish Company Antiquity Fair made its money by buying and selling items, the thing itself, which has been going on since antiquity.

We just happened to do it on the road instead of in a quiet, refined boutique on a cobbled side street. And we went to the smaller cities and towns that Roadshow proper wouldn’t even have considered.

I liked Josh, he was a breath of fresh air in the collectibles industry. Young, brash, funny, optimistic. This doesn’t mean that he or we were setting the world on fire. The jury was out on whether this was a sustainable business model, or if the travel and lodging expenses, the wear and tear on the staff, and the constant struggle to get experts to attach themselves to the second-best outfit in the business would unravel all the best-laid plans.

But for now, in this time that I speak of, we were plugging along, all for one, one for all.

Having worked in one of those quiet boutiques since I got out of college with a double masters in History and Archeology, I had grown awfully good at sweeping into the hushed display room from the back office in my dark blue suit, greeting sellers and on occasion buyers with an outstretched hand, and expressing my delight that we at Bailey & Co. were making their acquaintance. A nice young man with a old-style manner is the impression I sought to leave, and seemingly successfully so.

If you are a close reader of prose you may have noticed in the above paragraph the hint that there were more sellers than buyers, many more.

True.

I won’t go so far as to say that antique stores serve the same purpose for the upper middle and upper classes as the pawn shop does for the lower and working class, but that is only because it’s such a dangerous and such a true thing to say.

Financial pinches strike the rich as well as the poor, though it is mostly hidden from the sight of everyone but their financial advisors and their therapists.

The consequences aren’t the same — perhaps the rich have to dodge their annual donation to the arts that year while the poor get an eviction notice — but the blow to the ego packs the same wallop.

I have seen the look a thousand times, the look of the hopeful seller who brings in an urn, or a painting, or a tray of jewelry, or a set of pocket watches. The look of someone hoping to make a killing.

The Antiques Roadshow – the famous one – tries to keep it honest but there are enough incidents of people out-and-out striking it rich by way of some dusty object in the attic that just so happens to be what the collectibles markets want right now, that everyone who walks in feels it’s their turn to win the lottery.

Like the lottery, there are many, many players and very few winners, but you, or better put me, with the old world manner and the nice blue suit, have to ease the ever-hopeful buyers into that realization.

You may consider me and the Bailey & Co. enterprise to be in the same business as a car salesman – members of a profession I admire by the way – that seeks always to buy below market value and sell well above it.

The controlled aura of the shop, with its hushed air, quiet colors, and vertical glass cabinets artfully filled with beautiful pieces did half my work for me. The atmosphere seemed to say “here is an honest man; let us let him have the last word on this matter.”

It was exactly that aura that I didn’t have working for me here in Sandusky, or was it Sedalia, or was it Salina, or was it Springfield? I had forgotten honestly where we were.

We set these shows up so close together that the professional we resembled more than any other was that of the rock band. The same PR pitch to the papers and the local websites in the weeks prior, the same build-out in the hall or civic arena the night before, the same pitch from the stage inviting people to bring their objects to one or another of the tables, silver pieces over there, paintings over there, military and historical artifacts halfway between them, and the same tear-down and packing up that would take us far into the night of the last day.

I had just had my third person in a row tell me, “but I saw this very same piece on Antiques Roadshow go for $4,000 and you’re offering me $400!”

A kind of wail, I suppose that’s a better way to put it.

“You will notice that the fine people on that show never actually buy a thing, they only offer a price that they conjecture it might achieve in an auction setting. Who knows if that will come to pass or not? Also, they are never held to that price since they never have to pay it. Bailey & Co., by contrast, will actually write you a check today for your inkwell (or your Native American woven reed pottery, or your Civil War ornamental sword, or your landscape and harbor painting by an artist no one has ever heard of), and you can walk away with cash in your hand.”

I don’t actually say “take it or leave it, my friend, take it or leave it,” which would be entirely out of keeping with the dark blue suit and professional bearing that means so much in this business. Still.

Three in a row is enough for me, and I decided it was time for a break, but as it turned out I didn’t have to come up with an excuse for turning away from the line formed in front of my booth.

Bailey & Co. wasn’t the only dealer involved in the Standish Show of course, there were a half dozen others. Partly this was the result of specialization within the business. Like any line of work you developed strengths in some areas and hide your insufficiencies in the others.

Bailey & Co. would take a look at anything that came through the front door, but within collectibles circles we were known for our expertise in pre-Revolutionary silver pieces. We really knew what we were talking about there.

As to the rest it was often a matter of springing to the collection of catalogues we kept in the back room and desperately flipping through pages of material highlighting things that were clearly of an antique nature, but that just as clearly were things we didn’t know enough at a glance about to offer a price. Of course the Internet was helpful here as well.

All of this simply to say that there are all sorts of antique dealers and one or several of each variety was represented in the show here in Sandusky, or Sedalia, or Salina, or Springfield. It was good exposure and helped build the brand out well past their regional reputation.

Some of them you knew but many were strangers, strong in their regions but without a national name, not to mention that they popped onto and off of the schedule as their own businesses allowed.

“Jason, you have time to take a look at this?”

The person asking was Elisa Jennings, who was on the Standish Tour as part of paying her dues as she transitioned into total ownership of her father’s shop. Good outfit, strong on portrait paintings commissioned in Europe, France usually, but which had found their way over to the American South. Like I say, we all tend to specialize.

“Elisa, of course,” I replied, and not just because she was a looker, something that never hurts in a business concerned with dealing with the public, but because we were all trying to learn the tricks of each other’s trades.

The more I could spout off about French portraiture in the pre-Civil War South, the better it was for business. But also of course because she was a looker. I gave a resigned smile to the people in my line and gave indication, without exactly promising it, that I would be back as soon as humanly possible.

As to the woman she was dealing with, bent over whatever object she had brought in for assessment, well, “haunted” is a word that gets tossed around a lot these days, people are pulled towards the dramatic phrase, but if ever a woman honestly looked haunted, this one did. Not just haggard, not just worn, but pursued. Ridden.

There was a man in her vicinity – I had seen him before and for some reason hoped fervently that he didn’t get in the line leading to my booth, there was something off-putting about him – and decided to keep my eye on him, the way you do, the way you do. You’re in a restaurant or a bar and you’re aware of a presence, almost always a man, who has something seething about him, or cold, or flat and you make a point of steering clear. This guy was all of that at the same time. The Black Coat Man I named him to myself for the way he was dressed.

You couldn’t be a thinking human being these days and not be alert to the fact that many women are pursued by psycho husbands or whacked out boyfriends and the occasional stalking stranger.

This man that I speak of however, didn’t fit the profile of the angry spouse, at least as it is presented to us on the television and in the movies. This one was in a category all his own.

He would have been the most unpleasant person in any sized room, I was sure of this, but even with that sureness I couldn’t say why I was so certain of myself.

‘Plenty of people, in fact most, are quite a bit different than their first impression conveys to us, here’s likely another instance of that,’ so I told myself and tried to dismiss him from my mind.

I introduced myself to the woman, and she turned her head up to me with a look of relief. “Ah, here is the person who will buy my little man.”

As to what this little man was, I soon found out.

‘He’ was a small, misshapen version of a human, cast is some metal I didn’t know — remember, I’m supposed to know this stuff — and his look of easy contempt and contained violence seemed to embody an especially cruel spirit.

I have seen images of casual malice before, most often in primitive masks and wooden carvings. Angry and vengeful gods and what not. But this was the first time I had seen one cast in metal.

It was made for mobility, for slipping into a pocket before going out the door, for accompanying the carrier. I couldn’t recall even a category that this would fit into, much less where the piece would rank in the category.

It is not unusual for pieces of art to disquiet the viewer, after all, many artists have provocation as their express intent, but this piece gave off a nastiness that was hard to reconcile with the plain concrete floors of auditorium that we found ourselves in, the autumn sunlight coming through the windows, the bustle and murmur of commerce all around.

In fact, I hadn’t had a feeling like this wash over me since…since, it occurred to me, since about thirty seconds ago when I saw The Black Coat Man, just over there.

I took a picture of the object with my smartphone and sent it back to Boston. My brother owned the firm with me and was the true expert in metallic collectibles, while I excelled in handling the people in the showroom. I used my thumbs to fill in the message, “I have no liking for this; unless you tell me different I’m going to pass.” I pressed ‘send’ and hoped Robbie had his phone with him.

“Ah,” I said, as briskly as a nice young man with old-world manners could, “not a piece that I recognize, so I couldn’t possibly offer you a price.”

“Oh,” the woman said, “I am very open as to the price. All I ask is that you take it from me.”

“Take it from you? You mean you’re giving me this?”

But that wasn’t what she meant. “No, it is said that I cannot give it away, nor donate it to a museum, nor make a gift of it, I must sell it.”

It was a strange way to put it…“it is said.”

It is said by whom? It was as if she were reading the rules of a contract that she had entered into and was now desperately scanning for a way to break it.

Well, that was fanciful, and more thought than there was matter to prompt it, but it was an honest feeling that washed over me, so I record it here.

“I will sell it to you for five dollars.”

I shook my head.

“One dollar.”

Again, no.

“A penny.”

“Ma’am, you must know that to be in this business at all every proprietor here has to give evidence that he or she has never taken advantage of a seller. I could never take an object like this which, simply by way of its antiquity and strange construction, must be worth thousands. To somebody.” I paused. “But not to me.”

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out with some relief, anxious for a way out of this conversation.

It wasn’t a phone call at all, but merely a reply to my text. My brother as it turns out, had indeed had his phone with him, and thank God he did, as it turned out. I read it.

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES BUY THIS PIECE. I’LL EXPLAIN WHEN YOU’RE BACK. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES.

Not an ALL CAPS sort of guy, my brother wasn’t, but something had got him going, that’s for sure.

And so I didn’t, didn’t buy it I mean, nor did I let the good-looking Elisa Jennings buy it, and by all indications nary another soul in the room would take the buy either.

The last I saws of the woman she was exiting the door, looking as burdened as ever. As to the man, only after the simple human atmosphere in the room lifted somehow did I come to realize that he must have left too and at about the same time.

A unpleasant five minutes or so and I resolved to put it out of my head. Though I did wish I could have helped her.

Easier said than done.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Back in Boston I met my brother for a drink at one of the downtown hotels. College football was on the tube over at the bar, and now and again my eye turned that way.

Running a business — successfully — is a matter of attending to endless details on the one hand while on the other rising above the moment to see if you’re making any real progress or just spinning your wheels. We had a lot to cover.

We went over my preceding month show by show, for I had been gone from Boston all of October on the Standish circuit, saving till the end a discussion of whether it was worth our while at all.

It was a drain on resources for one of us to be away for that length of time and a business decision loomed as to whether to keep it up or not. I took out my phone and flipped through our texts back and forth to remind me of my doings in Springfield, Sedalia, etc., and see if we had any other business to cover that I had forgotten, when something occurred to me.

“Say, what was all that about not buying that nasty piece of silver or whatever it was? Not like you to get that passionate.”

Fred swirled his drink and took a swallow quite a bit bigger than ordinary for him.

“I did a little research once you sent the picture. Nothing in the catalogs, it’s too unusual a piece for that, so I turned to the Internet.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I know, I know, I don’t trust it any more than you, but this time it paid off. Turns out the piece is famous in certain circles.”

Another swirl, another swig. The game had ended and the bartender was switching the TV over to something new.

“Turns out it’s supposed to be haunted.”

“Give me a break.” But of course I was the one who at the time, if asked, would have been the first to tell you that there was something dark and predatory in the piece. As I flipped through the texts, in fact, there it was, right in front of me.

“Haunted. That’s not just any old human you see in the figure, in fact its intended to not be human at all.”

“Not human?”

“No,” he mused, my most practical-minded and non-superstitious brother, “more like a foot soldier from somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else? Where?”

He signaled to the bartender for another. “ Nowhere good.”

The bartender had found the new channel he wanted and of all things it was the Antiques Roadshow, the real thing.

“The legend is that once a person buys it, he or she will have a, umm, a…”

I was beginning to catch on. “A demon?” The word sounded ridiculous on my lips at the same time as I knew it was the only word that would do.

“Yes, a demon or some kind of dark entity for a companion until, that is, they can sell it to someone else.”

There was a long pause between us. The usual showmanship was on display on the television, and the camera went from table to table, host to host, and client to client. It landed on a person very familiar to me, and in the middle distance I saw a figure that seemed destined to always be able to keep her in sight.

“We don’t need a piece with any superstition attached to it,” said my non-superstitious brother. “Something like that could be very hard to move.”

“Almost impossible I should think,“ I said.

We were both very brisk and businesslike.

But my brother wasn’t listening to me, because we now both saw the object that was under discussion on the television. A small, warped, and most unpleasant little piece of nastiness. The same one displayed on my smart phone.

“Well, it’s all in good fun,” the host of the Antiques Roadshow was saying, all radiant geniality, as he exchanged a single dollar bill for the piece. It seemed by his expression to be either colder or hotter to the touch than he had expected. “I promise that all proceeds will be donated to charity once we do sell it.”

‘Good luck with that,’ was the message I silently sent him.

And at that point the man in the middle distance, the most unpleasant seeming individual I have ever come across, The Black Coat Man, moved across the room towards him in a motion that, though he stayed upright the whole time, reminded me of something slithering.