Sold!

All I could think to do was cause a scene.

By the time I ran in, only two bidders were left fighting it out over my granddaddy Ned’s Civil War sword. I sensed the auctioneer’s excitement as she rattled off increasing numbers. 

Eight-fifty, now eight-seventy-five? Eight-fifty, now eight-seventy-five.

Man, she was a fast talker. I wouldn’t have much time. This could be over in seconds.

Eight-seventy-five, now nine, now nine-hundred? Who’s my nine-hundred?

Almost a thousand bucks sounds like a good chunk of change, but give the auction house thirty percent, and you don’t end up with much, especially if what’s being sold isn’t yours to be auctioning off in the first damn place. Which is why I was having to quit dropping the engine on my truck in the middle of work and rush over to Rennie’s Auctions in the middle of the evening.

I searched for Ray, my younger brother and pill-popping thief of the family. He was in the back row, arms crossed with his tire shop trucker’s cap pulled down over his eyes. It figured. Only Ray could show up, too smashed to stay awake for the sale of the thing he’d stolen and brought to auction. Jeez. Lazy-ass thief.

I looked, and the bidding was already over a thousand dollars.

Granddaddy Ned’s sword is a family heirloom from his father’s side of the family, the Browns. The Union side. The Yankees. The side with half of them still up around Chicago and Pittsburg while the rest of the family was spread across most of Tennessee. This sword reputedly struck down, in “the name of God, Country, and the Republic,” at least four “traitorous Rebels” on the last day of Gettysburg. Whether it was during Pickett’s Charge depended on who you asked, but Granddaddy Ned’s version confirmed it. He gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, which pissed our daddy off since he’d coveted the thing his whole life. Ray basically stole from our granddaddy by way of stealing from me. Daddy ain’t in the picture no more.

A thousand two hundred. Who’ll bid a thousand three? 

Granddaddy made me promise before he gave me the sword that I’d never let it out of my possession. That I’d never clean the rusty rebel blood and guts off it. That I’d never lose the thing. That I’d never let it fall into the wrong hands. Especially some greedy rebel kin. From the looks of it, I was pretty sure that auction room was full of rebel kin. Heck, there was a Confederate flag permanently hanging in the display window. Reputedly from Gettysburg, of course.

The two men launching bids back and forth were separated by the middle aisle. That’s where I was headed, up the middle aisle with a bidder on each side of me and their numbered paddles flapping up and down like they were fanning sweat away.

One thousand three hundred fifty?

This was getting out of hand. Granddaddy’s sword was slipping away by fifty-dollar increments.

Like I said, I had to cause a big scene. Something to put a halt to it all. I glanced around and got a feel for the room. A woman sat next to the bidder on my right. Real close like. She had a dog in her lap. Something tiny and obnoxious. The bidder on my left was alone, surrounded by boxes of stuff he’d already accumulated.

I’d eaten three chili dogs down at Scootch’s for lunch. I could still taste them. I imagined they were just dissolved enough in my belly to slosh around real good. I’d washed down the dogs with a large Coke Zero. There was plenty of carbonation down there for what this situation demanded.

I’ve always been able to make myself vomit on command. It came in handy when I wanted to stay home from school back in the day, as long as I never overdid it. My father would have caught on if I’d abused the skill. These days, it’s just a cool-ass party trick—projectile vomiting on demand. It’s impressive, I promise you.

I sucked air down my throat and filled my belly and flexed my diaphragm, basically belching hardcore and squeezing the contents of my stomach at the same time. Now wasn’t the time to hold back.

            I did not hold back.

            It was like someone let loose a hose of ugly brown gunk on that poor man’s wife, and tiny dog and pretty little faux Coach handbag. Come to find out later that woman was not the man’s wife. His wife didn’t like auctions, but this woman liked them just fine and liked going with him. She and the slime-splattered dog ended up in his lap, trying to get away from me, a stranger suddenly confronting her with a long shot of three-hour-old, carbonated chili dog acid.

Everyone heard her scream long before seeing why she was upset and trying to get away from me. Once I started puking, I just kept going. I bent over into their aisle and let loose some more, splashing chunks. I turned around toward the other bidder, and he’d already scooped up his boxes of goods and was stumbling over people to get away from me.

It all could have backfired had the auctioneer had her wits about her and ended the bidding on the spot, but lucky for me and my grandfather’s sword, the auctioneer had a weak stomach. I listened for the calling to stop, which it did, followed by the auctioneer’s dry heaving and retching. Come to find out, the poor woman was pregnant. With twins. Six months in. She was already nauseous most of the time. By the time I was done hacking a third and last time, she’d finally lost whatever it was she’d had for lunch, too—maybe Chinese by the sound of it.

The contents of her stomach not only showered her work desk and paperwork and splashed over onto a table of upcoming auction items but also all over her chrome pedestal microphone as well. This promptly shorted out the microphone and speaker system as well as half the lights in the auction house.

I was done heaving by now. I was trying to apologize to the screaming woman and her angry, soggy dog. The row was clearing out. And the row behind it as well, due to the splattering effect and what the flailing woman was flapping about. 

As you might have guessed, my brother Roy was fully awake now. He wasn’t too stoned to miss what I was up to. I didn’t mention this earlier, but he was almost as good at puking on demand as me. We used to drink a lot of PBR and square off. Sibling rivalries fuel talent, they say.

He knew he was in trouble, seeing me there. My only reason for being there would have been due to him taking my sword. We made eye contact. He smiled right big just before leaning forward and vomiting between his legs. He might have been the third to domino puke, or the sixth, I don’t know; it was all bedlam by then, I’m glad to say, a mass of splats and gags and curses in the mostly dark. The auction house didn’t have but one set of windows up front. Someone yelled for where the breaker box was located. Someone yelled for someone to call 911. Someone yelled for Jesus to take the wheel.

Jesus could have the wheel as long as I could leave with my sword. I could just make it out, displayed and leaning against a show table up front. Roy was making his way to me, and I was making my way up to the sword, hoping no one would notice. People used their cell phones as flashlights, tripping over each other getting out of the auction house. The accumulating stench was getting about as bad as the usual mix of greasy burgers, stale cheese pizza, and BO. Roy and I hovered in the shadows over the sword until the right moment hit.

“Wipe your mustache off,” I told him.

“Wipe off your beard,” he told me.

I grabbed the sword, still sheathed in its leather scabbard, yanked on a belt loop, and shoved the sword down the hip and leg of his stained Levi's. He winced.

“There. Alright, Captain Peg Leg, let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”

I pushed Roy ahead of me. He couldn’t bend his left knee, so he limped his way out, and we melted into the panicked and fleeing crowd. It was all chaos outside the auction house. The sun was trying to go down. I heard sirens approaching from a few blocks off. It was fixing to rain. People were tripping over each other.

A woman was bent over the sidewalk, sick into the sewer grate. She was praying between gags.

“That woman’s got good aim,” I mumbled as we hurried past her.

“She sure does, brother,” Ray said. “She sure does.”