I go shopping
In my dream hundreds of people milled about. The morning dew tickled my bare feet. The grave stones were marked clear as day; yet I couldn't read a single one. Without warning I was driving my car at high speed; the car doing as it wished. I had no control. Suddenly, I found myself in a home that I was familiar with and didn't know at all.
Anthony was sitting in the center of the room. People filed past; shaking his hand; saying goodbye. Across the room I eyed my mother. She looked radiant. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned; there stood the father I never knew. He smiled brightly.
'Dad, what are you doing here? You're dead!'
'I've come to help.'
At the far end of the room was a long table covered with food. I walked over and piled some onto a plate. As I lifted a fork to my mouth a hand encircled my wrist and gently pushed it down. 'Don't eat that. This food is for dead people.' My mother smiled sweetly.
Tommy G. appeared next to me. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt but no tie. He was twisting a wool scully cap with his fingers. Dead center of his forehead was a bright red dot.
The entire scene was pitch black and yet for some inexplicable reason Tommy was bright as day. He was pleading with me, 'Picker, I'm terribly sorry, really, I am. Please, Picker, help my brother, don't let anything happen to him…' and on and on he groveled.
In the distance I heard what may have been a large animal snoring.
I rolled over and lifted one eye. There she was, lying next to me; naked as the day she was born. Red hair down to her shoulders and a spatter of freckles across her nose. Sounding like a longshore man.
I roll out of bed. In the kitchen I start the coffee machine. Head for the bathroom, shave and take a hot shower.
The property that I occupy is a carriage house to a twenty acre estate. It has three bedrooms, a nice living room with hardwood floors, an updated kitchen and two working fireplaces. Down the driveway approximately seventy-five yards are the old stables. The owner of the estate, a very old friend that owes me, provides use of the stables as a workshop for Picker Antiques, which is me.
I grab two coffees from the kitchen, one black and the other with cream. Head back to the bedroom. As I'm putting on my jeans Kelly begins to stir.
I sit on the edge of the bed and hand Kelly her coffee. Still a little groggy, she gives me a peck on the cheek and wants to know what's going on.
Penelope Kelly Anne Lane, I shit you not, has been my relatively constant companion for the past half dozen years. We're not married, engaged or even living together. She has a loft in town and I have my place in the suburbs. Still, we manage to spend most of our free time together.
She sits up in bed, wraps the sheet around her and has a couple sips of coffee. When the cobwebs begin to clear I fill her in on everything that has occurred since Wednesday.
This is what I told her…
The events that precipitated this nightmare began four days ago. I was at the flea market in Lambertville, New Jersey. It was 5:00 am Wednesday morning. The trees were beginning to display green; the air was a tad nippy and the sky nearly cloudless.
Walking with me was Moses Aronson. Moe is relatively large, a few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulders with a bear like head. Moe is an uncle from my father's side of the family. Actually, my great uncle. And, if this is to be believed, Uncle Moe is Irish.
'Boyo, I don't see anything that you have to own'.
I looked over and nodded once. There are two reasons to scour the antique flea markets. The obvious reason is to unearth something where you can make a buck. There is a ton of merch at any flea that can be bought for ten and sold for twenty. That's a tough way to make a living.
Much more lucrative is to find a premium item and pay a little more than most dealers are willing to shell out. Every single day of the week, there are flea markets with items ranging from a couple of hundred dollars up to whatever. I once saw a Tiffany Lamp change hands three times in the course of an hour. And, get this; there was still enough profit in it for the guy that took it home.
The other reason for walking the market is even more important. That is to discover what is not there. The entire antiques trade, like any other business is built on relationships. To be successful it is necessary to have established relationships with both sellers and buyers.
Knowing this, you talk to dealers. Listen for rumors, whispers, innuendo. Who purchased what, what's being put up at auction, estates that have come on the market, collections being liquidated? You're hunting for merchandise that is brand new to the market, preferably something that hasn't seen the light of day for decades, maybe more.
I looked up and Moe had vanished. Time for a break. In the small restaurant, I walked up to the counter and ordered a slice of cherry pie and black coffee. Took them back to the table, sat down and waited.
Hard Knocks came in the door, got some coffee and joined me. Like many dealers, he's in his sixties and retired from some job or another. Average height, florid complexion with a beak nose. You know, I never did know his real name.
HK says, 'Peoples are asking questions, P'.
Hard deals in militaria, specifically World War II stuff.
'What questions?'
'Forgeries, art forgeries. They wants to know who does 'em. How to find 'em. Pick, these ain't plesant folk.'
'Knocky, why are you telling me?'
'Your name is coming up. Be careful, P. I don't like the way this smells.'
'Thanks Knock. Let me know if you hear anything else. Do you have my number?'
That, however, was not the end of it. In the course of walking the flea, three more guys tell me something very similar. Two guys, no one we know, well dressed are looking for copies of master works. And, my name keeps coming up.
Before heading back to the city I stop at Danny Boy's table. 'What do you have to get on the rug Danny?' I ask.
Danny Boy Boyle is a young black man that works almost exclusively in North Philadelphia. His wife, Mai, who is a lovely young Vietnamese woman, purchases antiques and collectibles from the aging African American community. Back in the forties, fifties probably up to the present, many of the people from this neighborhood worked as maids in the wealthy Main Line communities. I suppose that today the proper nomenclature would be domestics. Back then they were simply maids and cleaning ladies.
Anyway, you would be surprised that a common experience for these domestics was to receive discarded items from their masters, sorry, employers. These items could be anything from silverware, lamps, dishes, artwork or whatever. Many of these discarded items were quality when purchased and have only gone up in value over the years. You would be shocked; I know I was, to walk into a North Philadelphia row home and to see it furnished with quality furniture, knick-knacks and artwork.
DB is one of only a handful of people of color in the antiques game.
'Hey, man, I’m thinking, like maybe three hundred. Cool, huh?'
'No Danny, not cool at all. I’ll give you a grand, not a penny more.'
What DBB had unearthed was a late 19th century Lori Pambak rug from the Southwest Caucasus. These lovely rugs typically have hexagon enclosed cruciform medallions. These medallions will differ in proportion from rug to rug but can be very elegant. They are highly sought after by collectors.
This particular rug was 5'4' x 6'8' that had a central medallion and two minor medallions surrounded by a series of geometric shapes on a red field. The rest of the colors included both light and dark blue, blue-green, gold, reddish brown and ivory.
