The Tutelage of Speedball Horton

The Tutelage of Speedball Horton T A Ciccarone

The sleigh bells, which were attached to the door, jingled as I entered Mollie's Attic. "You have to go with Wiley today." It was early. Mollie looked up from where she stood at the glass case, making notes in her sales ledger. I usually worked the shop with her on Saturday mornings if I had nothing better to do. This announcement wasn't good news. I had better things to do. What 13-year-old boy wouldn't? It was already shaping up to be one of those blisteringly hot days in late June. I had plans to go swimming with my brother the genius and our next-door neighbor down at Meckauer Park after opening clams for Madcap Joe.

"Wiley? Come on, Mom, I can't go with that old jerk. I have stuff to do today." I thought that if I got pig-headed and dug in, I could complain my way out of this.

Mollie scolded me for making fun of Wiley. "He got a Navy Cross and a Purple Heart. Show some respect."

Wiley Horton was a local estate bagger, junk purveyor of not-so-fine antiquities, and itinerant auctioneer. That resume, in conjunction with the fact that he was a reformed meth tweaker, hence the nickname "Speedball," and a full-fledged alcoholic, made the days that my mother swapped me for antiques more than a little interesting. It wasn't that I disliked Ol' Speedball. I could put up with the bad breath, body odor, the incessant nipping off of a bottle of Schenley's, and the constant diatribe of curses that flowed like the whiskey he drank. Wiley was entertaining, in a way. He provided an unending collection of tales documenting the antics of all the local politicians and business people who had screwed him over in southern Connecticut, as well as an on-demand supply of Hav-a-Tampa cigarillos, which he freely gave me upon request. The road of smoking "Guinea stinker" cigars that my grandpa started me down the road on when I was 12, as we ran his still lasted for some years, mainly due to the influence of good old Wiley.

"You have to go with him. He called this morning and said he needed you. He'll be here in a few minutes." It was settled. If Mollie made a promise, even to the likes of Wiley Speedball Horton, then it was a done, cast-in-stone deal.

"You'll have to call Joe down at the Grove and tell him that I can't open clams then…" I was pissed because I would earn twenty dollars opening clams for the day at Capellaro's Grove. 

"I spoke to him already. You're good to go." I looked at my mother, glaring at me. She leveled that look at me that only she could. It simply stated, what? I, of course, returned a look of nothing. She glanced back. That's right, nothing. I had always thought it odd that I didn't need to speak with my mother to communicate. It was the same with my Nana; I had that familiar feeling of being manipulated by the family's higher matriarchal powers.

Wiley screeched to a halt up in front of Mollie's Attic. The old Ford panel job clearly needed a new muffle and brakes and could probably use a tune-up. It spewed a constant stream of what we would all come to believe, years later, to be global warming. I climbed onto the torn red seat with the old codger. He popped the clutch too quickly and stalled the jalopy. "Fuck," he spat as he pulled a Hav-a-Tampa from his faded overhaul bib pocket and handed it to me. "Here, kid," he always called me kid. I sometimes wonder if he even knew my real name. He restarted the engine as I lit the cigar using the truck's lighter, which miraculously still worked. He pulled the Ford out across traffic on route six without so much as a look. They say that God protects drunks and babies. Where did that leave me, I wondered?

"What's the deal today," I tried to make mature small talk as I toked on the stogie.

"Auction in Redding." He rarely spoke in complete sentences. I always thought it was just too much trouble for him to say all the words, or maybe it was a brain cell thing; I wasn't sure. "Big one. Over at the old Culleton farm. Lots of farm machines and antiques. They got some sheep, too."

"Sheep? You're going to do a sheep auction? Sheep?" We had never done a livestock auction before, at least none I knew about. I had done a couple of dozen auctions with Wiley and knew the routine. Livestock was different. This day just might be interesting. I had no idea how interesting.

"Not me. You are. I'm sick today. Mollie said you could do it for me." I'm sick meant that he was on one of his classic benders and had been drinking for who knew how long. Two empty fifths of Schenley's whiskey were already rolling around the floor by my feet.

"I can't do the auction." I started to panic. "What if I stuttered? What would happen then? W-Wiley, I d-don't think I can d-do it. I n-never did it before." My anxiety unleashed the stammer that I usually kept under control. The fear that I experienced in crowds was palpable.

"Hey, Kid, there's nothing to get scared about," he reassured me. "These people are just a bunch of assholes. You'll never see them again. Fuck 'em." I puffed on the Tampa, trying to smoke out my anxiety.

"I'll be ringman. All you do is start the call and drive up the price, just like I do. I'll feed you the item and the opening price. Don't get your skirt in a twist. Auctioning is nothing. Just do like I do. It's easy; nothing to it." He took a swig of whiskey.

We pulled into the Culleton farm to the smell of fresh manure. "Smell that?" He looked sideways. "That's Bavarian air." And he chuckled as if it was the punchline to some secret joke. "That's what they call it over there." His few working brain cells must have dredged the term up from his days in the World War II European Theater from his military stint.

Wiley had two of his regulars, Deek and Sortie, there, already working. They would do most of the organizing and heavy lugging. Deke was an immense, dark as baker's chocolate, Jamaican with a gold tooth in the front upper bite of his mouth, which he loved to display whenever he smiled. It was both comical and scary at the same time. Sortie was some guy that Wiley often recruited. His gray, washed-out skin pallor and sneaky demeanor made me think of prisons and abused children. I don't ever recall having heard him utter a single word. He was usually responsible for organizing the smaller items, hence the nom d' usage.

Wiley scheduled the auction to start at two, and we spent the morning organizing and setting the sale up. We took a break around noon and sat in the living room on the Culleton's musty old sofa.

"We got eleven sheep and one ram out back. I think we do those last, maybe. Get rid of the big stuff first." He took a belt from the bottle and passed it around. Deke took a shot, and then Sortie handed it to me. I was no stranger to hard liquor, having come from a restaurant family where it was relatively easy to purloin an occasional bottle of Seagram's out of the liquor locker. I took the fifth and pulled a jolt, feeling like one of the boys. In retrospect, I now realize this bunch of misfits was the last group I should have aspired to be a part of.

Two o'clock approached, and people pulled into the farm. All in all, the numbers were surprising. Apparently, the Culleton family was well known in the berg of Redding. "It looks like maybe over a hundred," I remarked to Wiley, trying to sound business-like.

"122," was all he said as he scanned the crowd. He was still sober enough to count. "We're doing the 48' international over there first. Start at $200.00 and take it from there." He pointed to the International Harvester Tractor. "Well, get to it, kid, you're on. We ain't got all day." He nodded his head towards the tractor.

We finished up around seven as the shadows crept in. By the end of the day, I had hit my stride and discovered something. I didn't need to be afraid. We had sold the whole estate, and the few remaining items would be stored in Wiley's barn to be slipped into future auctions after Mollie had her pick.

We drove back in the dark smoking. "You did real good today, kid. From now on, you do all the auctions." I was elated in a way that I had never felt before. Could it be true that what Wiley thought of me mattered? I came from a family where no news was considered good news, and compliments were rare. Eventually, I would do over a hundred of these little soirees for the old man as the next three years slid by. He took the last swig, emptying the bottle. He threw it on the floor near my feet to keep the other ghosts company. "Oh, I almost forgot." He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. I looked at it, stunned. A C note was twice as much as I made in a good week. It was the first time he had ever paid me. He usually had some deal cooked up with Mollie that I was not privy to. I was never, actually, paid directly. A hundred bucks sure beat the hell out of opening clams down at the grove for twenty dollars.

"You can keep that bible that you was eyeballing." It was a huge leather-bound King James Version, dated 1884. He caught me checking it out and held it back.

I still do auctions to this day. Does that make me an auctioneer? Is that something that I even aspire to be? The jury is still out on these questions. After calling over a hundred auctions, I still wonder. The last was for Wooster School for their annual fundraiser. They had a banner gala that year, reaping more than double previous years.

The Bible sits in my library on a book stand in a place of honor. It marks the day I left much of my fear behind.