The Auctioneer

It was not at all obvious where he was going. Even so, as he rolled by the dark houses on Route 37, he felt that there were eyes behind each pulled shade, marking his movement. He drove warily, starting at every glimmer from the woods beyond the drainage ditches. He told himself it was silly to feel he couldn’t make a trip to Concord by daylight. He generally went once a month at least to get parts for this or that. Nevertheless, his plan now was to go before light and return after dark.

He took the turnpike and changed a five-dollar bill into dimes at the toll booth. At dawn he found himself almost alone on the wide main street of Concord. He drove straight through and headed out again. On the outskirts of the city, he found a shopping center that suited his purposes. He parked his truck, noting that it was almost the only one in the fifteen-acre lot that early, and more conspicuous than it would have been in Harlowe. Nevertheless, he forced himself to eat a cold potato, and sit still on the dusty seat watching hour after hour as the storekeepers arrived, the stores opened, and cars, vans, and small trucks began to fill up the lot.

By ten-thirty, with the lot half full, the sidewalk was bustling with shoppers. John took his handful of dimes to one of the four telephone booths in front of Friendly Ice Cream. Then he stood in the booth, letting his breath steam up the glass, watching the mothers herd their pairs of well-fed children out of the ice cream shop, wiping at their chins with paper napkins and zipping up their coats.

“I can connect you with the State House, sir,” said the operator and, without waiting for John to answer, she put the call through and a phone rang somewhere on the other end of the line.

“State of New Hampshire,” said another woman’s voice, and John again asked to speak to the governor.

“Please hold the line, sir,” said the voice.

There was a long wait. Finally the operator came on and asked for another dime.

As soon as John deposited it, another woman’s voice said, “Office of the governor, may I help you?”

“I want to speak to the governor,” John said carefully.

“The governor is not available, sir,” said the voice, which sounded as though it were coming from the other end of a rope of licorice. “If you could tell me your name and what the problem is, perhaps I could help.”

John chewed on his knuckles. Women streamed by the telephone booth wheeling small children in wire baskets, their mouths stopped with lollipops.

“Are you there, sir?” said the woman.

“I am,” John said. “There’s this trouble I want to report.”

“You want the police, sir, 225-2706.”

“No,” John said. “It’ll take the governor for this.”

“I told you, sir. The governor is unavailable at the moment. But if you contact the police, they’ll take action through the appropriate channels.”

John bit off a hangnail on his index finger, trying to think which detail to tell her to convince her to let him speak to the governor.

“Thank you for calling, sir,” said the voice and there was a click. John’s money fell into the box of the telephone and he heard the dial tone again.

He found he had forgotten the number. He dialed the operator. “I need the police,” he said.

“Is this an emergency?” she asked.

“No,” he said. Then, considering, he said, “I think so,” but the operator was already gone.

Somewhere a phone rang and rang and rang. A family went by the telephone booth. John turned to stare after them as they passed. A man and a woman and two little boys dressed exactly alike in brand-new brown snowsuits.

Finally a weary man’s voice said, “Police.”

And the operator said, “Deposit ten cents please for the first three minutes.”

John put his money in and the man said, this time with a touch of impatience, “Police here.”

“I wanted to report some trouble,” John said.

“What kind of trouble?” said the tired voice.

“Well, it’s up to Harlowe.”

“Harlowe? Where’s that?”

“Harlowe,” John said distinctly.

“If you mean the town of Harlowe, that’s the state police,” said the man. “Call 271-3181.”

“Oh,” said John.

“Anytime,” said the policeman and hung up. John’s money dropped and he was back to the dial tone.

John called the operator again. Each time he dialed he got a different operator.

This time the phone was answered almost before it rang. “Police, State of New Hampshire,” said a woman’s voice. “May I help you?”

“I want to report some trouble.”

“Is it an emergency, sir?”

“Yes, sort of.”

“Where are you? We’ll send someone right out.”

John looked around him. “I don’t know exactly. It’s not that kind of emergency. Not so I need someone here right now. It’s up to—”

“Is it an emergency or is it not, sir?”

John hesitated. “Not an emergency this minute,” he said. “You might say it’s an emergency this week.”

There was a pause, then, “Just what is the nature of your problem, sir?”

“Well, I see a lot of trouble goin’ on,” John said and paused.

“Don’t we all!” said the woman. “What kind of trouble? When? Where?”