It's a beautiful dayfor an outdoor police auction. Blindingly sunny. Unseasonably warm, even for late-morning Tampa Bay spring. And with that maddening bitch-goddess of a slight breeze that always stops about one-sixteenth of a gust short of refreshing. Today won't turn your car into a convection oven in under an hour, but your skivvies will probably need a firm wringing if you were dumb enough to fall for 9 a.m.'s cool, dry bullshit and put on long pants.
Like I was.
The weather will deter some potential gawkers from hitting the St. Petersburg Police Department HQ's largely unshaded parking lot. There are still 400 or so diehards, family members and easily engaged spectators, however, meandering about and crowding under the skimpy line of trees separating the lot from Central Avenue.
As any avid reader of any classifieds section anywhere knows, every so often, police departments nationwide offer up stockpiled "seized and forfeited" items to the highest bidder at public auctions. Said items generally cover an amazingly wide spectrum, from stuff you can't believe anybody would part with while still breathing, to stuff you can't believe the cops actually bothered to take out of somebody's house/trunk/backyard. Today's booty is no exception. Water-Pik massaging showerhead, anyone? Perhaps an umbrella, or some miscellaneous vacuum accessories? No? There are some truly juicy home-lifestyle accoutrements as well, from a big-screen TV to SurroundSound systems to DVD players to assorted parts that may or may not be assembled into an actual working computer.
But seriously, everybody's here for the cars.
There are 21 or so, parked in two rows. Like the auction's other goods, they run the gamut of desirability, from rusted-out beaters to shiny late-model imports that appear straight out of the Hyde Park Starbucks' most coveted lot spaces. There's a weathered '86 Nissan light pickup. A '95 Monte Carlo, and an older one with vintage muscle-car looks and a classic dual exhaust. A mini-van. A Jaguar from the late '80s that's seen little love and a lot of miles. A freaking Lexus. And the obvious crowd pleaser, a pimped-out gray 1973 Chevy Caprice convertible with chrome 26-inch rims, chrome trim, a chromed engine, and a trunk chock full of empty custom speaker-boxes.
Prospective bidders mill around each and every one of them, murmuring knowingly or speculatively about the condition of their respective innards. Others hang back, discussing various bidding strategies with the shaky faux-authoritarian tone of those for whom it is desperately important that nobody discover that they really have no idea what they're talking about.
"Dude, I'm telling you, if you hold up your number after he starts saying 'sold,' but before he finishes saying it, he has to accept your bid. It's the law."
Dude, it's one syllable.
Everyone interested in bidding on anything at all must register with the welcoming committee stationed in the police station's shaded breezeway, where the actual auctioning will take place. They also have to provide a valid driver's license or I.D. card in order to receive a number, leading several of the crowd's cagier constituents to ponder aloud the possibility that this whole thing is "a sting operation." One large, enterprising man brags loudly about how he beat the system by having his wife register as a bidder for him.
Bidding is scheduled to begin at 11 a.m. Like most entertaining events, things are running a bit behind schedule; it's almost half-past when emcee Bill Wilson calls the congregation to assemble on the raised outdoor plaza around the breezeway. A civilian who works for the SPPD's Records department, the gray-haired, bespectacled Wilson makes an engaging amplified host. He knows there are plenty of veterans in the crowd, and they assist him in laying out the rules.
"I almost forgot to talk about our warranty policy," he says over the mic. "What's our warranty?"
"AS IS!" chants a sizable portion of the group in response.
In obvious acquiescence of human nature — and in direct opposition to entertainment dogma — the bidding begins with the most coveted items on the roster.
The Caprice goes first thing, for $7,700.
It's like a movie. At least, it's like a movie about an auction, the suspense gradually building in inverse proportion to the number of bidders. There's a duel every time, and things can be pretty exhilarating for the spectators when the bidding gets serious. It's suddenly a sports event — folks begin picking sides and cheering them on, particularly a young blonde guy who might be out here in search of his first ride.
A Nissan 240 SX sells for $800.
The street-rod Monte Carlo inspires some heated competition, which finally tops out at $3,200.
Wilson stops the proceedings for a minute to announce that someone is attempting to pick pockets in the crowd. People are weird, aren't they?
The blonde guy tries the cunning last-minute tack, but loses a two-party showdown over a nice Infiniti to an even timelier bid for $3,750. The crowd is vocally sympathetic. He engages in financial warfare over several other models, but doesn't get involved when a Kia with no clutch sells for $3,250.
Another young man, a 16-year-old, buys his first car, a Dodge Neon, for $1,500. The crowd goes nuts, before once again turning its collective attention to the blonde dude.
The Lexus comes up for grabs. The customary plethora of numbers go up at once, as if it'll be over just like that, and some lucky person will get it for two hundred bucks.
The price goes up; the number of bidders goes down. The blonde joins the fray somewhere around $1,500. The crowd cheers him. He sticks it out as the bids wax and the bidders wane, looking to the tight group of friends around him, and always getting the nod. At $5,300, the increments drop from $100 to $50. The suspense level ratchets up several notches.
Soon it's down to the crowd favorite and, well, somebody else — shit, I don't know, I'm watching the kid.
$5,500.
"Going once," intones Wilson.
"Going twice…"
The blonde raises his number, raising the price. The crowd sighs in unison, half exasperation, half ecstasy. Then his opponent raises the stakes.
"We have $5,600," Wilson reflects. "Do I hear $5,650? $5,600 going once, going twice…"
The kid straight-arms his number above all the heads, looking a bit like he can't believe he's doing it.
"$5,650! I've got $5,650," says Wilson.
The crowd is silent now.
"Going once," Wilson eyes the kid's opponent, a man in his thirties at the other side of the plaza, meaningfully. "Going. Twice."
The man shakes his head, smiling.
"Sold! To that young man right there! For fifty-six fifty! Come on up here and fill out your paperwork, son."
The crowd erupts. Strangers pat the kid on the back. Friends ruffle his hair. He slowly makes his way through the mass toward the breezeway, where he'll sign a few papers and leave a check for the required $500 deposit, undoubtedly wondering where the hell he's going to come up with the rest, and just as undoubtedly admonishing himself to worry about it after the thrill wears off.
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weekly planet.com.
This article appears in May 28 – Jun 3, 2003.