I have seen auctions in movies. I think I understand the concept. Us, being new in the South decided to go to the local auction just down the road from our farm. The outside of the auction site looks like a junk yard, with broken down tractors, lawn mowers, old horse drawn carriages that had broken down.

Since taking over the farm we were quite unprepared for the lawn growth, so we were on a hunt for something to cut the grass.

Marissa's sister and brother-in-law were visiting us at the time, and they figured that it would be a hoot to go down and make fun of the locals. We tried to impress on them that we now live here, and to mock would be to sentence us to a life of being shunned. I was also concerned because I did want to win my prize.

Now auction night brings in a lot of cars, well, make that pickup trucks. We looked outside at the items in the yard for the first time, and started to see images we had feared: sweaty, fat people, with no teeth, leathery faces, odd facial hair... and that was just the women. I smoked when I was 16, but I sure didn't bum smokes from my grandpa... but these kids did.. and they might have been 13. Brown spit flew in the air onto the dirt ground in the indoor arena where decrepit wooden chairs stained with sweat from hot August nights sat. That was also from 13 year olds.

Women with straw hair gummed straws containing god knows what fluids. Men drank beer out of Styrofoam cups. Suspenders were plentiful, so were cracked faces, callused hands, and gruff demeanors. In short supply were full set of teeth, non-smokers, and Yankees.

Of course, I was covered in horse shit, the shoes I was wearing were stolen from a huge black man at a party my brother attended, and I had the look of sternness on my face, eyeing up and down for the elusive lawn mower, so I blended in pretty well.

And then there were the visitors. Not us... we knew how to blend in uncertain venues... But Marissa's sister wearing a belly shirt, high heel boots, and way too short shorts stood out like... well, a women wearing a belly shirt, high heel boots, and short shorts.

Picking through the crap was amusing to them for about five seconds, so the rest of the time they were pointing out all the ugly people, and trust me, they were all ugly. Subtly was not a strong point, and I had and overwhelming feeling that not only did we stand out because of them, but that all of the people knew exactly what was going on, and they were planning their revenge accordingly.

The auctioneer was the owner of the junkyard, and he sat on a rusted something-or-other, with a mini PA system, a handkerchief covering the microphone, and a cup of beer in his hand.

"Blah-be-de-blah-be-de-blah... Twenty Dollars, I've got twenty dollars, do I hear 25... 25.. 20.... 25... 20... 25... 20... 20... 20... 20! Sold for twenty dollar bill."

"What we got over here... set of lawn mowers, how many do we got dare... FIVE lawn mowers, don't know if dey work, but dey would be great for parts, hell, build one good one out of all of dem! What do I got for these, thirty dollars? Do I get thirty dollars, thirty dollars, thirty dollars, thirty dollars, One dollar, that's more than I had.. One dollar, do I got two. One dollar, two dollar, one dollar, two dollar, three dollar, I got three dollar... three dollar... three dollar... Sold for three dollar bill.

Crap after crap was sold, things you'd be ashamed to give away, let alone sell. Who would want a box of old porno's on betamax tape? Someone did for two dollars. Things that were just barely holding together that should have hit the dumpster three years ago sold.

On the other hand, there was some good stuff, too. I got a set of wrenches for three dollars. Pocket knife for three dollars as well. People walked away with some great deals; cars in good, running condition sold for $300.

Then there was the lawn mower. Marissa somehow got her sister and her sister's husband to walk to the mini-mart for some ice-cream. The lawn mower looked like something out of a Stephen King novel; huge, rusty, big spoked wheels, no writing, and the engine double in size than you would normally see.

"Okay, we got ourselves a lawn mower here, does she start?"

A man dressed in a black button down shirt, crazy old cowboy hat, chewed cigar, and a beard the size of tumbleweed leaned down and cranked the engine. Fumbling with the controls, he he tried again, this time getting it to fire.

"There she goes, okay who'll give me seventy five for this lawn mower, seventy five, seventy five seventy five... who'll give me fifty, fifty, fifty, who'll give me twenty?"

I raise my hand.

"Okay, twenty, I got twenty, twenty-five? Twenty, twenty-five, I got twenty-five over dere."

He is pointing over at a women just to the left of me, down a few people.

"Twenty-five, thirty?"

I nod slightly.

"Thirty, thirty-five? Thirty, thirty-five, thirty, thirty-five? I got thirty-five. Forty?"

I pause.

"Thirty-five, forty, thirty-five, forty, thirty-five, forty, thirty-five, forty, how about thirty-six?"

I put my finger to my head like a salute.

"Thirty-six, do I hear thirty-seven?"

She gestures.

"I got thirty-seven, thirty-eight?"

There is a pause in the air, the crowd fixated on me and the bidding war that is happening. I nod.

"Thirty-eight, thirty-nine? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-eight fifty?"

She goes for it.

"Thirty-eight fifty, thirty-nine?"

I shake my head quickly.

"I got thirty-nine, forty?"

The tension is in the air, the crowd silent, the auctioneer electrified by the action. She shakes her head no.

"Thirty-nine? Sold to the man for thirty-nine dollar bill."

The battle won, the prize paid for, I go and get this behemoth home to the farm. Marissa has dubbed the mower, "The Mangler" and so far so good. Of course, I had to replace the back wheels, which were a special order and cost me sixty dollars, but it was one of the most fun purchases I have ever made.

The engine died two weeks later.