The Fine Art & Livestock Auction

If you haven’t experienced it yet, there will be a time and place that combine in your memory.

It has a lot to do with the people, the connections you make, experience arising from circumstance as well as a fondness and reverence for place... but no matter what you do,

you will never be able to recapture the energy you felt then and there.

One such place for my partner and I was Seattle in the 1990’s. We were surrounded by youth culture, art, music and immersed in a charming international city surrounded by some of the most beautiful sights nature could possibly provide.

We lived in an apartment over a rhythm and blues lounge called Dino’s. The cast of neighbors we had would have made for a great tv show. Now that I think about it, arguably the first ‘reality tv show’ was being filmed by MTV a few blocks away. It was called ‘Real World.’

I was working as a cook in a café restaurant in Pioneer Square under the oldest independent bookseller on the west coast: Elliott Bay Book Company. It was called Elliott Bay Café. The café was in a cavern below street level with vaulted brick ceilings. Roughly hewn bookshelves surrounded the columns amid the tables and chairs. It was far and away the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. I didn’t make much money, but I could write an entire book of just the experiences I’d had there.

It was a real production kitchen. We fed thousands of tourists and locals everyday. The recipes required huge caldrons, a step stool and big wooden paddles to stir it all up. Most days, I was the first in. I’d walk down the stairs from the street, unlock the door and walk through the kitchen lighting up the ovens. We had a huge Hobart mixer with a grinding attachment on the front. I would clean and grind entire cases of vegetables which were the base for soups and stews. We made a vegetarian chili that was out of this world. A big bowl of that, two chunks of the oldest culture sourdough bread around and a big dollop of garlic herb butter. Heavenly. Four bucks!

While the soups were doing their thing, I’d bake off several trays of cookies and my patented tri-berry scones with a brown sugar spiral glaze.

One by one as my fellow cooks arrived, they were introduced by another to the rest of the staff as if they were a famous musician about to take the stage. After their introduction, it didn’t matter how busy things were, all of us stopped, clapped, whistled, stomped or clanked things together. I’m not sure how that started, but Scott was the leader of a make believe punk band, Meg on the line was the head of a riot girl grunge outfit and Nick had a famous Jazz trio.

I came up with Nick’s intro. It was too easy. His actual name was Nick Brown. If that doesn’t sound like the name of a famous jazz moderator, I don’t know what does.

It went something like this: Ladies and gentlemen… You haven’t been up, until you’ve been down, with the downtown sound of Mr. Nick Brown, give it up... for Nick Brown. Everyone clapped, hooted and hollered. He’d smile and take a bow then put his apron on and get to it.

There was a never ending stream of notable writers who conducted readings in the catacombs a few nights a week. One afternoon, on my break, I walked into the dining area and all the tables were taken. As I was walking by, a gentleman got my attention and asked if I wanted to share a table. I took him up on the offer.

He was an older guy with white hair. Irish accent. His name was Seamus. He asked my name and whether I liked working there. It was obvious with the food stained apron still hanging round my waist. He asked if I made the food he was eating and indeed I did.

He told me that outside the British Isles, it was damn near impossible to find a good shepherd's pie and he complimented my effort. I asked what he was doing in Seattle. He told me there was a writers conference he would speak at in a few days and this evening he was doing a reading at Elliott Bay Book Company from his recent book.

So I asked him some questions about being a writer. We had a great conversation.

I told him that I was closing the café that day, so I might look in on his reading later. He said please do and told me that it was a pleasure meeting me. Great meeting him too, I replied.

It didn’t occur to me until I saw the cover of his book that he was the famous Irish poet and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, Seamus Haney. I also met the four star general Colin Powell, the scientist and inventor Ray Kurzweil and many others.

Laura sensed that I was getting restless at some point and recommended that I get involved in this theatre group that our friend Michael knew about. Half the year, Michael was a hydraulics engineer on a fishing boat out at sea. When he was back home in Seattle, he was a bike messenger for a legal courier service. The risks he took in traffic defy description.

Like everyone else we met there, he lived life on his terms.

He’d come back from sea, flush with cash and spend it on everyone. If there were a round of drinks or several, he’d pick up the tab. If I had to liken him to anyone, it would probably be The Doors icon Jim Morrison. He had that handsome rugged look and he was every bit as charismatic. He had this uncanny ability to attract whatever he needed whenever he needed it.

One Sunday morning, he was knocking on my door. I woke up and answered it. He told me that he needed some help. I asked what for. He told me that he needed to go get a mattress. After a few cups of coffee, we headed out.

I asked where we were going to pick it up. He said “I don’t know.” What do you mean I don’t know? He said, “Have some patience and a little faith.”

We were walking down Broadway a few blocks from our apartment building when this kid came running across the street yelling “Michael, yo Michael!” He turned around and greeted him. I forget what this kid's name was. He started going on about how one of his neighbors owed several months rent, took off in the middle of the night and left almost everything behind.

His landlord asked him if he’d get the word out to help get rid of everything. “Michael, you don’t need a table and chairs or a couch do you?” Michael asked if there was a mattress in good shape. He told us there were two.

We followed him over there, Michael picked one and a few minutes later, we were hauling it down the block back to the apartment. It was a really nice queen size Posturepedic. This is how he operated. Complete faith that what he required would just show up and it always did.

Anyway, I asked him to introduce me to this theatre group. The building was where an old boot and shoe manufacturing company used to be. Now it was an epicenter of artistic endeavor. There were several independent art studios, a stained glass workshop and a café downstairs called Zeitgeist. On the fourth floor was a big open space called The Parlour Room.

It hosted acts, groups and ensembles of all kinds. Everything from modern dance to chamber orchestras to art shows and even a bdsm playgroup on occasion. The leader of The Parlour Room asked what I might be able to contribute. I told him I was a graphic and industrial designer with a specialty in trade show exhibits. He asked if I had my own tools and took me on right away.

The space was beautiful. There was a stage that was half the shape of a stop sign, two columns on each side and the seating was literally scrounged from wherever it was free.

No two chairs or couches or tables matched.

I arranged the next meeting in the basement of Elliott Bay Cafe and I’d soon discover that this was no ordinary collective. It was two in the morning on a Sunday. Almost everyone had been out partying and members were in varying polluted shades of intellectual consciousness.

The leader wanted ideas for an initiative that was all our own. They hosted other groups but did their own unique events from time to time and this one had to be special. Listening to some of the things they'd done in the past, there was no shortage of creativity here.

Ideas were being tossed around. Someone brought up the idea of doing a local artists show which they’ve done before. At some point, someone else mentioned something completely unrelated. Apparently, they were just watching a tv program and learned that you could buy a live fancy bantam rooster for less than you’d spend on a McChicken sandwich.

The leader went silent for a moment. We all looked at each other. I think we’d all had the basic concept in mind and it was out there. I mean waaay out there. Someone else mentioned he had a brother who worked at a livestock market north of Seattle.

Keeping the art theme, we could alternate auctioning art and small livestock. We would need a reasonably priced auctioneer. We need a band. What kind of band? Someone blurted out “Polka, it’s gotta be a polka band.”

They looked at me and I was already sketching out a basic set design which I shared with them. Around the stage would be bales of hay. Scattered about, on top of the bales would be wooden and chicken wire cages for foul. There could be small pens for other animals. A cash bar would be setup on one side and the band would be on the other. Art would be hung on the walls and displayed on pedestals throughout.

They asked me to finish the design, source materials, price out the build and to design a postcard that we could plaster all over town. They also asked that I be in charge of finding a polka band. I accepted the challenge.

Others were well versed with the local art scene and they would set up the call for entries and handle storage, hanging and placards. That one guy was asked to get a hold of his brother and find out about procuring small livestock and feed.

The leader would handle writing copy, press releases and free advertisement. He asked what we should call it. We pieced together: ‘The Fine Art & Livestock Auction.’

The only three words for this idea are WTF. I’m confident to this day that no other group of people have ever come up with anything remotely resembling this idea. We looked at each other sitting around the table with sly smiles as if we all shared an audacious secret.

In the following weeks, we all set out to take on our agreed assignments.

The art for the postcard was easy. I got that done in a few days. I found out that they no longer sell chickens in wooden chicken wire boxes as they did years ago. Now they are waxed heavy duty cardboard with holes punched in them. So, I spent days in the Parlour Room constructing these chicken boxes. They were a pain in the ass, but came out looking great.

One day I went up the hill cause I heard there was somewhat of an old Polish and Slovak community left. I went about asking around and wasn’t getting anywhere until I decided to go into a church. I was greeted by the pastor and told him that I had a really strange question.

“I’m looking for the best polka band on the planet.” He told me I came to the right place. Apparently, they hire this polka band each year to do their fundraiser.

He showed me pictures of them. It was just too perfect. The leader was a really big guy with a huge accordion and his troop were all decked out in traditional costume. There must have been at least ten people in the band. The pastor gave me contact info and I thanked him profusely.

I arranged for a meeting with him and Parlour Room management. There was a little trepidation there about the unconventional type of event this was, but they hit it off and the band was locked down for the gig.

We heard back from the livestock market and ended up purchasing three fancy hens, three fancy roosters, two pot belly pigs, one pygmy goat, one sheep and four rabbits. The market wouldn’t do refunds, but they would take back any of the animals that didn’t sell.

They also recommended an ‘auctioneer with flair’ and after contacting him, it was a relief to find that he wouldn’t mind doing such a strange event.

I took a satchel of those postcards and Michael and I covered the entire town. Every bulletin board, every coffeehouse, every hide out and hang out.

I asked Michael to be our event barker and he agreed. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into. On the afternoon of the event, I put a multi-colored Sgt. Pepper looking jacket with brass buttons on him that I found in a thrift shop, a top hat with flowers shoved into the band and draped a hand painted sandwich board over his shoulders.

The sign itself was a work of art. It had gold leafed typefaces from the 1800's with deep black shadow relief. Looked like something you’d see at an old fashioned carney show.

I put a brass bell in one of his hands and the leash to the pygmy goat in the other. I had him wandering around Pioneer Square yelling “Come One Come All… to an Event Like No Other. The Fine Art and Livestock Auction!” I wish someone could have taken a picture of him.

Everyone showed up on cue. The polka band did a soundcheck. The white haired, bespectacled auctioneer wore a sharp coat and tails testing his chant at the stage podium. Runners were all set to grab artwork and bring it up to a stage display when called upon. The bar was all set.

There was one last critical incident debriefing to get everyone on the same page.

The band was playing as people started streaming in. Right off the bat, the mood was festive and people were dancing and drinking. The animals all made happy noises when the band played. When the band wasn't playing the animals were silent.

The head of the Parlour Room welcomed everyone and called upon our guests to open their wallets for a good cause. This was an event for the benefit of local artists. We wanted to bring attention to them and all the artists were in attendance. They walked around, mingled with guests, sharing their visions and inspirations.

After every sale, there would be a thundering round of applause, the band would play for a minute or two and people would dance.

Standing in the midst of all this, I couldn’t help but have an immense sense of pride in what we’d accomplished. The most important thing was that people were having a good time and boy were they ever. We ended up having to run out for more alcohol as the cash bar dwindled.

I turned around and two Seattle Police Officers came through the door. They both had confused expressions on their faces. They really didn’t know what to make of it all. Matty ran over and greeted them.

It appeared that earlier, a concerned neighbor watched as the animals were escorted into the freight elevator from a truck in the alley. Not knowing what fate had befallen those poor animals, whoever they were felt the need to call the police.

We explained to the officers what we were doing. We assured them that the animals were in good hands. Properly fed, watered and cared for. We offered them some lemonade which one of them accepted and told them to look around and enjoy themselves. A local reporter took their picture.

One of the officers made sure to let us know that there must be at least a dozen permits and licenses for various reasons which we required, but they weren’t going to pursue any action on it. We thanked them. Dodged a bullet big time.

The other officer bought one of the rabbits for his daughter. His partner didn’t seem too thrilled about that, but they left without incident.

When it was all said and done, we sold almost all of the artwork, both potbelly pigs, all the rabbits and most of the chickens. Early the next morning Jim and Dan, a few Parlour Room folks set out to return the sheep, the goat and two chickens.

Somewhere on I-5, they came to the conclusion that the livestock market was closed on Sunday but they had to return the van. They decided to leave the remaining animals grazing happily in the front yard of the Microsoft Business Campus. When they got back, we were just waking up. They didn’t tell us any of this. I don’t think they intended to. We were making coffee, had a wake and bake and turned on an old television.

We were all still quite hung over from the event, lazing around on couches and chairs when the newscaster interrupted a program to let everyone know what security had found at Microsoft. They asked the public if anyone had any interest in a sheep, a goat and two chickens to please call the following number.

We looked at Jim and Dan. They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, smiled and we all proceeded to fall out of our chairs laughing. As I said, nothing like this could happen anywhere else.