Neither was in lot 17. She had no interest in lot 17. She was aware of it the way anyone in the room was aware of it as the pile of unsellable vehicles that would probably go for scrap value if anyone bought it at all.
When she first noticed Isaac, he was crouching beside one of the cars in the lot. His back to the room, running his hand along the base of a door panel.
She registered him the way an experienced professional registers irrelevant information. Briefly. Categorically without retention. Flannel shirt, old truck in the lot, solo bidder at a salvage lot. Not a factor.
She moved on toward the registration desk and did not think about him again until the bidding on lot 17 began. The lot came up midway through the session. The auctioneer’s assistant read out a summary description.
17 vehicles, mixed years. Mixed condition, no running engines confirmed. Sold as is with no title guarantees on four of the units. The opening bid was set at $500. The room was quiet.
A few people glanced over without raising their paddles. Isaac raised his without hesitation and said clearly, “2,500.” The auctioneer confirmed it. A beat passed. No competing bid came. Another beat.
“Going once,” the auctioneer said. The room stayed still. “Going twice.” A few heads turned toward Isaac. Some people smiled. “Sold.” The gavel came down. The laughter started at the edges and spread inward.
It was not cruel exactly, more the reflexive amusement of people watching someone do something they collectively agreed was foolish. Giselle was standing near the press area when it happened. And something in the moment, the camera pointed at her, the journalists nearby, the easy target of a man in
a worn flannel shirt with a bad truck, $2,500 pile of wreckage, pulled a response from her that she would later have difficulty fully accounting for. She said it with the casual authority of someone accustomed to being quoted.
“He just bought $2,500 worth of scrap metal. Hope he kept the number for the nearest junkyard. The people around her laughed. One of the journalists smiled. The phone camera was already rolling.
