The next time my friend who works for a competing newspaper asks me to accompany her on a reconnaissance trip to determine if something is worth doing a story on, I'm staying home.

Our latest misadventure began one Saturday when my friend called to see if I'd go with her to a little town about an hour north of Columbia to check out a regular auction featuring "live" music prior to the bidding. I agreed to tag along. The outing promised a pleasant evening of good music and keen competition between bidders on exciting treasures from the Carolina countryside.

When we arrived, all the pickup trucks and Harleys parked out front tipped us off to the location of what we thought must be the local pool hall/bar. Instead, it was the auction hall, which just happened to be right next door to the Righteous Word Up House of Divine Gregariousness and Apologetic Laying of Hands All Over People.

We parked next to a pickup with bumper stickers that read: "Teeth Are Overrated" and "Don't Let My Tobacco Juice Hit You Where the Sun Don't Shine." I was worried about our immediate future.

Walking into the auction hall was like leaping into a smokestack. The air was so thick I could barely make out the folding chairs arranged around the room. In those chairs sat people who were either puffing away on cigarettes or cigars or spitting tobacco juice into big tin cans strategically placed on every row. I thought my lungs were going to explode.

We made our way to seats at the far end of one row and, struggling for breath, waited for the entertainment that had been promised. A dried up looking little guy with mutton chop sideburns walked to the front of the room. He had a guitar hanging around his neck. He signaled to a woman behind a counter in the back of the room, and the music to "Your Cheatin' Heart" commenced to playing on a CD player.

To say the guy couldn't sing is far too kind. He sounded like his tongue got caught in one of those old-fashion wash tub wringers like my grandma had, and he never strummed a single note on that guitar. It was obviously for decoration only -- a mere wardrobe accessory. By the time he got wound up good and was belting out "She's Acting Single, I'm Drinking Double," I was ready to start drinking.

Before I could head for the pool hall/bar across the street for a shot of liquor, a sullen, toothless woman reeking of tobacco smoke appeared in front of us asking if we wanted to buy a "parking ticket." I thought maybe she was insinuating we ought to buy something or pay for the privilege of sitting there. Turns out she was selling tickets for a drawing, which I didn't plan on hanging around for. We bought tickets anyway just so she'd go away.

We decided to check out the items in the back room that were scheduled to be auctioned that night. The items we found spread out on long tables looked like stuff that came out of somebody's basement that had flooded. There were mildewed stuffed animals; dolls with no arms; books with so much water damage the pages were stuck together; an exercise bike with no seat; an old yellow dresser without drawers or mirror and an old drum set patched all over with duct tape. And that was the good stuff.

Tracy and I looked at each other and headed for the front door. By then, Mutton Chops was attempting "I'm My Own Grandpa," which I didn't doubt in the least.

Tracy's traveling solo next time.

T&D Region Editor Carol Barker can be reached by e-mail at cbarker@timesanddemocrat.com or by phone at 803-533-5525.

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