The Evil Auctioneer

Every seat in the auction house is empty except yours.  It’s not that strange considering it’s a Tuesday afternoon, although you still feel a little awkward.

But you’re undeterred.  You lost the battle with last year’s jeans yesterday, and you’re indulging in a little retail therapy to help you forget about it.  So what if there’s no one else here?  That original 1977 Star Wars lunchbox will be yours!

You check your watch over and over: five past, ten past, quarter past.  The auction was supposed to start a while ago, but the master of ceremonies hasn’t shown up.  Combined with the absence of a crowd, you get antsy and think maybe you’ve got the wrong day.

As you head for the door, bidding paddle in hand, you hear the hollow sound of footsteps on risers.  Aha!  The auctioneer has arrived.

Or at least you think that’s him.  If you’re honest, he’s really just a huge, black, ten-gallon hat with a pair of cowboy boots poking out underneath.  You’ve never seen someone shaped quite like that.

The hat climbs up to the podium, his brim just cresting the microphone.  He clears his throat with a sound surprisingly loud for someone two feet high, and you ready your bidding paddle.

“Hey!  Igottalotta ‘you’re so fat’ righthere!righthere!  CanIgettafirstbidfirstbid!”

You hesitate. “You’re so fat”? Is that something you can even buy?  And why would you?

“Gottabiglotta ‘you’re so fat’ justwaitinforabid.  No?  Goingonce.  Goingtwice…”

Panicked by a sale passing you by and feeling a bit sensitive about the fight with your jeans, you raise your paddle.

“Sold!tothebidderinthefrontrow.  Thislovely ‘you’re so fat’ isyours.  Nextlotiiiiiis… ‘no one will ever love you’ theperfectcomplimenttoyourpreviouspurchase!  CanIgetafirstbidfirstbid!”

I am fat, you think to yourself, squeezing a soft handful of your middle.  No wonder I couldn’t get those jeans on.  Ugh.  I’m so gross.

“Don’tmissoutonthis ‘no one will ever love you’.  Youknowit’struefolks! You’resofatnoonewilleverloveyou.  Goingonce!Goingtwice!”

You raise your paddle dejectedly, sadly confident that it’s the right thing to buy.  It seems tailor-made just for you.

“Sold!tothebidderinthefrontrow.  Yousureknowhowtopick’em.”

Why would anyone love me when I’m so gross and fat? you think.  No one would want to be with me like this.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says a voice next to you.  “Sounds like a bunch of hot garbage to me.”

Surprised, how did she know what I was thinking?, you turn to see a woman in black sitting next to you.  She peers at you over her glasses, producing a tingling sensation like she’s looking through your head.

The auctioneer plows on, shrilly hawking the next lot:  “might as well eat a bucket of ice cream”.

“Huh?” you say, feeling a little lost.

She gestures to the oversized hat at the microphone.  “Are you listening to what he’s saying?  ‘You’re so fat’?  ‘No one will ever love you’?  What a load of horseshit.”

“But I am fat,” you whine, pinching your belly again.  “See?  There’s no way somebody’s going to love this.”  Your lower lip starts to tremble, and you sniff a bit.

“Do you really think that, or do you just need some bigger pants?” she asks, lightly touching your leg.  “And since when does being fat or not mean no one will love you?”

In the background, the auctioneer’s voice gets louder and faster; he’s starting to sound desperate.  “Here’salotta ‘you’re totally worthless’ righthere!righthere!  Whoneedstotakethishometoday?  Frontrow!frontrow!”

Your new friend doesn’t seem to notice the noise from the front; you get the feeling she can’t actually hear him.  Instead, she’s looking intently into your eyes.

“Seems to me like it don’t matter whether you’re a size zero or a size a zillion.  If you need bigger pants, you need bigger pants.”  She waves a dismissing hand.  “And if someone doesn’t love you cos of your weight, fuck ‘em.”

“Well…” you mutter, looking down at your feet, “I guess I could get the next size up.  I feel good, yanno?  But when I got here and heard what the auctioneer said…”

Patting your cheek lightly, she smiles and says, “I know, sweetie.  He’s really good at his job, isn’t he?  Can sell you just about anything, that one.”  She shoots a freezing look at the oversized head covering at the podium.

You look up and return her smile.  Yeah, screw that guy!  What makes him so smart?

The sudden silence catches you offguard.  You turn to see what’s happening, but the stage is vacant.  No podium, no microphone, no boots, no hat.

“Hey, where’d he go?” you say.

But when you turn back to the seat beside you, it’s empty, too.

Huh.

Finding yourself alone in the building now, you stand and walk out.  This may have been the single weirdest auction you’ve ever been to – who sells shitty lies to people? – but you leave carrying a new and strangely wonderful sense of confidence.

You drop your bidding paddle in the trash as you leave.  You definitely won’t be needing that anymore.

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The Evil Auctioneer¹ is that inner demon who tells you you’re not good enough in an infinite number ways.  He sells you terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad ideas about you and your worth, and he specializes in closing the sale when you’re at your most vulnerable.

What’s so insidious about him is that he appears only when he knows you’ll buy, when you’re ready to believe him.  When the Evil Auctioneer shows up, we want what he’s selling because in a twisted way all his negative bullshit justifies the previous bad shit he’s sold us (or that others have sold us).  We buy it because it’s familiar and keeps us weirdly safe and comfortable in The Hole.

To reject his goods means we have to stand up for ourselves, to ourselves.  We have to say “No more!” to the Evil Auctioneer, which is scary and uncomfortable when we’ve been content in our miserable self-hate for so long.  But to be our best, most awesome selves, we have to stand up to him, to silence his voice so we can rebuild.

The Evil Auctioneer wants to keep us small and powerless.  Confronting his lies and knocking him out with your truth is the only way to beat him.  The more you tell him “no”, the less often he’ll show up.

After all, why try to sell to an unwilling customer?

¹ “The Evil Auctioneer” is a term invented by Dianne Sylvan in her book The Body Sacred to describe this negativity monster .  Elaboration on the idea, including the details, story, and artwork provided here, are all my doing.  Many thanks to Sylvan for her permission to use the term in public where I’ve used it in private these many years.