An Expert Witness

I had just opened the trading post. Because the parking lot was empty and there were no people wandering the porches, I made a mad dash to the cafe for a cup of morning refreshment. While in the kitchen, Presheena, our cafe cashier, was standing watch for me. She poked her head into the back of the house warning me that a vehicle had just pulled up in front of the trading post. Because the store door was wide open, I quickly finished making my hot tea and hurried off in that direction. As I rounded the corner, an elderly gentleman of medium build and a greying pate was just entering through the Kokopelli doors.

I could see the thin man, dressed in a brown tee-shirt and khaki pants, through the windows as I advanced along the portico. He had his hands behind his back as he leaned over the displays, looking close at the items within. Passing into the store, I rounded the cases, greeted him pleasantly, and assumed my selling stance on the stool behind the counter. The man looked up, said hello, then asked me a curious question, “Do you have any turquoise?”

 

When Steve, Craig, and I were much younger, and far better looking, our father Duke placed us under the tutelage of different silversmiths in order to give us a higher understanding of quality, durability, and value. One of those silversmiths, Don Dale, was master to Amos, a black lab with an entertaining trait. When Don would look into his dog’s big brown eyes and ask him a direct question, the animal would cock his head to the right and raise one eye then the other as if contemplating the query. Because the fellow had been looking upon case after case of sky stone and silver, I had to assume his question was rhetorical. On the other hand, he was looking to me for an answer and I was standing there in confusion, doing the Amos thing.

I assured the gentleman that he was surrounded by natural, domestic, and some select imported turquoise from various corners of the globe. Nodding knowingly, he asked, “Do you have Bisbee turquoise from Arizona? I have a necklace of Bisbee and have studied it extensively. I can easily separate it from any other mine.” Because Steve and I have had the opportunity to review and consider numerous specimens from Bisbee, we knew how varied and unique that turquoise can be. In an effort to test him, I vaguely nodded in the direction of cases to the professor’s left and assured him there were several stones from Bisbee there. Even though the cabochons were clearly labeled, the expert witness passed right over them. When I pointed out the obvious, the man shook his head as if to get his marbles in the proper slots, then moved on to obsidian.

He was interested in the hand-knapped blades and deer horn handle knives of Bo Earls because some were mounted with varieties of natural obsidian. “Do you know what obsidian is?” he queried. “Um . . . natural glass.” I replied. “Good guess!” he shot back and went on to tell me he had a pick-up-truck load of obsidian in his Toyota that he purchased from a friend in Idaho. “Want to see what obsidian looks like?” he asked gesturing in the direction of his pick-up. “No thanks,” I replied, placing Bo’s knife back in the case and shaking my head in an attempt to reset the marbles in my own brain pan. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Oh!” the guy almost shouted while reaching for his cell phone.” I have something else to show you.” While pulling up an image, he proceeded to tell me of discovering a 3’ x 5’ Navajo rug at a yard sale for $100. "Just like the ones you have here for nearly $2,000." He thrust the phone in my face exposing what looked like one of those Mexican blanket rugs you might see being sold along the roadside next to a painting of Elvis on black velvet. There was a large impression on the piece that had a striking similarity to an Aztec Warrior. Not wanting to burst his already fragile bubble, I commented, “Yah man, that’s interesting.” “The guy I bought it from told me it is a Yei-be-chei rug from Arizona, and I have seen enough to know that it really is.” 

It was not yet 9:00 a.m. and I was already stressed. This guy was wearing me out and there was still, at least, another nine hours left in my day. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Priscilla pulling into the parking lot. In my mind, along with a dull ache building behind my right eye, I began to devise a plan to pass this guy off on her. Priscilla is much more patient and tolerant than I. Let’s face it, after 30-plus years of working alongside Steve and me she has had plenty of time to build endurance. Luckily for Priscilla though, the good-ole-boy decided to leave before our associate even made it through the Kokopelli doors.

Priscilla walked in through the open doors smiling brightly and asked how my morning was going. “Well,” I told her, “I met my first expert of the day. One that was only qualified for expertly piloting bumper cars or ducky boats.” I recalled what our father Duke used to say: “Never act like, or claim to be, an expert on anything. The reason being the definition of an expert is: An ex is a has-been and a spurt is a drip under pressure.” 

As Priscilla and I talked, a small group of motorcyclists rumbled up right in front of the trading post. One guy, who looked to be pushing eighty years of age and 400 pounds in weight, promptly tipped over and found himself trapped under his massive motorcycle. He looked like a leather-clad bug thrashing around under that chrome plated Harley. His friends ran to his rescue and soon had him extracted and recovering comfortably on the front porch steps. “Poor guy,” I mused. “He should not have been on that bike. He is well past his prime and skill set---anyone and everyone he comes into contact with is in danger.”

“Well,” commented Priscilla, “I think we just witnessed your second expert of the day.”