The Doll Show

By James Hilliard

Find Yourself at The Doll Show!

This is a two-day reality show you can feel in your heart.

As you experience this exciting adventure into the world of dolls and the collectors who love them, youll meet the dealers, customers, promoters, and guests who make it all happen. From dealer set-up on the night before to the next days Show and Sale, youll meet the most interesting and engaging cast
of characters you could ever imagineYoull laugh. Youll cry. Youll hate. Youll
love. Youll experience the drama and the excitement, the twists and the turns.
Youll be thereat every curveand youll help solve the mystery which drives the dealers to a frenzy.

This is a reality show you wont soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462045273

James Hilliard

Author of Miss Baltimore and the screenplay Selling the Vatican, James Hilliard has a master's degree in English from Baylor University and is an accomplished business strategist. He is a student of Catholic history.

Book preview

Contents

The Dealers on the Main Aisle

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

Find yourself at . . .

The Doll Show

For all the dealers and collectors

Who make life beautiful for themselves and for all of us

and especially to

Ric, who is always there and always will be

Mary Lee, who introduced me to, and taught me about,

the doll world

Carol, whose inspiration changed the direction of this book

and

Joni, who never gave up on me or this book

Thank you, all!

The Dealers on the Main Aisle

(by location number)

On the left side of the Main Aisle, looking down from the check-in desk:

Booth #1: Roni

Booth #2: Myrna

Booth #3: Seldom Seen Dealer

Booth #4: Jewel

Booth #5: Mary and Dawn

Booth #6: Betsy

Booth #7: Bret and Mike

On the right side of the Main Aisle, looking down from the check-in desk:

Booth #9: Joan

Booth #10: Geneva

Booth #11: Patti Jo

Booth #12: Sandra

Booth #13: Nancy and Jane

Booth #14: Benny

Just off the Main Aisle, near Booth #14:

Booth #15: Rosalind

Booth #16: Lena

and

Mark, the Show Promoter and Your Cordial Host

for the Next Two Days

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I am Mark, and I am the Show Promoter. I am also your host for the next two days. I run the Show—start to finish. I’ll guide you through the Show—from the dealer set-up on Friday evening to Show Day on Saturday. If you’ve been to a Doll Show and Sale, you’ll know a great many of the people you’ll see here. If you’ve never been, you’ll find that the next two days will be a retail experience unlike any other. It’s a world mysterious and unique. But, then, if you’ve shopped a Show, or sold at one, you know exactly what I mean. ‘Doll Show’ is a rather misleading term. It’s really a Doll Sale. Everything you see has a price. I think we call it a Show because it, indeed, is a Show—of merchandise, of history, of people, and of dreams.

I told you that I am your host, but I’m more than that, really. I am also your guide, so to speak. I am the Show Promoter, as I said earlier; and, just to remind you, my name is Mark—well, just call me Mark—and these Shows are my life several times each year. I do it more for fun than for money. I do it because I love the dolls and the history behind them. I do this because I love the people who love dolls. It’s a lot of work for me: setting up the salesroom space, inviting the dealers, advertising to the public, and managing the rather complex operation from its start to its conclusion. Making everybody happy, you know, is never easy and rarely ever possible. But it’s really not work. Not when you see the result. There are those who help me—but, for the most part, I make it happen.

I won’t keep you long. Our visit will only be a Friday night and part of a Saturday. I’ll take you into the hearts and souls of the dolls and the people around them. I’ll guide you all along the way.

And I won’t interrupt much, either. Oh, I can be philosophical. But I’ll try not to be. I want you to meet the dealers and draw your own conclusions. I want you to meet the customers and feel their joy.

So, here we go. I’ll be the funny little voice that you hear—not too often—but just often enough. I won’t have to identify myself every time, will I? No. I’ll leave that up to you. I’ll whisper in your ear as we watch—but don’t worry. No one can hear me but you. And no one will see us, you and me.

Let me quickly walk you through the aisles and introduce you to a few dealers—then I’ll leave you on your own to explore.

Welcome to the Doll Show!

PART ONE

Dealer Set-Up

On the Night Before

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Here we go. It’s late Friday afternoon. Look at all of this commotion! Watch out! The people unloading these vehicles are in a hurry—they’ll push you right out of the way! I thought we’d stand here, just alongside the overhead doors which are gateways for these dealers to move their merchandise into the salesroom. And this little door—this one to the side—is where you enter if you aren’t carrying boxes or bags or . . . well, you know what I mean. When I open this door and we go inside, you’ll see frantic activity everywhere. Before we go inside—look in the parking lot! Just over there! There are a few dealers competing for the parking spots closest to the loading dock. Funny how it works—dueling automobiles! The woman panting feverishly as she unloads her car is Myrna. Oh, there’s Joan—there’s Dawn—and there, there is the gracious Patti Jo. We’ll get to them later. Not sure who that is helping Myrna. A nephew, perhaps? You don’t always know who is who, where is where, and what is what—not at the Doll Show.

Well, let’s go inside. I’m anxious to introduce you. Let’s not enter through the open garage doors. That’s just for dealers. Let’s go in by this side door—we don’t want to get in the way. And we’re carrying nothing with us today.

As the Promoter opened the door, a busy, hectic, colorful universe appeared. Rows and rows of tables, all covered with packed and unpacked boxes of toys and dolls, all waiting for their perfect place at every crowded table. There was a rush and bustle of dealers—unpacking, setting up the tables, cherishing their possessions, standing back to admire their own work, rushing to put their wares on the tables, finding just the right spaces for everything. Then . . . the Promoter suddenly moved forward. His face opened wide; his eyes and brows met in a fastidious wrinkle; his demeanor tensed and grew almost horrifying. He put his hand forward, like a traffic cop would do, in a motion—a command—to stop. The Promoter gasped, and then, slowly, smiled.

Wait! I almost forgot. I need to share the magic first. I have to share the magic with you. A doll show is, after all, a fairy tale. I have to share with you, just so you can hear everything these wonderful folks are saying . . . and maybe even sometimes what they are thinking. All right, just stand there. Just for a moment. Let me—without incantations or chants—let me share the promise of this magical experience with you. Quiet. Quiet. Everything in this room stops now. Time stops, too. Everything’s frozen. Frozen. It’s all like a picture around you.

The Promoter closed his eyes and whispered something inaudible to himself. Then he spoke aloud again.

Quiet. Quiet. Quieter. Done! Now you can see what I see and hear what I hear. No one can see you, though they may be able to feel you are there. Don’t try to understand it. You won’t be able to. Now, follow me into the Show.

As the Promoter walked into the room, everything sprung back to life. Women—mostly women—and men milled around their boxes. Piles of boxes—and boxes of every type. Dolls falling out of their containers, ready for show. Piles of doll clothes, still in disarray, ready to leap onto the tables. Some dealers sat as they worked; others rushed back to their vehicles for more merchandise; still others eyed their table-top creations, as if they were creating great works of display art. Perhaps they were.

Come on. It’s okay. Follow me. Just this way. I’m going to introduce you to a few of my dearest friends. Listen. They’re already visiting—ready for a night of hard work and delicious conversation.

As the Promoter walked to the Reception Desk, just inside the door, he looked around. The desk sat there, guardian of the gate, like an island reef positioned to protect the shore. The desk almost floated, a little menacingly, in front of the pageant all around it.

Hello? A woman approached the desk.

There was a sparkle in the Promoter’s eyes. He smiled, then walked to the desk and watched as a rather stout, gruff woman helped a dealer check-in. A man sat beside her—obviously bored with the experience—and made an effort to find the dealer’s name on the check-in list. The dealer was Joan Hall. She was beautiful, svelte, and youthful in every aspect—stunning red hair, perfectly manicured nails, luxurious—almost glowing—skin. The check-in team—Roni Birkland and her reluctant companion, Mr. Birkland—pulled together the necessary paperwork and name badges and handed them to Joan.

Here you go, Joan, Roni said as she put the badges into an envelope. You are Dealer Number Nine, Booth Nine. One badge for you; one for your helper. Be sure you wear your badges at all times, you know.

Oh, I know, Joan answered. Thank you very much.

As she left, she grabbed the large cart behind her and pulled it forward.

Remember, Mr. Birkland announced, wear your badge!

Yes, sir, Joan commented.

Another dealer stood behind Joan, anxiously waiting to check in.

This process perpetuates itself. It’s a necessary function of the Show.

Another dealer, going out of the doors, passed the desk, dragging an empty cart hungry for replenishment. She stopped when Mr. Birkland motioned to her.

Do you have your badge? His manner was not pleasant. You have to wear it at all times, you know.

The dealer smiled, rolled her eyes, and rushed out of the door—clanging cart and all.

Well, the desk is always the same. It’s a turnstile just before set-up time. You come in; you check in; you get your table number and location; then you’re done. Really no trouble. It’s just not normally a tremendously friendly or welcoming process.

The Promoter walked forward, glanced all around, and watched the activity.

There are so many dealers here. Probably seventy-five or more. You can see rows and rows and rows of tables, one after the other, some in ‘L’ shape, some in a ‘U,’ still others just flat against the wall. Back to back. Look all across this room—this is the only chance you’ll have until the end of the Show to see this sea of empty tables, dealer spaces just waiting for decoration.

He moved forward. Dollies, hand trucks, flatbeds—all moved quickly by him. Into the Show. Out of the Show. Dealers buzzing. The Promoter positioned himself just beyond the check-in table, right at the middle front of the center aisle. That aisle was the widest aisle and appeared to have larger table spaces—or booths—for the dealers. He stood there, as if admiring his own work. He stood there and smiled.

You’ve heard of the Main Stage? This is the Main Aisle. The most important spot in the Show. I draw it up—just as I do every single aisle at the Show—but this is the key positioning of the dealers. I’m proud of it.

He walked forward now, gently smiling, quietly easing, privately musing.

I want to introduce you to some of the dealers—before you journey on your own. Because you and I don’t really have that much time together, I’ll only introduce you to the Dealers on the Main Aisle. You can explore later on your own. Oops! Before we walk the Main Aisle, let me just introduce you to the dealers to the right and to the left of the check-in table. They actually are on what you might call the ‘wings’ of the Aisle—ready to greet you just as you make your turn into the Main. To the right is Joan Hall. You’ve already met her. She’s a busy dealer—loved by her customers and the sellers—always ready to make you smile. Not sure if she has a helper today. Sometimes she does everything on her own. I don’t think we have a nickname for her. We sometimes like to nickname our . . . friends.

He pointed to the left.

This booth is Roni’s space—you met her at the check-in desk. She usually has a helper other than her husband (whom you also met at the check-in desk). They have been doing shows for years. Probably a hundred years. Roni likes to be important. She always volunteers to check in dealers. She also likes to gossip. Oh, she’s nice enough—but you’ll see her walking around the Show, visiting with dealers and searching for the next breaking news. Now, on into the Main Aisle.

The Main Aisle was a little wider than the other aisles in the room. Most of the dealers there had a booth which usually consisted of three or more eight-foot tables. The arrangement was staggered—for example, table arrangement might be two tables across the back of the booth with one table at a ninety degree angle to the other two. The effect was a sort of cubby hole which allowed customers to walk into a defined retail space. Of course, some of the booths were two tables, and some were five or six tables—all depending upon how much space the dealer anticipated he or she needed and how much money the dealer was willing to pay for the space. Only one booth on the Main Aisle remained empty tonight, and two were fully set up already—complete and ready for sales day. Many dealers were already meandering from booth to booth—searching for a last minute bargain to sell later or for a sought-after treasure for their own collections. Dealers rolled carts in and roll carts out. Squeaky wheels, rattling merchandise, and wobbling wheels abounded.

This is the Show and Sale. This is what we’ve worked for. Hoped for. Now, let’s see. How should I do this? I think we’ll walk down the Aisle and meet the dealers on the left first. Then we’ll walk back up the Aisle and meet the dealers to the right.

He pointed to the first booth on the left. The space of three tables was neatly dressed and nearly complete. Drapes of fabric hid the merchandise, with just little protrusions here or there to give a hint of the mysteries beneath. Each drape was meticulously set in its place—not a trunk, box, or doll was showing.

This booth belongs to Myrna. Not the most positive dealer in the room, but certainly one of the most knowledgeable. She’s a quiet lady who takes a rather tragic view of life. She never sells much, at least at the shows, but she’s always around. She’s a fixture. Most children are afraid of her—they call her The Mean Myrnie—because she sits and never smiles, speaks sternly and never laughs. She’ll be back in a minute. She always covers every table after she sets up, every time she leaves the booth—even for a short moment. She’ll be back.

The booth next to Myrna’s was an eight-table operation—piled high with display boxes, stuffed with a wide variety of dolls. Still incomplete and still buzzing with set-up activity, the booth was in disarray as workers opened boxes, put dolls and doll boxes one on top of the other, and prepped the impressive space for sale day. A giant sign clearly identified the dealer’s spot: JEWEL OF THE DOLLS.

Now, this is a company—yes, I call it a company rather than just a dealer—called Jewel of the Dolls. This is a big operation, compared to most. Lots of internet sales. Mostly, almost exclusively, new merchandise. Few dealers can afford such a large new inventory. The woman, whose name the doll business bears, is Miss Jewel. Miss Jewel Martin. In her day, she was probably a stunning looker. She still is, really. See her? There she is, directing those people of hers to put this here, that there. Her prices are high, I think. But she has lots of customers who love her and who wouldn’t buy from anyone else. Let’s listen to what she’s saying.

I don’t want that doll there, Jewel demanded. No one can see her there. She’s high dollar. Give her some lift! Make her as visible as you are!

The worker, a man in his early twenties, moved the doll display boxes around and repositioned the merchandise.

Is this better? Sheepishly, he looked toward Miss Jewel. Ma’am? What do you think?

Better. Not perfect. But better.

That activity will go on for quite a while. Let’s move on. You can hardly see the other dealers down the Aisle over Jewel’s display—and it’s impossible to see anyone in the booths behind hers.

The Promoter walked forward, to the next booth, and paused briefly.

Oh, there they are—Mary and Dawn. Now, they’re hilarious. Continuously going back and forth—they’ve done these shows together for years—back and forth. You don’t know whether they’re mad at each other or just frustrated with life. They sell mostly antique and vintage. They’re squabbling now. Let’s listen in on the banter.

What do you mean your dogs eat ‘vermikins’?

Oh, Dawn, I said ‘woermschen.’ It’s German.

I don’t speak German. What is it? What do you mean?

I just said it that way because that’s what my sister says in German.

‘Vermikins’? What does your sister have to do with ‘vermikins’? Does she eat them, too?

Dawn! It’s pronounced ‘woermschen’ . . . verm-shen. It’s . . .

What in the world is a ‘vermikin’?

Oh, Dawn. Forget it!

What?

At just that point, another dealer entered the booth.

That dealer, the one coming into Mary and Dawn’s booth, is looking for something quick to pick up and sell later—perhaps even at tomorrow’s Show and Sale. You can smell the hunt on her. You can tell, once you’ve been around these shows for a while, that she is looking for something. Her name is Geneva Easton, and she’s always searching for the next great bargain—which she can turn into the next great sale. Her booth is just a few doors down and on the opposite side of the Aisle. We’ll let her snoop while we go to the next dealer in the line.

The Promoter walked by Geneva and looked at the next space. The booth was set up, but there was no dealer anywhere to be seen.

This dealer may have left for the day already. Older lady, too. You’ll love her. She’s rough and gruff on the surface, but she’s really truly delightful. Talks to everyone. Her name is Betsy Warren, but we all know her (though we don’t say it to her face) as the Lady in the Shirley Temple Wig. She always wears a wig that makes her look like—rather mature, so to speak—Shirley Temple! Yes, even at her age she can get by with it—her self-respect, the respect others have for her, and her longevity and contribution to the Doll Show world override any criticism which might otherwise be heaped on her. Betsy used to run these shows. In a way she still does. No one will dispute what she says. No one. She may still be here—if she is, she’s probably sitting up front at the check-in table or walking around—her walker or cane tight in hand—visiting with the dealers.

Without warning, a piece of candy sailed across the aisle. The Promoter ducked quickly, as if to avoid the collision, and turned disapprovingly toward the assailant. It was Benny Talburn.

Now, that’s Benny for you. Perhaps he’s trying to be funny, who knows? But he is, without doubt, making, as he sometimes does, a rather unsavory spectacle of himself. He’s always doing something irritating to others. Look at that! The piece of candy he threw landed right in that dealer’s lap! Well, I see she’s eating it, so it probably didn’t make much difference after all. Now, what is that they’re saying?

Thank you, Benny, the woman laughed as she munched on the candy. It tastes good.

Thought you’d like it, Nan.

I do. Now come over here and buy a doll.

Anything good?

Always.

Anything I can afford?

Always.

Always . . . He sang the Irving Berlin song Always as he waltzed over to Nancy’s booth.

Nancy will sell him something. She ALWAYS does. Now, while she’s talking to him, watch her booth mate, Jane. She does not really like Benny. Maybe because he never buys anything from her, or maybe for no reason at all. There it is—Jane’s giving Nancy a don’t let him have it cheap glance. Funny, how it all works. Whatever he buys, he’ll try to triple it when he makes the next sale. Privately, we all call him ‘the scoundrel.’ I think he knows it, and I also think he rather enjoys it. Anyway, Nancy and Jane occupy the booth right across the aisle from our Shirley Temple look-alike.

As the Promoter moved forward to the next booth, a noisy commotion interrupted the already boisterous atmosphere. A woman rushed—flew—down the Main Aisle, waving her hands, unable to catch her breath, and screeching in an unearthly pitch.

I’ve lost it! I’ve lost it!

Several dealers watched as Lena rushed down the Main Aisle, continuing to wave her hands, and frantically trying to catch her breath.

What? A dealer, who was strolling down the aisle, looked up as Lena, who like a whirlwind, almost knocked her down. The dealer walked over to Nancy and Benny, who also watched Lena flail and rail. What in the heck is this all about? The dealer looked inquisitively at Nancy.

Oh! I’ve lost it! Lena continued to scream as she moved closer to the check-in table.

She sure has, Nancy smirked to Benny. She’s finally lost it all right!

So far, Lena’s enthusiasm caught only the attention of the dealers whom she passed on the Main Aisle.

For most dealers, you need to understand, loud displays like this are only another incident at another show. And Lena is known for the dramatic. Whatever her problem is or may be, the Doll Show and Sale team will handle it. But I suppose we should sneak up to the front and listen in. We’ll get back to the Main Aisle just after we hear Lena’s story.

Lena, still waving her hands and rocking side to side as she dashed forward, was almost entirely out of breath when she reached Roni at the check-in table.

Are you all right, Lena? Roni rose to take her hand.

No, Lena struggled, no.

What’s wrong?

Just a . . . let me catch my breath . . . a doll . . . one of . . .

Come here, Lena, sit with me. Roni led her behind the table and pulled a chair out for her. Sit down. Relax a minute.

The doll, puffed Lena, the doll!

Doll? Calm down. What doll? Roni now held both of Lena’s hands.

Lena regained her breath, though not her composure. Someone has stolen my most valuable doll!

What do you mean, ‘stolen’? Roni seemed to have little sympathy as she looked at the now unmanned check-in table and a building line of dealers needing their booth assignments—and, of course, their badges.

Dealers waiting to check in are impatient. Standing in line, when there’s work to do at the booth, tends to aggravate the troops.

I mean it’s gone! Lena was in tears.

Calm down, Roni continued. Calm down. Oh, let’s get somebody who can help. Roni got up and motioned for Joan, who had been steadily unpacking her wares and paying only slight attention to the tragic events unfolding before her. Joan, the dealer closest to the check-in table, put her boxes on the floor and walked over to Lena.

Joan, Lena said, her tissue fading away in her visibly aging hands. Joan, I am missing a doll. Oh, my dear! My most valuable doll!

What doll was it? How do you know it’s missing? It’s probably misplaced. Joan placed her hand on Lena’s shoulder.

No, Joan, no. It’s gone.

All right, Lena. What doll was it? Joan looked around as other dealers—pretending not to notice the excitement—continued with their set-up.

A special doll.

I’ll get one of the folks in charge of the Show, Roni said as she walked toward the exit doors.

A very special doll. Lena looked at Joan.

Let’s go through your things, Joan commented. We’ll find the doll. So . . . what was it?

Oh, she was wonderful.

What doll?

A wonderful doll!

Yes? What type of doll, Lena?

The best doll ever. My prize. My prize.

We can’t help you if you can’t tell us what the doll was.

Oh, yes. Barbie. Barbie doll.

Barbie?

Barbie.

Must have been vintage, right?

Out of my own collection. Just because I needed the money—and now it’s gone!

Another dealer approached but said nothing.

All right, Joan continued, "let’s go look through your things. Nobody stole the doll. It’s just