You see, what Maria lacked in numbers, she made up for in military brilliance. At precisely four minutes to go in the silent auction, Maria and her small hit squad of five or six systematically began placing high bids on the unguarded or single guarded auction cards, replacing PTA members as the former high bidders. At first, no one really caught on. That was until Jennifer Grail, shouted, “Easy bitch,” when one of Maria’s militia grabbed the auction card for a one-year membership to the Newport Beach Hot Yoga Center from Jennifer’s perfectly shaped and moisturized hands. At this point, panic erupted, and suddenly there were gaping holes in the PTA defense.
Linemen husbands began scrambling as their wives instructed them to protect the Huffy bike or Angels pregame trout dinner for a family of four with Mike Trout, bid cards. My mark, had definite allegiances to Priscilla Banks. Although initially torn, standing her ground to protect her golf bid, she chose friendship, abandoned the golf auction card, and rushed to Priscilla’s side.
At this point, I was El Chapo taking the freedom walk in the tunnel that Maria built. I strolled up to the golf auction card and entered my name and bid, exactly one dollar higher than my PTA nemesis, Tracy Lacey, who had signed her name encased in a heart. In the ensuing chaos, I also moved the card to another table with no action, and replaced the golf card, with a one from that table.
Having secured my golf bid, I turned my attention to the Mercedes.
While most of the PTA defense had scattered in an effort to protect their own bids, Priscilla and four of her five -star generals were a united front, locking arms like the ultimate red rover game…or a barrel of monkeys. Maria was stoic, standing about eight feet to the side of them, plotting like Tom Brady staring at a bin of inflated footballs.
Then out of nowhere, came the winning drive. In walked Maria’s husband, Kimo Moreno, a half Samoan, half Latino beast of a man. He was a former USC walk on defensive lineman, who would have made the NFL if not for a torn ACL during the 1998 NFL combine. The room silenced as he walked into the silent auction tent and began to stomp toward the mini Mercedes. Everyone, except for Priscilla’s four, retreated to the corners of the tent.
At that exact moment, little Pedo, Maria and Kimo’s eleven-year-old son, rushed from the corner of the tent and flanked Priscilla and her generals, with the perfect fart, easily lasting five seconds, worthy of the chili eating contest he had won less than an hour prior. I’m no fart scientist, but that fart sounded wet. With that, Priscilla’s generals scattered, leaving Priscilla gripping the Mercedes bid card like it was the Bitcoin ledger.
Maria, strutted toward Priscilla, stopped directly in front of her, and asked “Can I have that card, so I can bid on the car.”
I guess we all can sense when there’s chum in the water, because the tent was suddenly filled with people watching the game of the week. There was about a minute left on the clock when one of Maria’s militia began chanting “Let her bid. Let her bid.” By the third “Let her bid,” Maria’s husband joined in. By the fifth, most of the tent had joined in. I’m one of those guys that sits during the wave at a football game, but by the sixth chant, I was thoroughly invested and was clapping in unison with the chant, “Let her bid.”
By the tenth chant, Priscilla was broken, and she stretched out her arms, and handed Maria the bid card. Maria then took a Sharpie out of her bra and began penning the winning bid. At this point, the principal was on her mega phone, counting down the end of the time to bid.
I saw Tracy come to her senses and run to where the golf bid card used to be. She quickly scribbled in her name and bid onto the card.
When the principal counted down to zero, Maria almost dropped to her knees, but caught herself, and went to hug her husband. Her oldest daughter, who looked to be in high school, walked in, carrying Maria’s four-year-old daughter. When she saw the mini Mercedes, she beemed with joy. The Mercedes was hers.
As I stood in line to pay for the golf win, I saw Tracy arguing with the person ringing her up for payment.
“This is a joke right. Stop messing with me.”
“Is this your name.”
“Is this your handwriting?”
“Did you draw this heart encircling your name?”
“Then you won the ten sessions of anal bleaching at Lily White’s, missy. Please pay and move on, this is a long line, and has been a long day.”