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I'd never attended a Silent Auction. I wasn't naive enough to think that people were going to stand around in their elegant dresses and shoes in the carpeted comfort of the Marriott Hotel-on-the-Capitol, drink their bourbon or cabernet sauvignon and keep perfectly still tongues. I must admit that I did think maybe there would be a guy standing in the corner miming the bids, so everybody would know what was going on. When her husband wasn't looking, some woman with upswept blonde hair that defied gravity, some woman of impeccable character would signal the auctioneer with her little finger. And the auctioneer, soul of discretion that he was, would duly note her bid and keep it to himself or nod silently to another little man in another little corner who would write all the stuff down and keep it to himself. Of course, it turned out to be something quite simple, even soothing in its civility. All you had to do was write down your bid on an elegant notepad situated near the item under consideration. Then you could just enjoy the party and even talk and laugh out loud. There was just one problem. I hadn't been invited to the party. I hadn't been invited to the auction.

The Auction, or rather the First Edition Literary Gala, was one of the ritzier events sponsored by the Texas Book Festival to raise money for libraries, headed up by Ms. Laura Bush, the Governor's wife and her supporters. Ms. Bush was a librarian, and a very good one, as far as I know. I had been invited to read my poetry and hawk my slender volume of verse at the festival, but as one of the writers with a modest publisher, I hadn't been invited to the more upscale events, such as this one. To put it more bluntly, my publisher couldn't spring for the $300 ticket. However, I had serendipitously managed to stay at the same hotel where the auction and banquet were taking place. I didn't see any harm in putting on a nice dress and mingling with the guests. I had sort of expected to blend in, but how many black women in dreadlocks blend in at soirees that are predominantly Republican? Of course, this is a rhetorical question.

By the time Laura's worker bees, good ladies in gowns and bifocals, armed with red pencils and guest books, detected an interloper in their midst, I'd had my picture snapped with actor Robert Duvall in the opulent lobby of the hotel. Even Robert Duvall was surprised to have the light bulb go off in his face, just as he reached out to take my outstretched palm. Later, the photographer told me he just couldn't pass up the opportunity. After all, how many black women with dreadlocks were at the auction that night shaking hands with Robert Duvall? I felt almost guilty sidling up to him to tell him how much I liked him in "The Apostle," though even as I was saying the words I really held in my mind the image of Boo Radley sitting on the porch, waiting to go back into his house again after he had murdered the mean racist slacker in To Kill a Mockingbird. Duvall shook my hand and gently smiled me away. I didn't mind, because who could be angry at Boo Radley! By the time Laura Bush's gatekeepers caught up with me, I was ready to go anyway.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Pinson is it? We don't have a ticket for you. We've checked all the rosters. I'm sorry." Never mind the can-do spirit of racial uplift and "can't we all get along" (come to think of it, I'm a direct descendant of an ardent Booker T. Washingtonian, despite my Du Boisian aspirations)--I didn't belong there. They could feel my rank Democratic vibes funking up the place. So I went upstairs to...