It costs seven dollars to rent a booth at the Flea market and with it comes authority, a sense of purpose, and maybe enough money for a dinner out or to pay the electric bill.One hawker tells me he does nothing else all week “…cept talk on the phone sometimes. Not like when I was married,” he says. “Now that was hard!”The proprietors
are Hispanic, Indian, Gypsies, and Baltimore’s own: Blacks four generations removed from slavery and still pissed about it, and whites, the offspring of West Virginia miners. Their veiny hands clutch their coats where buttons that used to be have gone the way of tobacco-stained teeth and I wonder that it's the small things that are hard to hang on to. For me, it’s the nickels and dimes-- and the dollars.
At the onset of my stroll through the grounds of the neighborhood school where the Flea Market takes place every Sunday, the ugliness, the uselessness of ALL THAT JUNK irritates me like a puss-filled rash. Or maybe it’s my life that’s getting on my nerves. The publisher who doesn’t pay. The son who doesn’t call. Winter closing in like a dark seam and too much time alone.
But then I begin to see treasures.
“Hmmm, how much for that nick knack shelf? I'll give you five,” I offer coyly, eyebrows raised, pretty-girl-sugar-smile spreading as a new mood floats in like a butterfly on glib and clever exchanges. I delight myself with this effortless low stakes bargaining after a week of seemingly perilous risks. And I win! Knick-knack shelf tucked under my arm, I saunter on past tables piled high with books laid flat, candy dishes, ash trays, plates (lots of plates), action figures and trolls. I am looking for a wind-up alarm clock.
But then something else catches my eye--Baby Jesus crèche figures! Two tiny plastic Jesuses on plastic straw in plastic cradles displayed with odds-and-end shepards, camels, wise men, oxen and sheep. Not a matched set, mind you, but a hodge-podge from disparate childhoods, living rooms, decades and expectations. I decide on the spot to collect them. To buy every baby Jesus I can find. Maybe praying women too-- the Marys and the angles, whatever they are. “Yes! I’ll take two Jesuses, and these three women praying.” I hand a dollar to a man with a scruffy beard in a soiled gray sweat shirt and I leave the Josephs, the wise men and the shepherds behind. No need for the men on my knick knack shelf---and I’m back on the hunt for the clock.
Two tables down I see Budweiser wall clock and a Cinderella wrist watch. I must be getting warm. “Yes, I have one,” says the proprietress, pointing to the stool that holds her overflow. And there it is, a Westclock, with a black face, numbers in a circle, framed in a worn gold rim. “And it works,” she tells me. My arms are too laden to inspect it, so she winds it up and holds it to my ear. “Click click click,” it struggles on, its mechanical ticking oddly unfamiliar in this era of electronics. She then sets the alarm and moves the BIG HAND to the designated number. “Brrrrrinnggggg!” I startle, pull five dollars out of my pocket and its mine. And while I’m there, why not the four cookie tins, each with a different snowy scene on the lid, for all those cookies I’ll bake and send? A steal at only two dollars.
As I head for the exit (I’ve got to get out of here!) I spot a book entitled, FALSE LOVE AND OTHER ROMANTIC ILLUSIONS, and I'm filled with courage. If a book can be published with a title like that, I surmise, certainly there's hope for me as an author! I pass a table stacked with naked Barbies---(Where are their clothes?!)---hundreds of them piled on top of one another like writhing snakes in a pit. I imagine the photo I could take---a Diane Arbus-type shot---if only I had a camera. Hmmmm---that Brownie Starmite I saw when I first arrived---Oh, never mind, it wouldn’t have any film. I head for the car. I AM LEAVING. But wait! Cookie cutters! I need some. I buy three---a Scottie, a heart, and a candle, a quarter a piece.
Finally, I escape the parking lot. As I load my treasures into the back seat of my car, I feel successful, complete, and competent, satisfied. Well, not entirely satisfied. I devise an executive plan for the following Sunday. I will be certainly be needing more Jesuses by then, and those fire tools I saw but couldn’t carry, and maybe a cocktail ring or two. And if I’m lucky, a long gold chain to attach to the alligator purse I bought in the antique shop last week.
