The search for the truth of life, for the complete understanding of the infinite all and the knowledge of consciousness can come to a person in beautifully unusual ways but who the hell ever thought it would come to me this way.
Used Fleas
Chapter One
Memorial Day Weekend
Have you ever had one of those -end of the months- where you just didn’t have a dime to your name? You have overdrawn your account to pay for gas in your brother’s creeper van to drive to Columbus which will end up costing eighty bucks for the round trip. You know you have another ten days to go and a weekend at the flea market to try and make some money but you don’t regret your decision to use the old overdraft protection and pay the fees to see your grandson and daughter and her partner.
The whole thing was a wonderful time and well worth the misery that it will cost me.
You know that the weekend at the market is going to suck and probably suck really bad because it’s Memorial Day Weekend, there are garage sales going on everywhere and the Allen County Fairgrounds doesn’t have anything going on this weekend, but, you still find yourself on Friday thinking, “maybe this will be the weekend where things change.”
The Mad German loves to say, “Oh the fairgrounds doesn’t affect our business” which of course is complete bullshit. What goes on at that fairground directly affects our business.
Friday doesn’t disappoint. No customers and absolutely no sales until five minutes till closing when a man decides he wants to purchase all my books on the Masons.
I go to those in charge, since the Mad German is in Georgia and make it clear that we will stay open till that man gets back from the ATM because he is my one and only sale for the day. No one argues.
The only saving grace of the day is that my brother Nathan loans me forty bucks to put gas in the creeper van and get some groceries.
I hate living the way I do sometimes, but, it’s better than it used to be.
Saturday comes in with a blazing fierceness. It’s going to be a scorcher today.
Apparently after I left Friday night one of the vendors, we’ll call him Mario because he looks like Super Mario, had some knives stolen and he was livid and convinced that it was Henry that stole the knives.
As soon as I got there Saturday Liz and Henry were at my heels letting me know that there was going to be trouble today because Mario said he was going to confront Henry about the knives.
Liz and Henry have the booth next to me and they sell toys, angels and other objects of joy and fun and it’s ironic that for the most part the last thing these two are, is happy.
I’ve known Liz for a while now. I met her with her recently deceased husband Jack when I first got into Prospectors Flea Market. Man what a pair they were.
It’s amazing the complexity of simple people. We are down to earth, well salt of the earth human creatures and yet our lives, our pasts and our consciousness create a web of dysfunction and chaos that is absolutely amazing. Liz was a case study in the complexities of the simple creature gone askew.
Many believed that after Jack died, Henry was ready and waiting to jump right in and take over the reins and gather up all of Liz’s riches, which seems odd since Liz doesn’t really have many riches to speak of. Just the normal things we accumulate, house, cars, things and pets. I never made a judgment call on the situation. I had already had my share of aggravation with Liz and Jack so I was protecting my little circle of safety right from the start.
I was bombarded by vendors ranting about how Henry was being accused of theft, how Henry had been accused of taking things at the other market and of how he was always getting with women and taking advantage of them.
Henry is a strange man, goofy is a better word. He’s overweight, had two heart attacks and a couple bi-passes and not what I would call a real looker but everyone seems to think he’s a shim sham womanizing bastard. Who knows? He makes women laugh. Maybe that’s the charm.
I walked over to Liz and Henry’s booth and Henry was sitting there. I laughed and said, “What did you do to piss off Mario?” Henry looked disgusted and said, “Don’t you come over here and start this morning.”
I went back to my booth and a few minutes passed and I watched Liz and Henry heading down the aisle and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Henry was going to go and cold-cock Mario. That was just the way Henry dealt with things.
I was standing by Bev’s booth with Babs when we heard screaming and yelling. We all headed for the other side of the market.
Once I got there Henry was panting and looking around for his glasses. Mario was outside sitting on a bench and for some unknown reason Lake Rat Jack was yelling at Henry, “You sucker punched him. Come on outside now and fight!”
I walked back to my booth.
Of course the police got called, an Allen County Sheriff showed up and I just stayed in my booth while the rest gawked and gandered including the customers that had been in there during the fight.
I figured they would take Henry to jail because he threw the first punch but after about an hour he came strolling back to my booth. I said, “So, they didn’t haul your dumb ass to jail I see.”
When Liz got back and we were all standing around talking because there weren’t any more customers in the building Henry said the Sheriff was kind of a dick and this just seemed to push a button on me somewhere. I started in, “Well no wonder. He got called to a fucking flea market to break up a fight between two geriatric hillbillies! I’d be pissed. You bunch of hoomhairs! What the hell is wrong with you? This kind of thing does not go on in a public place where there are other vendors and customers.
As the story unfolded apparently Mario came up behind Henry and screamed that he was a thief and Henry swung around and hit him. Margaret was trying to get in-between them and Mario got tangled up in her oxygen tank and took a hard fall to the ground. Once he got back to his feet he slapped Henry and ran out to the bench.
I continued my rant, “I understand you had help with the fight from an oxygen tank! Man if I had a brain in my head I would have filmed the whole thing and put it on YouTube. We would be fucking busy then.”
As the day continued Mario called his brother’s that came in and Henry had to call his brother at the end of the day. Yes, yes it was like the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s had moved to Lima and the dumb-assed hillbillies were going to have it out at the flea market. I was appalled, amazed and unbelievably amused. The whole event took a terribly slow Saturday and turned it into a wonderful freak show.
I was still broke but I was feeling better. Ah yes the misfortunes and inane goings on of the simple complex creatures of Prospector’s Flea Market.
Sundays at the flea market can be either unbelievably busy with people who are just desperate to find a little trinket or collectible to satisfy their need for stuff before going back to work on Monday or these days are just like the way a carnie feels when he or she wakes up Sunday morning and looks out his French fry wagon and sees the destitution of his or her life. I’ve experienced both.
Today was going to be another slow Sunday. To many yard sales, holidays, end of the month and horrible heat, oh and nothing going on at the fairgrounds except vehicle inspection and no one comes running to that event.
I have found myself another vampire blood and gore book to read and was comfortably lost in all the sex and gore of the book when I picked up on the conversation that Bev was having with another vendor, Lucy.
“My vet says that cat shit is a delicacy to dogs.”
“Oh yea my one German Sheppard follows the cat around waiting for him to go so he can eat it while it’s still hot and moist.”
I listened to these two woman talk about the aspects of just how gross their pets were for about a half an hour and finally said, “Man you guys need to find something else to talk about?” They both started laughing.
Liz came walking up asking what was so funny and they told her about their conversation and Liz says, “Oh yea we called them doggie treats,” Now instead of two there were three woman going on about dog shit. That was how Sunday went.
Sunday being the day before Memorial Day was another carry in for the market where people brought in food to share. I hated these little events because; well because they all brought in absolutely wonderful Appalachian White Trash food and I would eat until I was sick for a good two days.
I was glad to be going home. I was happy for my solitary peace and quiet Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I was thrilled that Nathan and the boys were going to come over Monday and we were going to drive around and goof off, I was glad there was a flea market to go to Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
I am a simple creature with a very complex set of circumstances. I am absolutely no different than anyone else, no better, and no worse. I am just like all the rest. Doing whatever it takes to get another day and to have as much fun as possible.
Memorial Day Weekend
Have you ever had one of those -end of the months- where you just didn’t have a dime to your name? You have overdrawn your account to pay for gas in your brother’s creeper van to drive to Columbus which will end up costing eighty bucks for the round trip. You know you have another ten days to go and a weekend at the flea market to try and make some money but you don’t regret your decision to use the old overdraft protection and pay the fees to see your grandson and daughter and her partner.
The whole thing was a wonderful time and well worth the misery that it will cost me.
You know that the weekend at the market is going to suck and probably suck really bad because it’s Memorial Day Weekend, there are garage sales going on everywhere and the Allen County Fairgrounds doesn’t have anything going on this weekend, but, you still find yourself on Friday thinking, “maybe this will be the weekend where things change.”
The Mad German loves to say, “Oh the fairgrounds doesn’t affect our business” which of course is complete bullshit. What goes on at that fairground directly affects our business.
Friday doesn’t disappoint. No customers and absolutely no sales until five minutes till closing when a man decides he wants to purchase all my books on the Masons.
I go to those in charge, since the Mad German is in Georgia and make it clear that we will stay open till that man gets back from the ATM because he is my one and only sale for the day. No one argues.
The only saving grace of the day is that my brother Nathan loans me forty bucks to put gas in the creeper van and get some groceries.
I hate living the way I do sometimes, but, it’s better than it used to be.
Saturday comes in with a blazing fierceness. It’s going to be a scorcher today.
Apparently after I left Friday night one of the vendors, we’ll call him Mario because he looks like Super Mario, had some knives stolen and he was livid and convinced that it was Henry that stole the knives.
As soon as I got there Saturday Liz and Henry were at my heels letting me know that there was going to be trouble today because Mario said he was going to confront Henry about the knives.
Liz and Henry have the booth next to me and they sell toys, angels and other objects of joy and fun and it’s ironic that for the most part the last thing these two are, is happy.
I’ve known Liz for a while now. I met her with her recently deceased husband Jack when I first got into Prospectors Flea Market. Man what a pair they were.
It’s amazing the complexity of simple people. We are down to earth, well salt of the earth human creatures and yet our lives, our pasts and our consciousness create a web of dysfunction and chaos that is absolutely amazing. Liz was a case study in the complexities of the simple creature gone askew.
Many believed that after Jack died, Henry was ready and waiting to jump right in and take over the reins and gather up all of Liz’s riches, which seems odd since Liz doesn’t really have many riches to speak of. Just the normal things we accumulate, house, cars, things and pets. I never made a judgment call on the situation. I had already had my share of aggravation with Liz and Jack so I was protecting my little circle of safety right from the start.
I was bombarded by vendors ranting about how Henry was being accused of theft, how Henry had been accused of taking things at the other market and of how he was always getting with women and taking advantage of them.
Henry is a strange man, goofy is a better word. He’s overweight, had two heart attacks and a couple bi-passes and not what I would call a real looker but everyone seems to think he’s a shim sham womanizing bastard. Who knows? He makes women laugh. Maybe that’s the charm.
I walked over to Liz and Henry’s booth and Henry was sitting there. I laughed and said, “What did you do to piss off Mario?” Henry looked disgusted and said, “Don’t you come over here and start this morning.”
I went back to my booth and a few minutes passed and I watched Liz and Henry heading down the aisle and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Henry was going to go and cold-cock Mario. That was just the way Henry dealt with things.
I was standing by Bev’s booth with Babs when we heard screaming and yelling. We all headed for the other side of the market.
Once I got there Henry was panting and looking around for his glasses. Mario was outside sitting on a bench and for some unknown reason Lake Rat Jack was yelling at Henry, “You sucker punched him. Come on outside now and fight!”
I walked back to my booth.
Of course the police got called, an Allen County Sheriff showed up and I just stayed in my booth while the rest gawked and gandered including the customers that had been in there during the fight.
I figured they would take Henry to jail because he threw the first punch but after about an hour he came strolling back to my booth. I said, “So, they didn’t haul your dumb ass to jail I see.”
When Liz got back and we were all standing around talking because there weren’t any more customers in the building Henry said the Sheriff was kind of a dick and this just seemed to push a button on me somewhere. I started in, “Well no wonder. He got called to a fucking flea market to break up a fight between two geriatric hillbillies! I’d be pissed. You bunch of hoomhairs! What the hell is wrong with you? This kind of thing does not go on in a public place where there are other vendors and customers.
As the story unfolded apparently Mario came up behind Henry and screamed that he was a thief and Henry swung around and hit him. Margaret was trying to get in-between them and Mario got tangled up in her oxygen tank and took a hard fall to the ground. Once he got back to his feet he slapped Henry and ran out to the bench.
I continued my rant, “I understand you had help with the fight from an oxygen tank! Man if I had a brain in my head I would have filmed the whole thing and put it on YouTube. We would be fucking busy then.”
As the day continued Mario called his brother’s that came in and Henry had to call his brother at the end of the day. Yes, yes it was like the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s had moved to Lima and the dumb-assed hillbillies were going to have it out at the flea market. I was appalled, amazed and unbelievably amused. The whole event took a terribly slow Saturday and turned it into a wonderful freak show.
I was still broke but I was feeling better. Ah yes the misfortunes and inane goings on of the simple complex creatures of Prospector’s Flea Market.
Sundays at the flea market can be either unbelievably busy with people who are just desperate to find a little trinket or collectible to satisfy their need for stuff before going back to work on Monday or these days are just like the way a carnie feels when he or she wakes up Sunday morning and looks out his French fry wagon and sees the destitution of his or her life. I’ve experienced both.
Today was going to be another slow Sunday. To many yard sales, holidays, end of the month and horrible heat, oh and nothing going on at the fairgrounds except vehicle inspection and no one comes running to that event.
I have found myself another vampire blood and gore book to read and was comfortably lost in all the sex and gore of the book when I picked up on the conversation that Bev was having with another vendor, Lucy.
“My vet says that cat shit is a delicacy to dogs.”
“Oh yea my one German Sheppard follows the cat around waiting for him to go so he can eat it while it’s still hot and moist.”
I listened to these two woman talk about the aspects of just how gross their pets were for about a half an hour and finally said, “Man you guys need to find something else to talk about?” They both started laughing.
Liz came walking up asking what was so funny and they told her about their conversation and Liz says, “Oh yea we called them doggie treats,” Now instead of two there were three woman going on about dog shit. That was how Sunday went.
Sunday being the day before Memorial Day was another carry in for the market where people brought in food to share. I hated these little events because; well because they all brought in absolutely wonderful Appalachian White Trash food and I would eat until I was sick for a good two days.
I was glad to be going home. I was happy for my solitary peace and quiet Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I was thrilled that Nathan and the boys were going to come over Monday and we were going to drive around and goof off, I was glad there was a flea market to go to Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
I am a simple creature with a very complex set of circumstances. I am absolutely no different than anyone else, no better, and no worse. I am just like all the rest. Doing whatever it takes to get another day and to have as much fun as possible.
Used Fleas
Chapter Two
Don’t live here anymore
Every day I wake up and realize I don’t want to live at my apartment anymore. It’s a burning sensation inside my mind, inside my soul, inside my very being. The path that I was originally on when I ended up here has changed so dramatically that this comfortable little hell just does nothing but stifle my life anymore.
My flea market days started around five or six years ago. It was around the same time that my dad began to really deteriorate and frankly I was also crashing and burning.
I ended moving back to Plain City to be a caretaker to mom and dad after dad’s stroke and went hiking in the Appalachian Mountains with Nathan and destroyed my foot and found out I was grossly overweight, diabetic, with high blood pressure and well, I was dying.
Nathan and I decided that I would hobbled myself to flea markets selling mom and dad’s stuff to help pay for their old age which they had not planned for and to keep the two old folks from ending us losing their home.
Long story short, mom and dad lost the house. I damn near lost my life. Dad died. I moved to Lima and became a crazy hippy miracle. Mom lives a relatively comfortable life in Plain City. All of us boys are doing well in our own ways, which really can seem strange and hard to get a handle on sometimes, but; and my daughter, her partner and my grandson live an idyllic life in Columbus, ah yes this is life, and I am a flea market book seller.
I started out as an outdoor flea market, fair antique dealer, then a collector of anything odd that someone would buy; a record collector and seller, a computer sales person, programmer and tech and finally found myself where I felt the most comfortable and that was selling books.
My personality completely jives with flea markets and flea market carnies and also is so far from what is considered norm in this business that it works to both my tremendous advantage and disadvantage.
What it has taken is five years for me to find where I fit. It has taken five years for me to know what makes me happy and to also know who to sleep with and who to run as fast as I can away from. It’s turning out to be a nice little ride into my old age for me.
My daughter and her partner have their new little baby boy, my grandson and my daughter is beginning to understand the complexity of her hippy crazy father and it feels closer to comfortable now. My first wife and I, my daughter’s mother have gotten to a place where we both have found or perspective places where we belong in Sunflower and Winslow’s life and it’s turning out to be a pretty good gig so far especially when in the past there had been moments for all when it seemed like a terribly painful nightmarish journey through the misery of life and the final acceptance of death.
No one ends up where they thought they were going to be; no one. I would have never in a million years believed that I would be some limping peacenik lovable long haired hippy living in Lima, Ohio eking my life out at flea markets and coffee shops, spending wonderful days with my brother Nathan and his two boys, with my daughter, her partner and grandson, fishing and writing about the weirdness of my life; missing dad and happy for mom, knowing that my brother Thad and my brother Paul will always be ok and that we will always be there for each other if need be.
I guess I never thought I would have women who still loved me when the affair was over, that we were still friends that realized it was time to move on and we didn’t have to be enemies but here it is all in grand glory and painted every color of the rainbow. It all seems so strange to me sometimes.
I tried to walk away from this flea market madness twice but it just kept calling me back. It was the perfect solution to the problems that had arisen in my life.
I was slightly broken, to the point that employment was almost impossible and yet I could do the market. I could take the time it took to get things done and make enough money to live a decent life. I wasn’t going to get rich but I also did not have to rely on others to get through this part of my life either.
The “glamour” of flea markets like we see on all of these idiot TV shows isn’t what the real world is like; surprise! Finding that lost treasure that you pay a couple bucks for and sell for big dollars doesn’t happen; you get lucky sometimes and make a few bucks and if you are lucky you can pay your rent and get lunch but finding the lost signed contract to the American Dream just doesn’t happen to most of us.
The way I’ve always looked at it is if I pay a dollar for something and sell it for a buck and a half I’m still ahead. If I sell that same thing for three dollars then I’m doing well and if I get lucky and can get ten or more dollars out of a dollar item then it was a good find.
The best is getting a hundred dollar gift in the bottom of a three dollar box of junk. It doesn’t happen often enough to rely on it as income but man when it happens it’s a great big wonderful rush.
I’m certifiably crazy. I have doctors that will attest to the fact that, well there is something wrong upstairs but like my brother Nathan said the other day, “You are a fifty-seven year old man who has a daughter who loves you dearly and a brand new grandson that you get to watch grow up for a little bit. You have two nephews, my sons that think the world of you and you have something to do that keeps you busy as you ride the rest of this life out, and, on top of all of that you are nicely medicated to really enjoy the scenery. That’s not a bad gig man.”
He’s absolutely right.
Don’t live here anymore
Every day I wake up and realize I don’t want to live at my apartment anymore. It’s a burning sensation inside my mind, inside my soul, inside my very being. The path that I was originally on when I ended up here has changed so dramatically that this comfortable little hell just does nothing but stifle my life anymore.
My flea market days started around five or six years ago. It was around the same time that my dad began to really deteriorate and frankly I was also crashing and burning.
I ended moving back to Plain City to be a caretaker to mom and dad after dad’s stroke and went hiking in the Appalachian Mountains with Nathan and destroyed my foot and found out I was grossly overweight, diabetic, with high blood pressure and well, I was dying.
Nathan and I decided that I would hobbled myself to flea markets selling mom and dad’s stuff to help pay for their old age which they had not planned for and to keep the two old folks from ending us losing their home.
Long story short, mom and dad lost the house. I damn near lost my life. Dad died. I moved to Lima and became a crazy hippy miracle. Mom lives a relatively comfortable life in Plain City. All of us boys are doing well in our own ways, which really can seem strange and hard to get a handle on sometimes, but; and my daughter, her partner and my grandson live an idyllic life in Columbus, ah yes this is life, and I am a flea market book seller.
I started out as an outdoor flea market, fair antique dealer, then a collector of anything odd that someone would buy; a record collector and seller, a computer sales person, programmer and tech and finally found myself where I felt the most comfortable and that was selling books.
My personality completely jives with flea markets and flea market carnies and also is so far from what is considered norm in this business that it works to both my tremendous advantage and disadvantage.
What it has taken is five years for me to find where I fit. It has taken five years for me to know what makes me happy and to also know who to sleep with and who to run as fast as I can away from. It’s turning out to be a nice little ride into my old age for me.
My daughter and her partner have their new little baby boy, my grandson and my daughter is beginning to understand the complexity of her hippy crazy father and it feels closer to comfortable now. My first wife and I, my daughter’s mother have gotten to a place where we both have found or perspective places where we belong in Sunflower and Winslow’s life and it’s turning out to be a pretty good gig so far especially when in the past there had been moments for all when it seemed like a terribly painful nightmarish journey through the misery of life and the final acceptance of death.
No one ends up where they thought they were going to be; no one. I would have never in a million years believed that I would be some limping peacenik lovable long haired hippy living in Lima, Ohio eking my life out at flea markets and coffee shops, spending wonderful days with my brother Nathan and his two boys, with my daughter, her partner and grandson, fishing and writing about the weirdness of my life; missing dad and happy for mom, knowing that my brother Thad and my brother Paul will always be ok and that we will always be there for each other if need be.
I guess I never thought I would have women who still loved me when the affair was over, that we were still friends that realized it was time to move on and we didn’t have to be enemies but here it is all in grand glory and painted every color of the rainbow. It all seems so strange to me sometimes.
I tried to walk away from this flea market madness twice but it just kept calling me back. It was the perfect solution to the problems that had arisen in my life.
I was slightly broken, to the point that employment was almost impossible and yet I could do the market. I could take the time it took to get things done and make enough money to live a decent life. I wasn’t going to get rich but I also did not have to rely on others to get through this part of my life either.
The “glamour” of flea markets like we see on all of these idiot TV shows isn’t what the real world is like; surprise! Finding that lost treasure that you pay a couple bucks for and sell for big dollars doesn’t happen; you get lucky sometimes and make a few bucks and if you are lucky you can pay your rent and get lunch but finding the lost signed contract to the American Dream just doesn’t happen to most of us.
The way I’ve always looked at it is if I pay a dollar for something and sell it for a buck and a half I’m still ahead. If I sell that same thing for three dollars then I’m doing well and if I get lucky and can get ten or more dollars out of a dollar item then it was a good find.
The best is getting a hundred dollar gift in the bottom of a three dollar box of junk. It doesn’t happen often enough to rely on it as income but man when it happens it’s a great big wonderful rush.
I’m certifiably crazy. I have doctors that will attest to the fact that, well there is something wrong upstairs but like my brother Nathan said the other day, “You are a fifty-seven year old man who has a daughter who loves you dearly and a brand new grandson that you get to watch grow up for a little bit. You have two nephews, my sons that think the world of you and you have something to do that keeps you busy as you ride the rest of this life out, and, on top of all of that you are nicely medicated to really enjoy the scenery. That’s not a bad gig man.”
He’s absolutely right.
Used Fleas
Chapter Three
Dance of the married martyr
What would possess someone to want to sell books? Of course for me nothing takes me out of this mundane, tragic, insanity of boredom more than a good book can and it doesn’t have to be about the same thing. It can be about anything as long as the first few pages grab my attention. The recent vampire kill book I read wasn’t my kind of book but the damn thing had me hooked after only a few pages and it stayed that way for the rest of the book.
The first day I met her she was reading a romance novel. She didn’t seem interested in me at all. I sort of roamed off and went to hang out with the other vendors, especially Bev. Beverly and I were getting close in a nice way.
The whole flirting and all between vendors seemed to be something that just happened a lot and I didn’t really mind. It was actually kind of fun. With TJ it was different though. It was more of a cat and mouse teasing going on in the beginning, a sort of testing the waters to see how crazy this old hippy really was. The problem was I wasn’t paying attention. The scene had been set and the game had begun and we were writing out own small town romance novel of sorts. The forbidden romance at the flea market or the flea market relationship which I guess happens more than I knew.
TJ was married to an idiot. She had five kids and had lost one, still birth. She was a ravaged survivor of incest and a terrible first marriage and she wanted out of this one as quickly as possible and I became a candidate for getting that started and possibly allowing it to happen.
A clarification here; TJ didn’t’ have in her mind a plan. I didn’t have a plan either but there was still a plan taking place here. The things that go on, on that consciousness level, well we just don’t have that much control over them a lot of the time, or when we finally do figure out that there is something going on, well, it’s too late to put a stop to it. TJ and I were hooked and we were going to go all the way.
TJ was an attractive woman. She had that small town wild look about her and yet she was intelligent and exciting. She was open to just about anything. I was surprised when she finally showed an interest and I stayed surprised throughout the whole affair.
TJ found a gap in growing friendship between Bev and I and she stepped in and filled that little open spot very quickly, so quickly that I didn’t even notice. I was just along for the ride and man what a ride.
When she stopped in this weekend to do some book trading with me I was taken back at just how unbelievably sexy I still thought this woman was. She is that kind of Appalachian I’ll fuck you real good kind of sexy where you know there’s a good meal waiting afterwards if you so desire.
Of course I also was reminded of all the things that didn’t work with us.
We were a perfect mix. TJ was trying to get away from her retarded second husband and I was looking for someone to play with and have sex with since I was now, not going to die. I felt like I had been given a second chance at life, or third or fourth chance, can’t really keep all the chances straight and this sexy wild younger woman who was supposed to be forbidden was fitting the bill.
TJ was also perfect for me. She was intelligent, vulnerable, and sensuous and had a whole lot of problems going on that I would gladly try to fix. It was a true romance made in my ravaged mind and TJ and I played it out to its grand design for about a year and a half.
It would be a lie to say that it wasn’t fun because it was fun and it would be an even bigger lie to say it didn’t kick the hell out of me when it was finally over. It did.
TJ and I were best friends and she still wants us to be best friends. There are days when I’m ok with that and then there are days when I don’t care if I ever hear from her again.
When it was falling completely apart I met an angel, singer, dancer and poet who helped ease the pain but it was not meant to be. I was to broken from the fall to be put back together so quickly.
There was a couple more but they also didn’t satisfy some hunger that was building inside of me. Not only did TJ open a door to my soul and reveal to me the animal inside but the whole experience also opened my eyes to just how long of a journey I had to get back. I also was shown just how much of a man I could be if I wasn’t paying attention.
TJ has moved on and I have moved on and we still stay in touch and like I said, there are days when that is ok and there are days when that is just too painful for me.
I remember when it all started Nathan yelling at me, “Don’t get wrapped up in some Flea Market romance you idiot”. I didn’t listen.
There’s a new flea market romance budding right now. Man, are they in for a terrible and stupid ride.
The twisted ironic thing is that it’s the vendor that got in the fight with Henry of Henry and Liz who have moved out.
Babs is a small woman that has been around since the beginning. She’s sixty-five years old and her energy strongly suggests that she would be a real wild one to hang out with. Mario probably has his hands full right now.
I’ve watched these relationships as time moves on especially after TJ and me. Bev and Dan who have been together for over thirty years are moving through life together in such a sad way sometimes. Their dreams were shattered but they still continue to fight on even though they both wonder, “what if?”
When I first met Liz it was Liz and Dick. I disliked Dick. He reminded me of all those assholes my dad worked with at Westinghouse. He may have reminded me of dad a little to. Dick is dead now and six weeks after Dick was dead Henry stepped right in.
Henry may be a gold digger. Henry may be a thief, a liar, a vicious man and a cad. Who knows?
What I do know now that I have experienced Dick and Liz and Henry and Liz is that one thing is for sure. Liz is an angry and at times, dangerous woman.
Howard and Maud are probably the most normal couple at the market. They are dirt simple people who really don’t have enough sense to be dangerous. Maud is obviously a lot better when she is medicated properly and good old Howard just keeps moving forward hoping for the best and being the best person he can be.
Of course there is also Todd and his boyfriend. Todd is another great guy. His boyfriend isn’t and I just don’t understand how those unions happen.
Through everything that I have been through I got my heart broken by a Flea Market Martyr Girl and man was it ever worth it.
How do you say it all in a kind way? Misery loves company. Two half people still just makes two broken people. Who am I to question love and as Mary always said, “Love goes where love goes even if it’s up a pigs ass.”
Used Fleas
Chapter Four
Everybody knows your name
The one fascinating little bit of information about flea market’s is that there is no prejudice towards who shows up. That doesn’t mean that we don’t have vendors and customers alike that hate each other but they just don’t seem to hate each other as much at the flea market.
You can find yourself talking to an absolutely psychotic religious nut one minute and a Satanist the next and the fact is that they are both butt crazy in their extremes.
You get hunters and fishermen and women and you get hippies and earth loving flower children. They are all here and they all avoid each other for the most part and they all are looking for their own little treasure and bargain.
Flea markets are also a real gathering place for wacko’s and freaks. They seem to know that they can get away with their weirdness a little more at the flea market and this goes for vendors also. Of course a good flea market manager will weed out the wacko vendors pretty fast. Of course then there are the flea markets where the mangers are the biggest of the wacko’s
I am considered eccentric, eclectic and a little strange but harmless for the most part and there are other vendors and customers the same way and we just get along great in our strangeness at least most of the time.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I sell books and weird retro stuff or that I am obviously an old hippy or a little of both but there are days when the freaks and goofballs are all at my booth all wound up and raising their own special kind of hell.
Shaggy is a wild haired homeless looking guy that helps another vendor and he never fails to come over to my booth and let me know how much he hates my picture of Barack Obama that I have in my spot.
I have a number of Barack Obama articles in my booth. I have his books and the Essence magazine with him on the front. I still have hopes for his as a president but I also do it just to piss off all the retarded anti-Obama nutbags that are in Lima, can’t seem to help myself.
Shaggy was in the booth barking, “God talked to me last night and he told me that that man is bad, that he is a bad man and that someone needs to kill him.” Shaggy is pointing at the front page I have hung up of the day Barack Obama became president. “It’s all his fault. He’s why I feel the way I do. God talks to me at night and tells me that someone should kill that man. I sometimes wonder if he is telling me to. I don’t know. You don’t like him do you? He’s bad and if you like him maybe you are bad too.”
You can’t make this shit up people.
I usually just nod and don’t respond and eventually he roams off repeating that Obama is bad and it’s all his fault.
Crazy you can identify and you can act appropriately. When the crazy however is just deep seeded hatred, rage and ignorance, man that is where the water gets murky.
Outback Jack comes in almost every weekend with winter hiking books on that come halfway up his legs with insolated socks. He always has on the big hiking shorts with the floppy pockets and a hiking shirt and Australian hat. Outback Jack is a raving conservative Obama hater. He loves to get on a rant about how Obama was not born in this country. How he is a Muslim that is trying to take over our country.
I don’t get it. I really don’t. George Bush was born in this country and he screwed things up so unbelievably bad for eight years. It appears that what country you are born in doesn’t really mean you are going to make a bad or good president. It’s beyond me that the republicans, conservatives and goofballs spent so much energy and some still are on where Barack Obama was born. It’s just ignorance. It’s rage and it’s white people that are mad because we have a black man in the white house. It’s that fucking simple.
Jason is an unemployed truck driver who is; well the best way to put it is he is anti-conservative. He is so democratic that it’s insane. Outback Jack and Jason decide one Saturday afternoon to get into an argument in my booth about politics and Obama and they are both spouting off such ridiculous and insane shit from both fringes that I find myself just unbelievably annoyed. My sign says books and magazines, not insane discussion group.
Look, I’m a liberal. I’m so liberal they don’t have a label for it but the fact is I’m liberal. I’m not anti-conservative or anti-republican. The two extremes of the conversation just shows me how unbelievably out of control we are in this country anymore and especially in towns like Lima and at places like the flea market.
I finally yell at both of them and tell them to just stop and move along.
When I finally do bark at the customers that get out of hand that usually will take care of them for a while.
Unfortunately flea markets are also magnets for lonely people who just need someone to talk to sometimes. We get a lot of “collectors” who come in every weekend, hell every day and they talk. They will talk their collections or politics or religion. Never anything to do about family or personal but they love to talk about their record collections, or antiques and how knowledgeable they are on the subject or politics and religion and how their opinion is right and everyone else is wrong.
When I don’t agree with these people it’s an easy trip to get out of. I just don’t respond and they will wander off. They need interaction for their opinions to work. The ones that can create problems are the ones that I agree with what they are saying. Man I can find myself wrapped up in those conversations for a long time and it never fails that these people get very excited if they have someone that agrees with them. Hell it makes them even more animated than if you disagree. They have a group now even if it is just two people. It’s more than just them and the dog.
I will always find myself just finally staring off into space. I call it going to my happy place and eventually they stop talking and move on. It doesn’t upset them. They are so self-indulgent in their own conversations that they don’t notice that I am just backing away and not participating and they will be right back tomorrow ready for another round of discussions.
Some will even get the hint that it’s just too intense and walk around for a while and then come back.
There are those who will spend six to eight hours a day roaming about the flea market and they are not shopping, nope, they are visiting. There are days where that part can be tedious but there are also those days where that is what makes this such a cool thing to do.
You know I’ve been doing this for a while now. My parents were junk collectors, oh wait, antique dealers, no, junk collectors. You aren’t an antique collector or dealer when you use the things you collect. You are just poor.
I was doing this before the picker TV shows or the storage unit shows or pawn stars.
Do people understand that those shows are exploiting the misfortune of others? Storage unit auctions are auctions of people’s property that couldn’t afford to pay the rental fee for their storage space anymore so the owner of the storage unit gets a bunch of people like me together and we bid on buying the whole unit for hardly anything so that we can then resell the belongings and make more money. This is not glamorous stuff people. This is the great depression all over again.
Food vendors in flea markets are selling food that is out of date and for the most part it won’t kill you. We use enough preservatives in our foods anymore that they have to be damn old before they are actually dangerous. Don’t believe me? Look at the expiration date on some of the foods you buy at a flea market. Ramon noodles from 2008 and frankly if you boil them long enough they will taste fine.
This is not glamorous people. The TV shows are actually hurting our business anymore because every Dick and his retarded uncle think they can go and buy shit at auctions and make a killing.
It’s all ok though. See the human race just can’t get enough stuff. We just are never happy with the stuff we have and we just want more stuff. The nice thing about flea markets is that we are at least getting bargains and recycling stuff.
It’s a good gig for the most part. It’s not a bad way to geek out my retirement years, or whatever this is called now.
Used Fleas
Chapter Five
The vulnerability of age
When you are a survivor, a few times over and retired, handicapped, looking for things to spend time on and make a little money and when that thing is a flea market that makes money only on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and, when you find yourself sick on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, well it can really suck unless you have good friends as vendors.
I didn’t always have good friends as vendors. The first market I was at here in Lima was County Market which I somehow ended up being in charge of for a while.
The place was full of liars, crooks and criminals, not bad people you just couldn’t trust them any farther than you could throw them.
I remember coming into the market one Wednesday morning and there were two police cars and a couple young people who upon introductions were security people from J.C. Penny’s at the mall in Lima.
Apparently one of my vendors, a really nice black man, he had to be seven foot tall had a group of friends that would go into Penny’s and steal the clothes and bring them directly to the market and this really nice man and would sell them. He didn’t even take the tags off of them.
Upon further investigation I found that he was also selling drugs under his counter and selling porn.
It got to a place where the cops would show up once a week with a list and ask, “Do you have any of these items in here” and more than once I had to say, “Why yes, yes I do.”
I made all vendors and people who sold things fill out a sheet with their driver’s license and all kinds of information so that the market stayed safe. We would lose the merchandise and of course the vendors but we at least were still open and not in jail ourselves.
I have been through and done a lot of things in my very colorful life but this was a new one for me. I was running a place that was constantly being watched by the police for a whole bunch of dumb reasons and all I was trying to do was run a fucking flea market.
Another vendor just decided to put his X-Rated porn out one weekend and I had a group of mothers at my desk losing their shit on me.
When I left County Market it was to go to the emergency room, and go through a whole bunch of stuff relating to them keeping me alive for the most part and while I was in the hospital the group at County Market decided to steal from me. Mind you it wasn’t the guys selling the illegal stuff. It was the ones that said they were my friends. It was the ones that I left in charge while I was in the hospital. These were the people I thought I could trust.
I swore to a make believe God that I would never go back into a flea market again. I’ve actually said that twice.
Even though I felt sick on Friday I decided that I was going in and actually made it through most of Friday.
Friday was one of those days that happen to me every summer. I just lose my mind and eat everything I can get my hands on and it has to be food that will kill me. I know it will kill me but I can’t stop myself. I have to eat it.
Nathan, his son Chuckles, Thomas and me decided to go camping and fishing after I got out of the market on Friday and part of that was fishing at Indian Lake. Nathan and I realized about halfway through the fishing that we knew how to fish channels, rivers and creeks but we did not know how to fish lakes.
I decided not to stay at the camper and on the way back home stopped at Taco Bell in Russell’s Point and got two chili cheese burrito’s and a burrito supreme. This was on top of all the absolute garbage I had been devouring all day.
I remember the first bite of the first chili cheese burrito I thought to myself, “That doesn’t taste right” but that didn’t stop me. I ate it all as I drove home.
Saturday I got up early and started losing body fluids out of every orifice possible but after lying back down for a while I felt better and figured I would be ok to go to the market on Saturday.
I got to the market and I felt like I was on soapers. For those of you too young to know what soapers are, ask your parents or grandparents. I finally knew I had about thirteen minutes to get home before I started spewing and spraying again. I took off in my brother Nathan’s van and headed for my apartment praying to myself, “Please don’t let me spew in Nathan’s van.”
I make it to the apartment and started gagging at the door but just kept moving relentlessly to unlocking the door and getting to the bathroom and well, I made it, just made it and then my body just let go. It was truly ugly.
I continued spewing and spraying in the bathroom for an hour and was preparing myself to be found by Nathan two days later a shriveled up bag of empty flesh.
I finally crawled to my bed at two o’clock in the afternoon and stayed there till two in the morning when I woke up wild eyed and hungry. I finally got up and cooked up everything in the house. I didn’t eat any of it. I just cooked it up and put it back in the fridge.
Come to find out I had actually caught a twenty-four hour bug that was going around and a couple vendors were now sick with it. I still know that part of mine was the terrible food I had eaten the day before also.
When I got to the market on Sunday Bev had watched my booth all Saturday and had money for me. It was a great feeling knowing that I could trust these people with my little business at this market.
Sunday started out ok until I went to the bathroom and the zipper in my shorts blew out and I had to again leave Bev in charge and go home to change my clothes and figured there was no use going back in. Nathan was taking us all out to dinner later and it would just be too much driving and wasting of gas.
I did however stop at the market just before they closed and Bev and Mr. Happy had faithfully guarded and sold my books and toys and Bev again had money for me. Hell I made more money this weekend and wasn’t even there for most of it.
Sometimes you can think that the world is full of nothing but criminals, liars and thieves from our friends to our government and Gods and then there comes those times when we find the simple beauty that is human, that is consciousness; that is the connection that we all share. You can find it anywhere and everywhere. For me I just have to stop being so god damn cynical.