Storms roll through in the early morning. I'm grateful for the rain since we need it in these parts, but I know that this means that the afternoon will be muggy. Best if I get going while it's still nice out.
South of town, there's a flea market called Treasure Island. I've driven by the place before only to find out that it's only open on Sundays. Well, today's my day to check it out. I had some hope since the last time I had stopped by, there was a table out with a few records, 8-tracks and the Criterion Collection DVD of David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. That alone would be worth the return trip. I arrive and note that sadly but understandably, those items are no longer there. Instead, there are a few other vinyl records, including two sealed copies of a various artists collection "60 Years of the Grand Ole Opry". Dolly Parton makes an appearance and they are shrink-wrapped... I ask the fellow sitting near by what the cost would be.
"Five dollars... each." Inside my head, I want to scream "go pound sand!" -- I manage to stifle all but a small start as I assess the situation. This is no flea market -- this is Texas Hold 'Em, bazaar style...
...and why not? These are true hucksters, junk peddler professionals extraordinaire. Their lives revolve around the next few moments where I am a tourista in their world. They have marked me as a man wanting to spend money and have adjusted their internal math appropriately. I may not be showing up in an Armani suit, but I do have all my teeth, enough to set me apart and surround my aura with potential dollar signs. I collect myself.
You wanna play hardball, Johnny Hawker? C'mon, let's dance a little. I'm the only one here. I have three different pre-teen senoritas trying to foist their first agua fresca of the day on me. Do we wanna go there?
"Nah, I'm just looking. Records are only worth a buck each max to me."
"Oh, I can't do that. Five dollars, each."
I know when I'm up against a challenge and am reminded by the line from the movie War Games... "The only winning move is not to play." I move onto the other stalls. A man sits quietly surrounded by a mountain of jeans. Elsewhere, used and untested NES consoles. Mexican candies intermix with waterlogged furniture of dubious acquisition. "You want an agua fresca, senor?" Broken down lawnmowers. More electronics and computer parts. "Is tasty! Limon or horchata?" NASCAR trinkets. More jeans. T-shirts, 3 for $5. "Tamarindo?" Oooh, I'm almost tempted on that one.
I do, however, happen to find blue-tinted sunglasses in my style for a dollar. I pick up two -- I've been without for the past year. I try to justify the trip in my mind: now I know what to expect and where to possibly find replacement cheap sunglasses. Heading back toward my car, I see a lone table with a dozen books, one of which is a first edition Harry Potter hard-cover. Deathly Hollows or some such. Fine, except for the tear in the jacket. M'eh. I am officially disinterested. No mas, por favor.
On the way back home, I note that the garage sale signs, so prevalent over the past two days, have evaporated like the morning's rain. There's one sale still open -- ah, yes... Sanford & Son. I stop by and ask if they have the records out yet. The proprietor instructs one of the kids to go fetch a box while we chat about advantages of vinyl over CD's. I'm allowed the opportunity to skim through one small box. I ask how much she'll charge for a record.
"Three dollars." Again, I play it cool, yet my inner voice exclaims, "Three dollars for a beat up copy of Supertramp? Girl, you must be trippin'!" I instead mention that the heat is getting to me to allow me a tidy yet polite exit rather than waiting another half-hour for the second box to appear.
I make the rest of the trip back home hot from the sun and tired of fleas.
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