Swappers—Ep.4
dum-da-dum an enemy lurks
Rules don’t apply inside the Oceanside Flea Market. People sell and eat trinkets and drugs and dance with critters and do things out of accordance of laws and physics. Some of the vendors are friends. One of them, Jo, drives a 1991 Ford Ranger that can fly and float and do Pirate-y things. With it, he collects different trinkets of art from the creative world and sells/shows them at the Oceanside Flea Market.
Flea market morale held at the apex. A dull shock ran through the dissipated lot. Some vendors packed up and left. Others lingered and did triage on their fat stock. The afternoon weather was sunny and unnoticeable. Wrappers and flea market debris trembled on the pocked asphalt, begging for a gust from the ocean breeze.
“Dressed-up words don’t make the fleas go away,” said Manny. He and Mason sat on Jo’s booth couch, with Jo lying on the rug on the floor at their feet. They unwound from the day’s barter.
“Emm,” said Mason as he rocked forward, readjusting in his seat. “Yeah, this isn’t a tea party.” Mason blinked cheek to brow. “What even is a swap meet?”
Manny rolled his inner lip between his teeth and picked at one of the callouses on his hand. “Who knows. A guy walked by my booth with a brand-new poncho hoodie. Still creased. Not one of mine. He looked full of creatine and internet forums if that tells you anything.”
Mason moved to his elbows on his knees. He bounced his leg and folded his hands. He flicked glances between Manny and his bony fingers and to Jo. “Should we do anything? I mean, we were here first.”
“Mmm, do something. Sure, I might have to find new work. Maybe I’ll start collecting and training fleas. Sell it to salted-up people like you,” said Manny.
“Go where the market flows,” said Jo from the ground while he leafed through some papers.
Mason opened up his hands. They gesticulated and churned as he spoke. “Saturdays don’t even make sense. That’s the day to forget. The day to purge. And then Sunday is the day to prepare, to brace for what you tried to forget.” Mason sat back into the couch cushions and pulled his ankle over his knee. “Who wants to do tasks on a Saturday?”
Manny turned to Mason. “Amen! But why the fire, Mace? You’re not the one losing cash.”
Mason's shoulders rolled back. He looked around and pushed himself further up with the armrest. “Principal. Plus, I had some ideas to open up my own booth. But now, I’m not so sure with these swappers running at the harbor.”
“Yeah, now, your idea actually has to be good,” said Manny.
“Do you think it’s because they’re catching people just going to the beach? With us up here in the valley. People don’t come here unless to come here,” said Mason with a bobbing head and a finger pointed down. “I just don’t get them. I don’t understand.”
Manny reached over towards Mason. He placed his hand with his long fingers on his shoulder, “Where you going to put it?” He started pushing and pulling on Mason, making him rock. “Huh? It’s gotta go somewhere. Where're you going to put it?”
Mason swatted off Manny’s hand with a chuckle. “I dunno. Need to hit the waves,” he said with a flare of the nostrils.
“Constructive,” said Manny. “That will show the swappers what’s up,” He leaned to the edge of the couch onto his feet and cast his head directly over the top of Jo’s
After giving Manny a quick glance around the loose papers that Jo held, he started ruffling through them quickly. He stopped when he found the paper he searched for. It was a poem by Adrienne Rich. Crossing his ankles, exaggerated and unruly, he recited:
Stone by Stone I pile
this cairn of my intention
with the noon’s weight on my back
exposed and vulnerable
across the slanting fields
which I love but cannot save
from floods that are to come;
can only fasten down
with this work of my hands,
these painfully assembled
stones, in the shape of nothing
that has ever existed before.
A pile of stones: an assertion
that this piece of country matters
for large and simple reasons.
A mark of resistance, a sign.
Jo placed the stack of papers down by his hip and put his hands on his belly and let his eyes blur.
Manny bowed his head for a moment looking down at his feet before turning toward Mason, “Let’s surf?”
Looking out toward the distant dry hills, Mason’s lips peeled open. He touched the edge of his lips with his tongue. A cellophane wrapper shook against the awning post. He looked over to Manny and widened his eyes, sucking in air through his teeth before standing up.