The Second S in Opossum—Ep.2
Part of a Short Story Series
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 it at the Oceanside Flea Market.
Way zoomed in on the dry Sunday back of North County, a kaleidoscope flea market folded and shifted in its haggling and exchanging of items. A flanneled and hatted man named Kevin pierced through the commotion with a determined click to his knees that comes from somebody who expects something for free.
Word on the street was Jo had a hot new song that makes people wiggle and bow their heads and cross their legs real tight. Kevin wanted to use the song as a part of a plan he’d been scheming about all week.
“Ahh, fuck. What the hell, man—you weird me out when you do this shit,” said Kevin as he entered Jo’s booth.
An opossum sat on the shelf of books and Jo was bending over, mumbling to it. The opossum looked at Kevin and gave it a smug look that said I bet you don’t know how to spell. After a lift of its pink nose, it turned and disappeared behind the books.
Jo stood up slowly and faced Kevin. He wore steampunk goggles and an open Hawaiian T-shirt over black running shorts.
“I was just asking if it liked the food scraps better when this lot used to be an old drive-in movie theater,” said Jo.
Kevin blinked softly a couple of times before a quick thrash of his head. His hand flopped in front of him at elbow height. “Do you have it for me?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Jo. He stood for a while there with no effect to his words and just looked out through his dark, smudged goggles to the surrounding flea market and to the distant hills cupping the valley.
Kevin raised his hand to dab the formed sweat on his hairline and broke the stress of the silence, “If you stopped talking to things like opossums, maybe a girl like her would be into you.” Kevin had a booth selling dental insurance and vague extravagant cruise vacation packages to different parts of Baja. At last week’s flea market, a girl opened up a booth next to him who makes her own hats and clothes and small pillows. She has high cut bangs and an array of tattoos and she makes people laugh uncertainly with her third eye banter and her stare that never budges. Kevin usually didn’t go for girls like her, but he lost power to the cut-off black shorts she liked to wear and the midriff she liked to show. He wanted to play the song on his speaker and use it as an icebreaker. “Jesus christ, you’re a tripper. Earth to Jo-ster. Can you get the song, please?”
“Yeee,” replied Jo. He tiptoed through his booth, holding the corner of his Hawaiian T-shirt balled up in his hand behind him. He bent down over his cassette-filled old wooden milk crate and started rummaging through. He put the songs in cassettes because it fit the flea market aesthetic better and made the songs more sharable and holdable when written in stories.
The song he’d been passing around was called “Better Weather” by the artist Danika. As he had explained, and as Kevin had ignored, the song must be listened to loudly without other ambient noise. Jo viewed the song as a wedge for opening the overlooked creases of life with its loping beat and swirling falling-snowflake melody. He did not know anything about Danika but could feel her visceral disappointment if her song were to be used to interrupt a witty girl from selling her crafts.
Jo knew exactly where the song was but rummaged for effect. Knowing Kevin would come for it, he had taken the sleeve off the song earlier that morning and placed it over “Play” by David Banner. It’s a song that Jo hoped Kevin would blast loudly and interrupt his entire triangle of the flea market.
“Oh, there she is,” said Jo, plucking out the cassette and dragging the moment on. Slowly working his way to the front of the booth, he held the cassette out, “There you go Kev. Lather up.”
Not even Jo’s drawn-out tone was enough of a hint to Kevin of the sleight of hand. Jo looked at him curiously as he took it with a quick wave and disappeared into the stream of passing shoulders. He found it difficult to believe Kevin’s faith in him, but as the flea market folded into its next scene, he let it be and supposed Kevin just couldn’t see clearly with the high-cut bangs in front of his face.
***For more about featured artist Danika, click here