Flea market

The flea market is always fun, though it’s definitely nowhere near as exciting as it used to be. At its best you can find all sorts of weird and wonderful things there. At its worst it makes you lose faith in humanity because it exposes how much junk people create and consume. Seeing tables piled high with useless trash that should never have been created in the first place is pretty depressing.

The lady in the corner with the giant beauty pageant rhinestone crowns was gone. That doesn’t surprise me much because she looked pretty ancient the last time we were there.

But some of the characters never change. The lady with the rhinestones clipped into the curls of her wig offered me a big discount but there wasn’t anything in her display cases that interested me. Another woman who has been at the flea market since time immemorial dozed off in a chair near one of the fire exits with her hands planted firmly on her belly.

We visited the Sikh guy who has also been there for a very long time and picked up a bunch of new tools. I didn’t really take very many pictures because I was carrying a set of steel punches around.

I ended up at one table of assorted ephemera with my mom, pointing out different things that we saw there. I can’t remember what it was but she was talking about something that she’d had in her house as a kid. I absentmindedly picked up a small wooden model iron and discovered that the underside had the enameled image of Jesus on it. I stifled a giggle.

“You see,” she said, pointing toward some paintings, “we’re surrounded by Jesus. There’s mellow pastoral Jesus over there and writhing-in-pain Jesus over there-”

“And iron-on-transfer Jesus here!” I said, brandishing the iron, but because I suck at telling my own dumb jokes, it took me four tries before I could get it out without laughing my head off, which was probably funnier than what I was actually planning to say.

Why would you put that on the bottom of an iron? It’s not like you can hang it on your wall. It makes no sense.

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