At the Flea Market
My wife, son and I had barely arrived at the Third Monday Trade Days before we became separated from one another in the warren of pathways between tables and displays for sale of every conceivable kind of item any human being could possibly imagine. I can see my family nowhere. I take up a position at what seems to be a kind of crossroads in the aisles that are, even at an early hour of the morning, already jammed with bargain hunters. I reason that sooner or later they had to come by, and if they didn’t, at least I was comfortably in the shade for the duration and out the way of people zooming by with strollers, on scooters, or pulling various small wagons and pushing baskets laden with stuff no one else in the world would want.
A woman emerges from her booth and stands next to me. She peers intently up and down the overcrowded rows of small shops, tables, displays, and chairs, as if looking for someone. Her grayish hair is tinted light orange, teased high on her head, and she wears reading glasses that rest halfway down an angular nose. She appears to be in her late-fifties, maybe a bit older, and wears tasteful makeup, has on a bright white tee-shirt over pink Capri pants and high-heeled rope-soled sandals. She’s average-looking in almost every way, nicely proportioned, sporting a French-tip manicure, a ring on every finger, including her thumbs, and has a large brass amulet on a rawhide string hanging around her neck. She looks up and down the jammed rows and aisles once more, then seems to discover me, although I’m standing right beside her. She tilts back her head and studies me for a moment, then steps closer.
“You do your own?” she asks.
“Pardon?”
“Your beard? You do it yourself?” She puts her thumb and forefinger up to stroke her chin.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I have a trimmer.”
“You do a good job,” she says, reaching out to touch my face. “Most men don’t.”
I shy a step, but then see that she means no harm. She lightly brushes my beard with her nails. “Very neat,” she says, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She tilts her head back and looks through her glasses. “Nice balance.”
“I just trimmed it,” I say, flattered. “It gets pretty bushy if I let it go.”
“My husband had a beard like that,” she says, now lowering her head and looking at me over her glasses. “A ‘sea captain’s beard,’ he called it. I never saw him without it.”
“I’ve had mine for most of my life,” I say, glancing around, hoping to see my wife or son. “I don’t think my children—”
“He never could do his own,” she interrupted. “Never could get the balance right.”
“I don’t always.”
“I think beards look good on a man.” She steps back as if waiting for a response.
I’m not sure what to say. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“My husband’s been gone five years,” she says.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, “it’s not your fault.” She glances around. “I think I miss his beard more than I miss him.” She looks at me again over her glasses. “They tickle,” she says, then giggles.
“I guess,” I say, embarrassed, and start to move off.
“Oh, honey!” she says, her eyes widening. She grabs my forearm. “I’m not flirting with you! Did you think I was flirting with you?”
“Uh, well, uh . . .” I wonder how one replies to that.
She cackles laughter. “Oh, honey!” she says, slapping her thighs with her hands. “That’s so funny!” She calls out to another woman behind a jewelry display across the way. “Irene! He thinks I’m flirting with him!”
“Well, you probably are!” Irene says idly without looking in our direction. “You’d flirt with a fencepost if it’d stand still long enough.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t listen to her,” she says. Then she forms a serious frown. “I wasn’t flirting. I’m sorry.”
“Uh, no problem,” I say, still embarrassed.
“I’m probably old enough to be your mother,” she says.
“I don’t think so,” I say, laughing dryly, not sure what else to say.
“No, probably not,” she says, then turns and peers up and down the aisles again. “Your big sister, maybe.” She leans over, oddly balanced on one foot, lifting the other in the air, as if this will allow her to see around the swarm of people. “Where you from?” she asks without looking at me.
I mention the name of the town where I live. She turns back to me and brightens. “My daughter lives there!” she says. “Maybe you know her. Her name is Randolph.”
“Uh, Randolph. Your daughter?”
“Last name, honey,” she says and cackles laughter, slapping me lightly on the arm. “Her husband’s name is Randolph. John Randolph.”
“I’ve—”
“Her name is Sue. Sue Randolph.” She nods. “They have three children.” She stands back and puts her hands on her waist. “I’m a triple grandmother. Bet you wouldn’t have guessed that!”
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t.”
“They live out in the Watters Creek area.”
“I’ve—that is, we’ve only lived there a couple of years. We live kind of far out, don’t know many—”
“Oh, they moved to Dallas two years ago,” she says. “So I guess you wouldn’t know her.”
“The place is growing,” I say, starting again to walk away. “Wonder where my wife went?” I ask rhetorically.
“People get lost out here all the time,” she says. “They need a PA system. Don’t they, Irene?”
Irene is now sitting on a camp stool in front of her booth, working a crossword puzzle from a book. She nods but doesn’t look up. “You can’t begin to imagine what all they need.”
“We’ve been after them to put in a PA system for years,” the woman continues. “Kids get lost out here all the time.” She looks up and down the aisle. “Old people, too.”
She steps back and looks at me appraisingly. “You ever have back trouble?”
“Uh, me?” She continues to look at me, up and down. “I, uh . . . well, yeah, to be honest, I have had—”
“Thought you might,” she says expertly. “Men of your build do. My husband had your build. He had back trouble all the time.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I have it all—”
“I have just what you need,” she says, snapping her fingers. She grabs my hand and leads me to her booth. “Today’s your lucky day,” she assures me. I notice, now, that she’s got a pile of small pillows in heavy plastic packages on the table. Three large plastic Adirondack-style chairs are lined up in front. There’s a pillow in each one. “Have a seat,” she says.
“Uh, that’s okay,” I say, balking and extracting my hand from hers. “I’m waiting for my wife and son. I don’t want to—”
“Oh sit down, silly!” she says. “They’ll probably walk right by here, and you can see them fine. They might want to try this, too.” She nudges me and I sit in a chair, reaching behind me to remove the pillow. “No, don’t do that!” she says. “That’s why you’re sitting there.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me forward, then stuffs the pillow down behind my back. “Now, just sit back and relax. Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
When my weight hits the pillow, it begins to vibrate and grow warmer. “Feel that?” she says. “Just sit there and let it work for a minute.”
The pillows vibration and warmth grow more intense. I can feel the supposed massage effect it’s having on my lower back. “It does feel good,” I offer. It doesn’t.
“I’ll say!” she says. “It’s a Therapeutic Massage Cushion. I have four of these at home.” She picks up one from the table. “I can’t even watch TV without it.”
“It’s nice,” I say.
“It’ll cure a bad back. That’s what they say. The National Association of Chiropractors endorsed it.” She holds up a brochure, but looks down at me over her glasses. “You ever go to a chiropractor?”
“Well, yeah, I have, but—”
“Well, they’re expensive, and insurance usually won’t cover it,” she assures me. I start to rise, but she steps forward and gently pushes me back. “Just sit back and relax. Get the full effect,” she says. “Takes a few minutes for it to really work.”
“I, uh—”
“These are made right here in the United States,” she says, pointing a fingernail at the printing on the brochure. “Right up in Cleveland, Ohio. No imported materials. All-American product.”
“I think we had something like this for my mother,” I say, again trying to rise.
Once more, her hand finds my shoulder, gently holding me down. “Not like this one!” she declares. “I know what you’re talking about. Saw them on TV, in that Harriet Carter magazine.”
“I think I ordered it out of one of those in-flight cat—”
“Same thing. Cheap stuff,” she assures me. “Just junk. Waste of money.” She holds up a pillow and squeezes it. “This is the Original Therapeutic Massage Cushion. Accept no substitute! Genuine alpaca-wool covering, and the motor inside runs only on pressure. No batteries, no cords.” She squeezes the pillow through the plastic. “They come in four colors—chocolate, khaki, navy, and rose-scarlet.” She looks for the other colors to hold up. “There was a forest green, too. But I sold out.” She shoves the pile around on the table. “I might be out of the rose-scarlet, too.” She continues to look. “That other thing you bought was probably ugly brown, and I think it was made in Indonesia.” She holds up the brochure again. “There’s one of these in the Oval Office of the White House.”
“I’m not sure. My mother—”
“Those others are cheap,” she said. “Sold for less than half of these, and,” she leans down close to me, her face near mine, “they’re just pillows with batteries inside.” She’s very close to me. I can smell spearmint on her breath and see for the first time that her front teeth are capped and that she has a bleached mustache. “They’d shock you if you spilled anything on them.”
I shift away from her, and she stands erect, still too close for me to rise to my feet without bumping her. “These have a revolutionary new power station,” she says. “It’s even patented.” She turns to the table. “I have a copy of the patent certificate here, somewhere.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I believe you.” I start to stand.
“It only activates under pressure, and it runs forever.” She returns abruptly and puts her hands on my shoulders, pushing me back. “Just sit there a minute. You’re antsy. I can tell!”
“I just want—”
“You got to let it work. Relax! Get the full effect.” She takes a stance directly between my legs, preventing me from leaving the chair. “Lifetime warranty. The ones I have at home are four years old and going strong. I’ve only had one come back, and it got ripped somehow.” She puts one hand on her waist and holds up the brochure. “The warranty is good even if the damage is your fault.” She puts down the brochure and picks up another one. “The heat comes from this little chemical sack inside. It’s American technology at its best.” She leans forward again, her hands on my shoulders again. “The cover is washable. In Woolite. There’s a lifetime warranty on the whole thing.” She stands up and steps away. I halfway expect her to take a bow.
I make it to my feet. “Well, they’re nice,” I say.
“Nice? You bet they’re nice. I got two for my daughter, and I give them to all my friends for wedding or birthday presents.”
“I’m sure—”
“They’re great for baby showers,” she assures me. “Pregnant women have back trouble all the time, I can tell you. You said you have a son. Is he married?”
I look through the crowd, hoping to see my wife or son. “No,” I say.
“Can I put a couple in a sack for you, honey?” she asks, reaching for a bundle of plastic sacks that say Wal-Mart on them.
“Uh, how much are they,” I ask.
“Only eighty-nine, ninety five,” she quips. “Plus tax.”
“What?” I am genuinely shocked.
“That’s for two!” she says. “I’m running a special this week.” She smiles widely. “That’s why this is your lucky day. Buy one, get one free.” She holds up two, one in each hand. “You can have one for yourself and get one for your mother.” She rummages through the pile again. “She can throw that other piece of junk away. What color would she like? I’m guessing navy for you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“I am out of the rose-scarlet,” she says, still plowing through the pillows. “How about the chocolate? Khaki is hard to keep clean.”
“I don’t think so,” I repeat, “but thanks for your time.”
“I take credit cards,” she says, turning to stare at me. “Personal checks, too.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t pay ninety dollars for a pillow.”
“This isn’t just a pillow!” she declares, indignantly. “It’s the Original Therapeutic Massage Cushion.”
“I still can’t—”
“And it’s two for one!” she says, picking up two and holding them. “This is the end of my consignment. The price will probably go up on the next one.”
“No, thank you,” I say. “I really don’t—”
“Didn’t it feel good?” she asks, looking intently at me over the rims of her glasses. “Tell the truth, now. Wasn’t it relaxing?” She turns and looks at the chair where I was sitting. “Doesn’t your back feel better?”
“It did,” I admit. “That is, it does. But I still—” I start to walk away.
“If you have a bad back, you can take it as a tax deduction,” she says. “All you need is a note from your doctor.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I really don’t think so.”
“I’ll make it three for one,” she says. “If you’ll take the one you used as one of them. It’s a demo.” She shifts the pillows under her arm and reaches for me as I move farther out into the aisle. “Get one for your wife.”
I stop and move her hand off of my forearm. “Look,” I say quietly. “I appreciate your time, but I’m not going to buy a pillow.”
She stands, feet spread, solid. “It’s not—”
“Thank you, but no,” I say. She looks as if I’ve slapped her. I turn and hurry away into the crowd.
I find my wife and son, and we wander off to inspect more junk. An hour or so later, we pass by her booth again. She has a woman in a loud Hawaiian shirt seated in the chair and is holding two pillows out in front of her. “I just love Houston,” I hear her saying. “My daughter lives there. Maybe you know her. Name is Randolph.”