It’s about as early as it gets on Sunday morning. Only the regulars are already here and set up, while the rookies are only just unpacking their stalls. One woman’s passion appears to be fashioning lamps out of coca cola bottles. A wishbone necklace sits out of place on the table, a tuft of rancid meat left unscraped from its edge. This man likes birdseed—lots of birdseed—and racist varieties of dolls. My dog eats doughnuts from the worn-down showgrounds. She licks a woman’s leg idly: thanks for dropping your pastry. The woman looks at me with contempt, as if I snagged the most attractive Sydney 2000 Olympics memorabilia from under her nose. I didn’t. They’re four dollars each. Even the echidna plushie isn’t worth four dollars.
There are tables full of McDonald’s happy meal toys. I accidentally make eye contact with someone’s pog collection, so naturally, they hard-sell to me for the next half hour. That’s fair. I did, in fact, look at the pogs, even if merely for a split second. Someone sells Finding Nemo on video – it’s only fifty cents. I buy it, of course. Who doesn’t still have a functioning VCR in their bedroom? I can buy ten seasons of Seinfeld, even though only nine were made. I move along.
There’s a pavilion that smells like after school parent-mandated sporting commitments. A stained man sells a battery-powered dog. The batteries make it yap. They cost extra. There are lots of ashtrays. A makeshift stall that is completely contained in the boot of a car sells used fake nails and books that appear to be registered to the local library. A sour woman fixes a $20 sign upon a rack of her old clothes. She’s new to the circuit. Very new. In fact, she’d never even been here to visit. I ask if I can buy her shoulder-padded vest for $2, and she shoos me away.
I show my dog a stuffed giraffe. It only costs a dollar, but the seller snatches it away when she sees I don’t intend it for a human child. They get defensive about their possessions, even the ones they don’t want. And I understand. A rusty deck chair is surrounded by potted plants. The baby tears are too dry to weep. Some basil is labelled parsley, and I don’t have the heart to tell it any different. I think of taking it home and treating it like parsley. I am tired too.
Fog ascends from the ground, and a ray of sunlight brings young people with polaroid cameras and gold coins. From caravans to carnival, we damp creatures must retreat. Until next week.
Alex Creece is a manic pixie nightmare. She enjoys queer arts-n-crafts projects, caring about her friends, and finishing people’s leftover food when they are full. Words have a tendency to explode from her heart like a chestburster. You can find more of them at creecedpaper.com.