Ripples 9 by KimB

[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]

09 Fleas

The car parked discretely in the dirt lot, she began transferring her wealth.

Nearby, noises of others doing the same. Soft bangs and crunches as crates, boxes and bundles were transported towards the street. Arrays of colorful tents and awnings ringed by chalk, lined the gutters. Folding tables unfolded. Contents staged according to each seller's hopes of a buyer.

Vendors carefully watched as their neighbors and competition set up stalls.

What did they bring?
What would it be priced at?
Will a buyer stop there first?
Did they get a better location?

Jealousy. Fear. Envy. Subtexts swirling through the circuit of tables.
Wealth is only wealth, if it brings the price of a meal.

She did not move towards the colorful street marked with chalk outlines, choosing instead a corner just beyond the traced boundaries.

Already, others were there. Mimicking their counterparts just a few steps away. Cautiously unpacking their limited wealth. A few items here and there. Worn packaging, thrift store treasures and dollar store notions set on upended cardboard boxes.

She placed the blanket in an open spot, marking it as hers, and began arranging the driftwood sticks. Cardboard placards with neat lettering described the names of the woods: Oak, Madrone, Redwood and Pine. Satisfied with her arrangement, she opened a battered tool carry, recycled from other projects, now holding a few tools and a stack of sandpapers. Selecting a sandpaper and one of the driftwood sticks, she rubbed away the rough splinters.

She mused about who might come to buy today and what price she would place on various woods. Each type appealed to different buyer. Long straight pieces might be selected as walking sticks. Twisted and gnarled ones were preferred by wood crafters who fashioned them into lamps or turned them on lathes. Pocked marked pine might be selected as a home accent, a testimonial of bark beetle ravage tastefully placed in a flower arrangement. Then there were some who didn't want the wood at all but would slip a banknote in her hand before moving on.

Curios for Gentrifiers.

The early morning parade of lookers passed by. There were the Early Birds, determined to Get There First scanning for their specialty items then hurrying towards the next offering, fearful that another might get there before them.

After the first wave, came other vendors. Not looking to buy but to check pricing; a quick survey of the competition. Rivalries subdued under faked smiles and false wishes for A Good Sale Day.

By mid-morning the Early Birds had fled to other venues and vendors had retreated to their own stalls. Trickles of potential buyers moved slowly through the lanes of merchandise. The calls and chants hyping various items droned in the background.

The pace slowed.

The morning gone, she knew there wouldn't be many more sales this day. The funds she secured in her purse would provide fuel and food for the week. A victory .

Now she could visit. The corner proffered a combination of survival with companionship. Casual friendships lasting from one week to the next, bonded by the weekly gathering, severed when even the cheapest notions became too dear or misfortune forced departures to elsewhere,

Her good friend was sitting nearby. An Old Timer of the corner.

Sales over, her friend was now squinting intently at a phone. Watching her friend's fingers stroke the glass surface, the screen shifted left, right, up, down. A mysterious ballet of choreographed movements; an arabesque performed by Touch under the vigilant direction of Sight.

It was a starting place. A good starting place.