To market, to market

In our never-ending quest to whittle down the amount of "stuff" that is crammed into our tiny rowhouse, we set up at a flea market one weekend. Joe was an old hand at this, having grown up in a family that did auctions and flea markets all the time. I had never even held a garage sale. Although I had been to plenty of sales, I was unprepared for being on the other side of the table.

Our first mistake was arriving late, by which I mean after the sun had risen. The early birds -- vultures, they turned out to be -- were already roaming, pouncing on all the good stuff. We were not even out of the car and people were looking in the windows to see what we had. Joe went in search of a dolly while I guarded our goods.

As we unloaded and moved the stuff to our booth, people would grab stuff right off the dolly and ask how much we wanted for it.

"Whatever the sticker says," I would say through gritted teeth.

"Will you take ___?" they would say, naming some ridiculously low amount.

Go away! I wanted to shout. Why would I give you a deal first thing in the morning? Deals are for later!

But I just shook my head and kept pushing the dolly.

Joe, on the other hand, figured that the more we sold directly from the car or on the way to our booth, the less we would have to set up. So as I fended off people with the dolly, he was making deals at the car.

As I was getting together another load, I heard a lady ask Joe about his steamer, which he had never used.

"I bought it when I was single," he told her. "But I got married, and now I don't need to iron."

"Excuse me," I said to the woman whose booth was next to our car. "That cast iron skillet you have -- is it heavy? It looks heavy."

"Oh, yes, very heavy," she assured me.

"Great," I said. "I'll take it."

"I should tell you that it's not really good for cooking anymore," she said apologetically. "It's old and very worn."

"That's okay," I told her. "I'm not going to be using it for cooking."

Our booth, when we finally unloaded our stuff, resembled a toy store at Christmas. We had boxes piled everywhere, under the tables, wherever we could put them. People didn't even wait for us to take the stuff out of the boxes; they rooted around in them like starving prisoners looking for crumbs. "If you'll just wait a few minutes..." I said timidly. I may as well have been a mannequin.

To make matters worse, we had not been able to fit everything in the car, so Joe had to leave to go get another load. I was alone with the vultures. It got so bad that I considered grabbing our stuff and flinging it at them, just so they would go away, but then I remembered that our objective was to get some money out of this, not just to get rid of things. I looked around for someone in charge to tell these people to behave themselves, but the woman we'd talked to on the phone was looking over one of my frying pans herself. So much for help from authority.

Where is Joe?? I thought for the thousandth time. I finally called him to see if he was on his way.

"Where are you?" I said.

His voice, as always, was relaxed and cheerful. "Oh, here," he said vaguely.

"Where is here?" I said, exasperated.

"I'm at the sale," he said.

At the sale? What does he mean he's at the sale? Then it dawned on me.

"You're...at...the...sale...SHOPPING??" I shouted incredulously. "While I'm here defending life and limb -- not to mention all our precious trinkets -- YOU'RE SHOPPING?"

He could tell I was a little upset.

"I'm just looking around, won't be long," he tried to assure me. "You'll be fine."

I informed him that I had bought a cast iron skillet and explained, in minute detail, what I would do with it if he did not finish his shopping pronto and come help me.

By the time he got back, the vultures had scattered somewhat. "See?" he said. "You're doing great."

I considered introducing him to the skillet right then, but I realized we had a long day ahead of us. He would be more useful uninjured.