In the dark, headlights sweep the lot as cars pull in and find their spots – assigned by a hunchbacked woman patrolling the main gate. Front doors slam, sleepy mouths yawn, familiar faces wave and nod hello. Then rear doors open, metal feet scrape across the ground, cardboard boxes stacked atop the asphalt.
Silhouettes drag merchandise from trucks and set up tents side by side. Faint blue light warms the eastern sky. Morning is near, though hours from heating the shadows hard at work arranging handmade crafts for the Sunday shoppers soon to come. Forgoing church for art and bargain-sale prices. The new age way of life.
They’ll come in droves to wander aisles and rows. Sniff homemade candles. Admire jewelry and clothes. The blood and soul of each merchant is bared for all to see. And pay. When cash exchanges hands, it’s a successful day.
And day is fast-approaching, the sun driving vendors to finish their displays before the first customer appears. Here they come, pushing strollers, pulling carts. Another weekend at the Rose Bowl Flea Market begins.
– Written by Miss A