Jurvis and I visited his family in Connecticut this weekend, and when other plans fell through (ocean! summer homes! sunburns!), I went with his sister and parents to the weekend Moosup flea market. It was the second flea market I’d ever been to; also, the first in around ten years.
First score: the Agfa Optima Compura.
It was listed as twenty dollars. I have haggled just once before in my life at the age of twelve; this event was unsuccessful in lowering the price of a rusted tin lunch box, but was very nearly successful in causing me to flee the city in shame. I put on a determined face.
Oh hello new friend. (Larger.)
“. . . I would give you fifteen dollars for this,” I said. (Best to keep it simple.)
“Okay!” they said.
The wee, Chris-Ware-like faces are my favorite part. (Larger.)
The bad news is, it may or may not function as a camera. The good news is, I found out what the “magic release button” does (that’s literally the technical term), and I want one, everywhere.
Second score: some book by John Updike I apparently should have heard of. Fifty cents. (I can’t believe I didn’t try to talk her down from that. I was on a roll! I’ll give you forty!)
This is probably like that Sting song (Larger.)
It was nestled in a box of bodice-rippers. I think someone was tricked into reading something good.
Other things flea markets can offer you: the complete collection of The Babysitters’ Club books, a Rice Krispie Treat maker, porcelain teddy bears in top hats, ancient televisions, decorative mirrors, somebody else’s robe, pizza.