I recently visited my good friend, Wes Blalock. My wife and I were invited to San Jose to spend the weekend at his home and we immediately took advantage of the opportunity to abandon our children for three days.
When we arrived at his house, he asked where EM1 and EM2 were. I told him they were unfortunately busy and couldn’t make the trip with us. It was easier to lie to him than to admit we snuck out of the house without telling the kids where we were going.
While we were visiting, Wes asked if my wife and I would like to go to a local flea market the following morning. The market is open on the first Saturday morning of every month and there are typically vendors from all over the region that set up booths and tents in the parking lot of a local community college. Since I love digging through other people’s stuff and I have no problem spending money on garbage I don’t need, I immediately agreed to go.
The market opened at 8 AM sharp. As I am all about punctuality, I rolled out of bed at 8:45, brushed my teeth and threw on some clothes, then wandered into the kitchen looking for something to eat. I found my wife, Wes and his wife in the kitchen waiting for me.
My wife glared at me and said, “We’ve been ready to go for an hour.”
Wes threw a bagel in my direction, picked up his car keys and headed for the front door.
The drive to the flea market was uneventful. Mostly because no one was talking to me. I sat quietly and gnawed on my bagel while my wife made comments that were little more than thinly veiled attacks. “I hope we still get there early enough to get parking.” “I hope we have enough time to explore before it gets too hot.” And, “I wish my husband had more consideration for other people.”
That last one wasn’t even thinly veiled.
When we arrived, we did indeed find parking. It might have been the last spot available in the lot, but we found it. We exited the car and wandered into the collection of colored overhangs, stalls, and booths, finding ourselves immediately surrounded by hundreds of items scattered over tables, laid on blankets, and occasionally just piled in open boxes.
Before we wandered in too deep, I went to an ATM conveniently positioned in the first row of booths. Due to my love of shiny objects, I figured I was going to need some cash, so I slipped my bank card into the machine and tried to make a withdrawal. Either there was a problem with my card or with my savings account, but either way, the results of the transaction were not what I had hoped. The machine spat out my card along with a receipt full of zeros then asked me to go panhandle somewhere else.
Gripping my receipt in one hand and what remained of my dignity in the other, I returned to the rest of my group and told my wife the ATM was broken. I asked Wes if he could lend me a few bucks, and he said, “I’d be happy to, just as soon as you pay back what you already owe me.”
He could have just said, no.
The rest of the day went about as you would imagine. Walking through a flea market with no money is a lot like … well, like being anywhere with no money. Feel free to look, but don’t touch. Whenever I found something I was interested in, I had a conversation with the vendor that went like this:
“How much are you asking?”
“Twenty dollars, sir.”
“Will you take a dollar?”
This would be followed by either laughter or profanity. In one instance, I got both.
Needless to say, I did not end up purchasing any of the fine goods available at the market. My wife, on the other hand, purchased a couple of orchids from a vendor selling plants. I didn’t ask her where she got the cash to buy the flowers. I was worried if I made her mad at me again she might not let me ride home in the car with everyone else. Instead, I just put out my hands and asked if I could carry her stuff.
I’m not the brightest husband out there, but I have figured a few things out. Such as, if you’re still alive after poking the bear once, don’t go back and try it again.
The rest of the weekend passed much more smoothly. I enjoy hanging out with Wes and his family quite a bit and it was a nice break from my own rotten kids. In addition, I got to nap on the couch and watch TV while Wes did all the cooking and household chores. How could that not be a great weekend?
The only downside is that we did eventually have to go back home. I don’t think Wes felt that was as much of a downside as I did. I’m not saying he was eager to see us leave, I’m just saying that my car doesn’t actually need to be push started. Still, there he was, leaning against the back of the car, yelling, “Go, go, go!”
He’s always ready to lend a helping hand.
That’s why he’s such a great friend.
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