Crutching Around Town

July 6, 2009

I'm not sure I heard the story right; it was windy on our roof and there was a lot of chatter among the people gathered there to watch the fireworks, but between sips of beer and the muffled poofs, putts, and pops of the fireworks, Jason told me about a friend of his who owned some property in Williamsburg. The property is currently just a vacant lot, and Jason may or may not have told me what his friend's long-range plans are, but regardless, instead of letting the property sit idle in the meantime, his friend decided to organize a flea market. Or maybe he turned it over to someone else to organize, I don't know, all I know is that the market, named simply The Williamsburg Flea Market, runs every Sunday from noon till 6. This past Sunday (yesterday), however, was something a little special for the 4th of July weekend. In addition to vendors, there would be a cookout, DJs, drinks, bands, and so on.

Jason said that he and his girlfriend, Erika, were planning to go, and that if we didn't have any other plans, we should meet them there. When Erika overheard Jason, she was quick to say that there was no fucking way she was going to be there anytime before 3 in the afternoon.

Deborah and I were awake early on Sunday — we still haven't put up any curtains or blinds in the windows of our new place, and the sun burns in at all hours of the day, bouncing off our "French Vanilla" walls and making it feel like we live inside an incandescent bulb. The switch gets flipped as early as 6 A.M.

Deborah made some French toast, and we enjoyed a lazy Sunday breakfast, but by the time we finished, it was still too early for the flea market. Although many flea markets open at the crack of dawn, this is Williamsburg we're talking about. Noon is about as "crack of dawn" as it gets.

In the afternoon, we called Jason, who was busy in his garage fiddling with his vintage Yamaha 2-stroke motorcycle, while Erika slept. We told Jason we were heading to the flea market, and he told us that, assuming the bike was running, he'd ride over and meet us there in an hour or so.

Deborah and I called a car and five minutes later were picked up by a fastidiously clean and well-dressed Indian gent who didn't have a clue about how to get where we were going. I gave him directions for the two-mile drive, and he nodded and smiled. He was genial, I suppose, and eager to please, but the way he kept completely turning around in his seat as he drove, imploring me to reassure him that we were on the right track, was more than a little terrifying. Every time he turned around, the car would list one way or the other, veering towards parked cars, or worse, oncoming traffic. A GPS unit attached to the windshield was feeding him audible directions to who knows where. At every intersection, the robotic GPS voice would say to turn, causing the driver to stop, look over his shoulder, and give me the look. "Straight," I'd say, and tell him to ignore the GPS. Regardless, he stopped at every intersection, presumably to be ready in case I suddenly came to my senses and blurted out, "Turn here! Turn here!"

Surprisingly, we made it to the flea market without crashing.

"What do we owe you?" I said.

"I'm new," he said, "Today is my first day. I don't know."

"Well, it usually costs us seven dollars for a ride like that," said Deborah. I handed Deborah a ten-dollar bill so she could pay the guy and get a receipt while I struggled to get out of the car and stand up on my crutches. But the car doors were locked and I couldn't get out.

"Seven?" the driver said. "No, no. At least eight."

"Eight? That's ridiculous!" said Deborah.

The driver made his best innocent look of a child's face and said again, "Eight."

Without a meter like the yellow cabs have, car service rides often end with an awkward negotiation if not a downright stand off, and I was braced for a fight, but Deborah was in an unusually compliant mood. She shook her head and paid him the money. "Ridiculous," she said.

There wasn't much going on at the flea market when we were there. Even at 2 in the afternoon, we were probably too early. The vendor's tents were set up on gravel, which was difficult to navigate on crutches. I made one loop before telling Deborah I was going to find a place to sit while she poked around. "We can just go," she said. "There's nothing here I want to look at."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

We decided, instead, to find a place to eat and have some lunch. We spotted a burger joint conveniently located less than a block away and headed for it.

"Williamsburger?" said Deborah, reading the sign out front. "You've got to be kidding me. That's gotta be the worst name for a restaurant since 'Pluck U'. I don't even know where I am. I feel like I'm in a college town."

I handed Deborah one of my crutches, braced myself on the door frame, and hopped up the single, absurdly steep step. We took a table and the waitress handed us menus. The menus said something about hipsters, I can't remember exactly — something like, "Feeding skinny hipsters since 2009" or something like that. But looking around, I didn't see many skinny people, hipsters or not. Sure, one passed by on a bicycle now and then. For instance, a fabulous couple whizzed by on a bicycle built for two, looking like a summer catalog. But for the most part, everyone fell under "new average."

At a table nearby sat a couple. The guy was a bit of a nondescript schlub, pasty, with a hairy gut peeking out between his black T-shirt and his black jeans. It's hard to say if his girlfriend was chubbier or not, but she was showing more skin, so it definitely seemed that way. She was dressed in layers of black and wore sunglasses with brightly colored, cheap plastic frames that clashed with her impossibly red hair. When she moved, you could see her tattooed flank. Black line work in the classic old school style with a decorative scroll, which inside said, "Looking Good." In case there was any doubt, I suppose.

Outside, a guy pulled up in a brand new BMW, looking like James Spader. A group of his Preppy friends was waiting on the sidewalk, and they huddled around the new car. The guys did, anyway, kicking tires with their Sperry Topsiders while the women were content to watch from the curb, smiling Pepsodent smiles, bouncing Gerber babies on their hips. It would've been hard to imagine a scene like this existing here as little as ten years ago, when a homeless crack addict was murdering area prostitutes and leaving their bodies to rot in empty lots like the one the flea market occupies. But there it was. And there we were, watching, eating a couple of undeniably delicious williamsburgers.

And so it goes.

After lunch, we decided to wander around the neighborhood for a little while. I didn't have the stamina to crutch myself all over town, but a few blocks this way and that felt good. Fresh air and sunshine and all that good stuff. As we wandered, we passed an overpriced furniture shop called Cosmos that's been there for years. From outside, I spotted an antique rolling stool that I thought Deborah might like for her workbench.

Six hundred dollars! Honestly, the fucking thing could've had a price tag of ten thousand dollars, and I wouldn't have been surprised. Absurdity abounds.

Outside the store, a tall guy was on the sidewalk refinishing a cabinet. He noticed me on my crutches and stopped what he was doing.

"They got you, too, eh?" he said.

I didn't know what he was talking about and gave him a quizzical look.

He pointed to my foot. "They got you too," he said, then he turned around, took off his hat, and pointed to the back of his head. It looked as though a kid with a staple gun had gone to town on it, stapling the guy's skull willy-nilly. "Twenty staples," he said.

"Wow, what happened?" Deborah asked.

"I fell off a truck headfirst onto the pavement."

"Whoa, you're lucky."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, not lucky, not lucky. It's been two weeks and I'm still a little slow." He tapped his temple with a stained finger. "I was knocked out for eight hours. My head had cracked open like a melon."

He showed us the wound again, a mass of silvery staples. Deborah shuddered and turned away.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, it's okay, it's just—" she shivered.

"I don't even know what happened. The guy I was with gave the cops three different stories. But I'm suing everyone, the truck company, the driver's insurance company, everyone. Hopefully, I won't have to do this job anymore. I've been here two years already, and I've had enough. Next time you come by, if you don't see me, you'll know why."