When we reached the Pickens Flea Market on Wednesday, the sun shone brightly over the open air tables and fields of parked cars. We drove slowly through the makeshift lot, bumping over piles of dirt and muddy drops until finally, we created our own parking space in a field whose only landmarks were an oak tree that probably saw its fair share of lynchings and the port-a-potty that sat on a cement slab next to it.
My friend JR convinced me to join her on this foray into the back woods, and trying to prove I can occasionally be flexible, I agreed to give up my Wednesday morning gym routine to drive an hour out of town into what is truly bumfuck.
“It’ll be fun, “she cajoled me. “Or funny.”
The grocery store is funny with JR, so I took a chance on spontaneity. JR is a visual artist and was in need of trinkets, toys, and doodads for her art work, as well as some inspiration. I just needed a story.
JR parked the car and got all organized. She pulled out a wad of singles that would make any stripper proud and shoved them in her pockets, along with her ID (to make identifying her body easier, if it came to that), and a list of junk she hoped to find. She slung her camera over her shoulder, got out the car, and announced she needed to pee. Lucky for her, we were next to that permanent port-a-potty. I waited for her, out of smell range. She emerged moments later, her pants still undone, gasping for air.
“I’d rather wet myself than use that thing,” I commented.
“When you gotta go, you gotta go. The key is to not look down. Although, that one was pretty bad.” She finished adjusting her pants and we walked down the nearest aisle, unsure of how or where to begin.
And with good reason. Just as there were rows and rows of cars, so too were there rows and rows of tables, some outside and others under open-walled shelters. We decided to head away from the car toward the shelters and work our way back to where we had parked, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. Clearly, this was not an hour or two adventure, so we had no way to cover all the market in time to get back home and pick up JR’s daughter, lil JR, from her pre-school.
As we walked, JR and I barely talked to each other. We were totally overwhelmed.
“It’s like we walked into a third-world country,” JR muttered to me.
“I know, I feel overdressed because I wore teeth,” I replied.
The demographics were different than in our town. About a third of the sellers and buyers were Hispanic, and the rest were white Southern rural, which is almost like another race. The women came in two varieties: thin, wrinkled smoker with teased bleached blond hair, or overweight and dirty with filthy little children cling to their appendages or riding in hand-me-down recalled strollers. The children looked in need of a good bath, a green vegetable, and a literate family member to read a storybook read to them. While the women had a litte variety, the men all looked the same, with gray hair and gray skin, a few day’s worth of stubble on their cheeks and chins. They appeared like they could use some Nicorette gum, a few AA meetings, and dental work. Life had not been easy for the people at the flew market.
We strolled up and down the aisles. Half the tables were laid out with what looked to be the entire contents of a single-wide trailer, minus the plaid loveseat and waterbed. Outdated kitchen gadgets, overused hair appliances, and lesser quality hand tools adorned more than a few tables. The other half looked like they were stocked with expired grocery and drug store salvage items. You know how the food at the dollar store looks a little iffy? Well, these goods made that stuff look like Oscar swag. JR and I each scored a jar of organic almond butter for two bucks each, but that’s only because the rest of the people shopping didn’t know what almond butter was. Or almonds, for that matter. After all, we were in the heart of goober and pecan (pronounced PEE can) country. We stumbled across a few more hidden treasures for JR’s artwork, and then we hit the jackpot.
An elderly man, who in reality was probably my age, wearing a stylish camouflage baseball cap that said “Get Er Done” and stained overalls, had a variety of cast iron collectibles on his table. Among the items for sale were a number of mammies, tar babies, and other racist items with the blackest black faces you’ve ever seen. He also had an assortment of iron locks and keys, an honest to God chastity belt, and iron shackles from a small Southern county jailhouse which were sized for men as well as women and children. JR took out her camera and tried to inconspicuously snap a few photos of the whole mother-lovin’ table, while I played decoy, pretending to actually be interested in this man’s stuff. JR bought a pack of racist matches when she finished shooting photos, sort of throwing him a bone. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the camera, which led me to believe that he probably kept the really offensive stuff back in his van.
Across the aisle from him was an unattended table with an amazing collection of hand painted rocks. But instead of butterflies and rabbits painted on them, these just had “property of KKK” scrawled on them. Except for one, which said “KKKK.” We couldn’t find anyone around to ask what the extra K was for.
“I can’t believe they have all these paperweights,” JR said.
“Those aren’t paperweights. They’re calling cards. So you know who threw a rock through your window,” I said.
We could almost hear the banjo music in the background as we stepped away from the table.
“Clearly, we are in the white supremacist section of the flea market,” JR said.
We decided to step out of the covered shelter and into the open air aisles, where the sights, smells, and sounds continued to amaze and frighten us. We passed a guy who kept meowing subtly like a wounded cat through the space where one of his front teeth should have been. We passed a woman selling camouflage gear with a large snake wrapped around her wrist. And all the while, the sound of music kept getting louder, until finally JR and I realized that we were not having the same auditory hallucination, but that a bluegrass band was performing near the food wagon which was selling biscuits topped with every meat product they could find and then fry.
We walked over to where the musicians were gathered, some seated, some standing, more like a backyard jam session than an organized band. Steel guitar, banjo, acoustic guitar…the only things missing were a washtub bass and a moonshine jug. A group of people gathered around, appreciating the music. Tucked behind the band was a small cage with a small hairy creature with stripes.
“Is that a pig?” I asked JR.
“I believe so,” she answered.
“And is it eating a slice of pizza?” I asked.
“It appears to be,” she said with a grin.
We squatted down to get a closer look at the pizza eating piglet, which didn’t look like any pig I have ever seen. It was about the size of a small dog, and it didn’t seem to care much for its little cage. A hillbilly standing near us made some undecipherable comment and then gurgled a laugh, amused at his own joke. Neither of us had any idea what he said and therefore pretended to also be amused. Standing near him was an honest to God prospector. He wore denim overalls and a crumpled felt hat with holes in it. His beard was long and white, and he looked like he had been alone out on his claim, panning for gold since about 1848. JR tried to get a picture of him, but he didn’t look like he appreciated having his image stole.
We headed back in the direction of the car, stopping a few times along the way, once so JR could sample a freshly deep fried pork rind, which for all she knew could have been the pizza-eating piglet’s mama. I was also mesmerized by a display of weapons for sale at one booth. One guy asked the seller if he had any button knives. The seller didn’t know what he meant until he explained he wanted a knife that would flip open when he pressed a button. I thought those were called switchblades. I also thought those were illegal. While the seller tried to figure out what a button knife was, the guy looked over the nice selection of brass knuckles. Apparently those are still legal in South Carolina. “Looks like there’s gonna be a showdown at the Wal-Mart tonight,” I whispered to JR.
After JR demonstrated her fluency in Spanish while haggling over some poblano peppers, we returned to her car. Immediately, we began searching everywhere for hand sanitizer but had to settle for slightly dried out hand wipes. JR then produced a small bag of organic carrot and celery sticks that she brought for a snack, and we munched while waiting for the van in front of us to either drive or park. Next to the van was a car that started backing up slowly.
“Watch this,” JR said, gesturing towards the car with her carrot stick. “That car is going to back into that van.”
We sat, munching our veggies like we were eating popcorn at the movies. Sure enough, that car slowly backed into the van with a loud and satisfying metal upon metal crunching sound. JR and I were speechless, but not because we were shocked. We were both laughing so hard with chewed up carrot pieces in our mouths and on the verge of choking had we said anything. We watched the two vehicles separate, then the van driver get out and inspect the obvious dent in his right front panel. The woman who backed into him pulled out of her space and alongside the van driver. She rolled down her window and they spoke in a rather friendly way for two people who just had an accident. He didn’t ask for anything, and she never stepped out of her car. He gave her a little wave and she drove off, like she backed into things every day, which she probably did, and he didn’t mind, which he probably didn’t.
“Wow, that seemed like no big deal to them,” JR said, when she could again talk.
“Yeah,” I said. “That must be how they roll.”
We drove back to our town, vowing to not wait too long to return to the Pickens Flea Market. When we work up the courage, perhaps. Or when JR again has a wad of Washingtons to throw down. But return we must, because no two visits could possibly be the same. Except, of course, for the need for lots and lots of hand sanitizer.
Notice no market on the Lord's day. And also notice the odd little pipe sculpture with what could pass as a wizard's hat? Isn't that, gulp, witch craft? A sign of the devil? Wait, it's in all American patriotic colors...nevermind.
While most of the KKK rocks are ready to use, this one comes in a protective case to commemorate your latest foray under the white hood. Any white supremacist would be proud to display this rock of hate both at home or at the office. 
Anyone in the mood for a little down home bluegrass? I love this man's hair. He has been wearing it that way since he came back from the Korean War. The little caged piggy was in the audience, because nothing goes better with bluegrass at ten in the morning than some old pizza.
Another angle of the bluegrass band. Unfortunately, JR was unable to get a good shot of the man dressed up like a prospector. I think he was onto us, and he looked suspicious. Then again, he probably always looks that way. Maybe he could smell the college degrees on us, all that fancy book learnin'. They were a good little band, though.
