The Brooklyn Flea: Part I

Hippies are a complex species these days. As I wasn’t there for the adventures of historical hippie-dome, I can only assume that no one denied a friendship with Hell’s Angels on Facebook or negotiated LSD deals via Blackberry, the same goes for free love—not Skype sex. But on this day at the Brooklyn Flea, a new breed of 21st century hipsters has flocked with various techie paraphernalia (I can’t attest to the Skype sex). They are here to buy and sell the junk that was probably stashed in their condos and couldn’t be sold on ebay. It’s not the traditional picture of hipness but don’t be square man, times they are a changin’. Clothing, furniture, jewelry, postcards, artwork and everything in between can be found here. The Brooklyn Flea attracts over 600 vendors who sell to visitors who push, poke and pillage through three floors of the Williamsburgh Savings Bank.

Today I am one of these scavengers. I am eager to meet and greet the new hippies who have discovered how to reconcile the new with the old, and still make money. I want to throw myself into the flea market matrix and as soon as that first cup of organic, locally grown, fair trade coffee hits my lips, I am ready to strategize. Strategy is the key when navigating The Flea. One must establish a plan, set a pace, and prepare rations. This is no exaggeration. When a mass of dreadlocks or a cloud of patchouli is all that stands between you and the perfect pair of Salvatore Ferragamo cufflinks, it pays to be prepared. I have trained for years and still have not completely mastered a strategy, but I have enough skills to get me through, the most important of which is, the look.

Flea market hippies can spot a poseur from a mile away so camouflage is essential. I was once denied a set of dishes because my jeans were from “Old Slavey.” Today I must also compensate for my super-square companion who is clean cut and pea-coat clad, and generally looks like he fell out of an LL Bean catalogue. But no matter, I have piled on half of my wardrobe, skipped the shower, and fish-bowled my car with sage. We are the odd couple, but I fit right in. I am ready to infiltrate.

We start on the top floor which seems to be where novice sellers have to do their time before they’ve earned ground floor status. There’s not nearly as much foot traffic as the floor below us, the result is a string of unpleasant vendors. Actually they were some downright bitchy hippies—noses hidden in recyclable coffee cups while bloodshot beady eyes glared and followed me from one table of crap to the next. These must be the rookies, or those banished to the upper levels for failure to exude the happy hippie spirit. Another possibility is I am looking more like a Fagin than an Olsen, an easy mistake given the wardrobe similarities.

Then suddenly, out of the warm glow of an electric disco ball comes a smile and my confidence returns. From a tucked away nook appears—according to his nametag—John. John tells me about the great deal he’s offering today: any three items off his table for $10. I am so relieved to see a smile, and quite an attractive one, that I’m a bit stunned and can only manage a quick nod and an over-eager “great,” which comes out a lot louder than I expected. Then I look at handsome John’s table, then back to handsome John, then back to the table. And I wonder if there is any sane explanation for three Playboys from 1976.

I decide not, and leave handsome John with his collection. That explains the smile at least, with three decades of porn what guy wouldn’t be smiling?

We move back to the ground floor and after circling for some time, I decide I am ready to haggle. The items I covet? One money clip of Winston Churchill’s face, three used postcards from Susan to George postmarked 1954, a copy of Reanimator and an aloe plant. That is what I love about flea markets, one stop shopping. As it stands, my purchases would come to a whopping $25 which is really a deal considering the money clip. But I have to at least try haggling, just for the sport of it. The woman I am up against though, does not take things so lightly. Her unflinching grey eyes are surrounded by clown-red hair that only makes her look that much more psychopathic. She only comes up to my shoulder but could easily take me down with a nudge of her elbow.

The next few moments are a blur. The adrenaline is pumping as I hear red-head say $25. Then I hear my own voice boldly suggest $15. Am I doing this right? My mouth is drying up, and there’s a slight twitch below my left eye before red-head concedes to $20. The stale air hangs for a moment while I compose myself and wonder what was slipped in my coffee that’s making the room spin and why in mother-earth’s name I chose this woman to haggle with.

Then I breathe and hand over the twenty. I do this a little too quickly but I don’t think she senses the full extent of my relief. Red-head hands me a paper bag and with sweaty hands I load up my goods. As I start to leave, she gives me her card with her website, ebay and twitter accounts listed. With that gesture, I feel like I got what I came for, an understanding of the very specific moment where the new and old come together. Happily I walk away with Red’s old junk and my new sense of accomplishment, careful not to let the 100% post-consumer waste door hit me on the way out.