It’s 3 p.m….at the Flea Market
Welcome to “It’s 3 p.m. at…” a new column here at Very Famous Inc. where we report on that late afternoon hour when the day has been determined in one way or another. It’s sort of the opposite of the witching hour, a hazy limbo where you just want to sit and stare somewhere. We’re doing just that — sitting and staring somewhere.
A heavyset man with gold-capped teeth offers my mom and me high fives as we walk into the flea market in Kyle, Texas. It’s just about 3 p.m. and the afternoon is all sun and dust kicked up by trucks and cars driving slowly on the dirt parking lot. “Open Come Inside” a hand-painted sign reads.
It’s been years since I’ve been to a flea market, so I couldn’t tell you how this one compares to others, but I CAN tell you that this one is pretty weird and pretty great. The Kyle Flea Market feels like a community of kindly oddballs and deep-cut garage sale fans. A rusted, landlocked boat sits by the highway, and the wooden stalls are pieced together like a family’s patchwork quilt where everyone made their own square.
The man slowly walks towards us with an outstretched, high-five-ready palm. We have about five seconds to prepare and raise our hands as that ’80s-reggae cover of “Fools Rush In” plays over a distant speaker. Everything looks a little crazy in here, starting with a bunch of mannequin heads by the entrance wearing severely windblown wigs. My senses are firing off like a carnival ride.
A jewelry display case is stocked with Easter eggs, a stack of Star Wars books on top, and a cast-iron sculpture of musicians. This kind of randomness is truly the theme. Thanks to my friend (and Very Famous contributoress!) Annie, I had a feeling this place was going to be a little strange. She told me years back that there used to be a gallery named A Dirty, Dark Place in here named after the opposite of art critic Dave Hickey’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place gallery, which must have imbued this flea market with something and vice versa.
Compared to the $25-per-day truck spots and outdoor tables, these indoor stalls are more like miniature shops. Some of these shops look like main street boutiques, others the messier corner of a garage. The first one my mom and I walk into is a classic antique situation — blue glass and beige-rimmed coffee cups and other grandma stuff. “This is a Faberge talcum powder holder,” the store owner says, holding up a porcelain bottle. We nod appreciatively, and she coughs and we all talk about the dang allergies. “Thank you,” we say on our way out, but she has turned quiet because, I suspect, we did not buy the Faberge talcum holder.
The next stall is basically Las Vegas. With a gray ponytail, mask, and oxygen tank, the man who runs this stall made his room into a buffet of randomness. Empty bottles of Cuervo and Jim Beam Honey are placed next to SpongeBob lights, Eiffel Tower figures, and crystal clocks. Eiffel Tower statues run rampant in this booth! A customer pokes his head in to ask, “Do you have any Tonka trucks?” and departs accordingly. The record-shop owner (also with gray ponytail) across the way talks to the man with the oxygen tank. “I think it’s my ex-girlfriend,” he says looking at someone in the distance. “She looks good from here,” the Eiffel Tower/SpongeBob/Cuervo Fan responds.
At 3:11, we pass an audio repair stall playing Elton John’s “Daniel”. There are lots of video game, music equipment, record, and trading card collectors’ stalls here. Being at this flea market is one of those experiences that makes me feel very American in the best sense; it is a natural melding of races and cultures and ages. A teen wearing a tie-dyed Scarface shirts, middle-aged Crocs-wearing woman carrying docile poodles, rambling families, older people with walkers. Elote trucks, the Gold and Green Jade store, golden retrievers, and all. People are kind and chat just enough to make things comfortable.
At a stall that sells mostly cards and DVDs, I buy a Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse sofa from 1983. I Venmo the girl sitting at the counter who has a heart-shaped tattoo at the base of her neck. She compliments my pink shimmery nail polish (thank you to my sister Somer), and her boyfriend walks in to ask her if she’s having fun. They both look, to put it bluntly, younger and cooler than you’d expect to be sitting in this booth. The booth’s owner is sitting outside, and he tells me more Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse stuff will be out next week.
“Seven Nation Army” is being carefully, slowly banged out on a keyboard, followed by a little bit of “Iron Man.” Another antique stall, and an older woman who tells someone, “Hopefully next week will be better.” Not long after I hear this, I see a packaged toothbrush thumbtacked to the entryway of the shop. My mom and I are invited inside a Pagan candle shop next, and the store owner explains that I can chant or set my intentions as I’m washing my hands with the sparkly soap.
At 3:30 in a shop selling 50-cent coffee, “Tainted Love” plays. Next up, I am SMITTEN by this deranged music-festival crowd of Barbies missing heads and with smeared lipstick reaching for other Barbies’ necks. We are at The Toy Box, where there are VHS tapes, a TV to test them out, a Bunny Adoption Center, and a decent amount of Barbie accoutrements including a pink purse-shaped pillow I eye. A train whistle blows loudly out the open door a few minutes away.
The green, corrugated roof panels rattle in the wind, and I can feel a thin layer of wind dust and antique dust form inside my nose. At Tootsie’s Treasures, I buy Hollywood-themed salt and pepper shakers and an espresso cup that the store owner says is “older than I am.” I see ’99 on the tag, and I’m flattered! I Shazam the country song playing on the radio with the lyrics:
Now the court square’s just a set of streets
That the people go round but they seldom think
‘Bout the little man that built this town
Before the big money shut ’em down.
It is Alan Jackson’s “Little Man” and feels very on-the-nose to be playing in this series of little man shops filled with big man creations — baby seats, vases, self-help books, and all. A pro-life commercial plays over the radio, promising that they won’t yell or scold. Tootsie puts my purchases in a pink-flamingo gift bag and points out a flamingo wine glass. This is a shop with lots of painted wine glasses, in case you’re interested!
At 3:59, having seen the sights, my mom and I wrap up our visit. An old speaker plays us out with Jim Croce’s “I Got a Name” ~Movin’ me down the highway, rollin’ me down the highway ~
I look down and see this fabulous Pointer Sisters album. We walk out past the frenzied mannequin heads and Mexican candy stall and elote truck and leather smells. A little girl wearing dusty black cowboy boots and a red peasant blouse eats elote out of foil, a woman wearing AirPods walks to her car.
“It’s therapeutic,” my mom says in the car. “It’s all these things to look at without having any thought to go into it, or you know, I remember when I was working in Boston, I was there by myself still. After I’d get off, there was a Marshalls across the street, and I would walk, even if I wasn’t going to buy anything, and just walk through the store. It’s just kind of a decompression. Everyone has their ways of decompressing, at least mine’s not drinking.”
