Saturday's Storyteller: "The market is always my favorite part of errands day."

by Belinda Roddie

The market is always my favorite part of errands day. Or at least it will be, though I don't let my husband know it. That's why, on the same day that my husband left for a sailboating trip with his agent, I've decided that I will take the three months' worth of income that I have secretly saved and go to Mania Market.

I have approximately two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two dollars stored in a small brass heirloom box – money I have kept away after spending the necessary increments on food and bills and the occasional new spool of thread to patch my favorite fraying, purple dress. And that isn't counting the coins, either, and I have plenty of those. My supervisor, bless his wrinkled, saggy heart, pays me a generous fifteen hundred dollars a month for my minimal shifts at the Teapot Tavern – and, as my husband's grown very tired of my smelling like a cross of John’s Mead and Earl Gray, my supervisor also gives me a complimentary flask of lavender perfume every two weeks.

I've been by Mania Market before, but this is the first time I've ever decided to set foot in it. Now this sounds strange to any native inhabitant of Little Anthem, all stout-nosed and wobbly-kneed and clumsy-bellied after so, so many years of walking and eating and doing very little besides sleep in between. Mania Market's in town once every week, so visitors and citizens alike can buy enough peaches, almonds, creams, and jars of olive oil to last from one Sunday to two Thursdays later. Warner’s Buttery Milk – a household staple in Little Anthem because of Mania Market – can be found in nearly every refrigerator and ice box from one end of a residential street to the other. Even the mayor, a rotund, 'Scot' woman who smokes cigars but whose name eluded even the most elitist of the handful-sized population, always boasts of purchasing enough clocks and cherries from Mania Market to host Cherry Sundae Parties in her Clock Chamber every Friday.

But all the same, the experiences of one individual are hardly relevant to the exploits of another, and Mania Market has been an area of intrigue for me for several years.

I've often wondered about the more eccentric parts of the market, the parts that people buzz about but never seem to get anything from. These are the more, for lack of most likely a far more appropriate adjective, exotic displays – nothing that a rascal can hold a buzz saw or a bracelet or a box of the finest, plumpest, freshest American strawberries up to. These are the vendors who sell Africanized bees, allegedly immune to pesky mites and chemicals, by the hive. The artisans, who spin clay like glass and mold glass like clay, and offer lamps, chandeliers, and even candelabras made out of both. Birds with foot-long beaks, flutes carved out of sand dollars that sounded like wind, haphazard harps strung together with fishing lines to serenade the neighboring merchant's ocelots as they lie down for a two o'clock nap. And, most fascinating and taboo of all, the annual trades and biddings of human items – truly, and literally, human.

It's because of that more untouchable part of the market that I've always wanted to go. But it's also because of that more untouchable part of the market that my husband has forbidden me to ever visit it in the first place. It's not a refusal to join me in my exploration, no. It's an outright prohibition of me ever stretching one big toe into Mania Market.

So with great care and my typically meticulous fingers, much caution taken despite the absence of my husband, so far away atop the salt of the Atlantic with his lobster-faced agent by his side, I've folded up each money note I have collected into beautifully divided stacks, wrapped them tightly with hair bands, and transferred them into my little blue purse that so charmingly matches my loosely fitting and usually fluttering tunic that's only subdued by a fitted vest and belt. I've zipped up my purse, fit my naked feet into a pair of weary brown sandals, and tucked a small watch into my pocket because the wristband had crimped two days prior and now digs uncomfortably into my arm whenever I try to wear it properly. I've taken care to have every light turned off, every cupboard door closed, and every window latched to beat back the desperate October fog as it tries in an overly motherly fashion to warn me of my rebellious and disobedient decision.

It doesn't matter. If I'm going to take care of my errands, the market will be a part of my routine.

***

Before I proceed any further with my little tale, I realize that in this modern era, readers desire backstory before the plot is even fully unraveled, like demanding a slice of thick, chocolate cake before it’s even iced. And that is not a criticism, merely an observation. Therefore, before I allow anyone to follow me into either glory or doom within a bizarre little, well, bazaar, I believe I am shackled to the purpose of clarifying my relationship to my off-color husband.

I'll begin with this: He's not exactly "off-color."  In fact, he rather lacks color altogether. Which is somewhat ironic, considering that he's one of the most renowned self-help writers within the Eastern County.

His name is Simon Hatch Grimace, and he would have you believe that he's the darling husband of a dutiful and respectful girl for what's now been nine years. And he, despite his self-prepared inundation of half-baked yet friendly-to-skim books delving into repairing dysfunctional relationships and changing family dynamics, is not the epitome of functional.

That's not to say that my husband has blatant, or external, demonstrations of his ramshackle mindset. He is not a drinker, nor a smoker, nor even a physical abuser. He does not hit, or swear, or shout. True, he's capable of showing outright disdain for certain environments or situations – which is immortalized in one interview with a high-class magazine, when he "scowled and wrinkled his nose at me as I dictated the childhood story that he had carefully enunciated from his easy chair" – but he is not aggressive about it.

The truth about Simon has more to do with the fact that Grimace is a suitable last name for him. My name is Molly Rae Grimace, though I like just calling myself Molly Rae. Just because Grimace fits Simon doesn't mean it fits me. For no matter how much he tries to remind his friends, or even me, that he's happy, it never really shows. Not even when I set his favorite sandwich (turkey and Swiss, with a "smear" of mustard, as he calls it) in front of him as he reads a copy of The Importance Of Raising A Successful Son. Not even when a tune from local crooner Reggie Atherberry is warbling on the radio, soft and gentle enough to slip me into a smiling mood as I dust and re-dust the monstrous bookshelves creaking from the weight of biographies and so-called therapeutic tomes. Not even when a kiss is applied to my Simon's upper lip, which appears to have stiffened and ossified throughout the years. One may as well go about planting a smooch on a cold, ivory spoon.

Because as much as my husband writes volumes on creating the perfect family, telling sweaty-palmed parents how to mutate wretched arguments into laughter on each page or providing a step-by-step process of how to perform the perfect pat on the back for a generic accomplishment, it's very clear that the man himself is not accustomed to loving anything. Only to organizing and customizing something that he had never learned how to exactly "adore."

And let’s not do any time traveling or try to analyze exactly why Simon doesn't know how to be a fully loving individual. Sometimes, it has nothing to do with how much your mother hugged you or whether or not you got your pants pulled down on the playground when you were a kid, and all the older students laughed at you and called you "Little Wick." Just like some people don’t know how to tie their own shoes, some people just don’t know how to genuinely feel anything.

Now, a more skeptical surveyor of my words may wonder, how on Earth could someone like me have fallen in love with Simon Hatch Grimace at all? It is, indeed, difficult to fathom my even becoming infatuated with such a prematurely calcified skeleton of a man without imagining the cinematic montage. The sliding of eyes, like water on glass, across a room where coffee is being served. A smile shared like a sip from a milkshake, or a glass of wine, depending on whether or not the first date is casual or formal. A slap of oars on green lakes as a love boat rows sluggishly toward an algae-coated shore, a flash of gold extended against a withered diamond as the affirmative is expressed to a suitor on one knee.

In reality, the affair and subsequent marriage were all very straightforward, and very, very practical. Simon was a young, smash hit author and essayist, with silver spectacles that gave him a boyish demeanor and an aura of simply knowing everything. I was a well-liked waitress at the proximal city diner, where they serve casseroles and brag about them like they were silver trays stained with caviar. It was only natural that the two of us were paired for life, and shipped off in a ribbon-taped box to Little Anthem so we could pay a mortgage on a one-story house and pop out three children who would know how to read by the age of three years old. Three is the "ideal" number, as Simon likes to say.

And really, in all fairness, it's not like I'm a helpless romantic in contrast with my stoic spouse. Because, in all retrospect, I've never quite learned how to love, either. Almost as if I've grown up in the desert and never understood the feeling of cold rain clinging to my face like tears. And I admit that it's due to both naivety and earnest that I've believed, despite the cold cut factoids and commands and comebacks that I've heard from my husband on a daily basis, that words without buds to begin with can still manage to grow flowers.

Am I in an unhealthy marriage? No one who witnesses our presence, whether in the grocery store or post office or closest restaurant that served poultry, would ever accuse me of that. Never do they see a welt sneer beneath my left eye as I carry a bag of potatoes and chicken back to my house. Nor do they see my husband's face boil a blistering red when he sits on the porch, working very loudly on a typewriter in order to be noticed. They simply see an upper lip, slightly curled, frozen as if solid bone, and don’t really know what to make of it.

One thing's certain, however: No one can show too much interest in me, and I cannot show too much interest in anything or anyone except my husband and his already dusty, crinkling manuscripts. Attention from a manager at work is fine. A greeting from a neighbor is tolerable. Any other whimsical passion – a fascination with the violin, a curiosity toward social gatherings, a question regarding politics or current affairs – is to be untrusted, potentially threatening, and indicative of an obsession that has nothing to do with the Lord High Simon Hatch Grimace whatsoever. That's a distraction to snuff out. Besides, he tells me, no one needs friends to be happy.

It's true, of course, that Simon was very hesitant to leave me  alone in the house during his "business" trip, believing perhaps that I would get the good old vague "ideas" that everyone seemed to get so frantic about. When a man is invested in starting a family, but has absolutely no ability to do anything beyond simply supervising a child and teaching her not to cross the street at night, he worries about anything detracting from the creation of an easily manageable household. Therefore, it is comprehensible, albeit muddy, that he stepped onto the sailboat with his agent while carrying an anxiety that I might do something a little unorthodox behind his back.

And I will do something unorthodox, absolutely. We wouldn't have a story if it weren't for my predictable compulsion of autonomy. But my Simon doesn't have to know about it during the two months he's gone, and even if he did find out, there's absolutely no way to reverse it.

***

When the morning fog doesn't lift in Little Anthem and promptly becomes afternoon fog, the dampness in the air is almost as thick as sleet. It's icy and unwelcoming, though of course it does little to nothing to push back the eager shoppers who bunch up around the corners of the main street, where the tents have been set up for Mania Market.

This is a very special time of year for Little Anthem, in that it's when those more small-town-inclined adventurers swing by, and it's just about appropriate to visit family for the holidays and snatch a slice of pie and a glass of cider from an aging aunt who's hardly visited for the other three seasons. Autumn's when both the leaves and the citizens get restless. There's a need for movement, a desire to do something daring that doesn't happen in the sluggish summer or the hostile winter. And that kind of urge to be active is always seeping into my psyche, and I'm finally able to quench an abstract thirst that tea could not compensate for.

It's getting very wet outside, and while  that doesn't perturb those who have bundled up in their waistcoats and squished their flat hats on their flat heads and waved around parasols, it's catching me off-guard. My tunic is beginning to cling to my bosom, and the ends of my hair are very nearly soaked by the mist drifting from the adjacent hillside. I'm just about ready to duck under a canopy in order to feel somewhat drier when I manage to find a small umbrella stand, oh-so-conveniently protruding like a large lip from one of the main market entryways.

I have an umbrella at home – an innocuous, blue roll-up umbrella that hardly caught anyone’s eye – and I know that Simon would disapprove of any extraneous purchases. But the umbrellas rattling against the wooden buckets set up around the nearest vendor’s tent are so appealing, with their peacock swirls and golden trim and carved wooden handles that won't splinter when she hold them. This is something I don't mind spending a little extra money on, and besides, I've saved quite a bundle of cash.

I approach the counter and am taken aback by the heavy smell of resin and molasses, as a ball of wet smoke about the same density and color as the mist swirls from the table and circles around my head before dissipating into hair-like strands. Taking in the mixture of earthy odor and sweetness through one nostril, I catch the eye of a lanky, yellow-haired gentleman who's smoking from a very long and very black pipe.

At first, I'm not quite sure what to say to him, observing his broomstick legs intertwined like a crucifix and his hair puffy like golden custard in a porcelain bowl. He looks fairly young, but the way he holds his shoulders stiffly, locks his elbow against his knee, and smokes his pipe that reeks of sugar and redwoods, implies that he's much older than he lets on aesthetically. And, considering that he's selling umbrellas during one of the wettest non-rainy days of the year, he's bound to be a somewhat clever entrepreneur, hoping to earn an extra coin for “helping” those unprepared for the harsher elements.

"You want an umbrella?"

I recoil, my mist-choked hair springing somewhat from the nape of her neck, and realize that the sticky yet sing-songy voice belongs to the umbrella man.

"Yes. I'd love one."

He exhales a glob of smoke and smiles. "I figured as much," he comments. "Lady like you, in short sleeves without an extra cover – you must not be from around here."

"Oh, but I am."

"Then you must not leave the house often." He gestures to the nearest bucket, which boasts mostly red and silver embroidered umbrellas. "Those are the cheapest. Eight dollars apiece."

"I'll take one."

"Not a fancier design?" the custard-haired man asks, arching an eyebrow. "To show off to your friends?"

"I am very practical."

He hands me a red and silver umbrella. As I unfurl it, she can hear the slippery bristling of fresh fabric as the canopy pushes open and reveals its crimson, glittering maw. Instantly, I feel much more comfortable and protected, slipping the vendor two fresh notes, a five and a three, and turning to go.

"Is this your first time at the market?" he asks the back of my shoulders, where beads of moisture still quiver on the cloth of my vest.

"Yes," I reply, without turning around.

"You’re from Little Anthem, yet you’ve never been to the market." He snaps his tongue, and when I turn around to look at him, he's refilling his pipe, the tobacco gooey and somewhat syrupy. "First time for everything, I suppose."

"I suppose."

He leans back and taps the stem of his pipe against his very flat and very yellow teeth (far yellower than his hair), the light, clicking sound somehow seeming louder to me than the clattering of shoes on pavement and the incoherent conversations bubbling behind me. Then, he sucks on the instrument loudly, like trying to slurp a soda through a straw, and sighs. Rich, succulent smoke drapes over his lower lip, and I begin to enjoy the aroma.

"They have something a bit different today," he suddenly reports, "in the Rarities Section. And I'm not talking about a new species of walrus being sold in tanks, neither. No, this, I've heard, only comes around once a year, when they've got good samples. You might want to check it out."

"Samples?"

"Nothing I think most people will buy, ma'am," the man adds, before looking me up and down, from my cracked leather sandals to my red matted bangs. "Unless, of course, you're one of them 'characters' I hear about from my aunt. Not that I dislike them, of course. They're the ones I hope to see loitering around my tent."

"I'm not sure if I'm what you consider a 'character,'" I remark. I realize slowly that this is the longest chat I've ever had with someone who isn't my husband or her supervisor at the Teapot Tavern. 

"Oh, that's even better," replies the man, pulling his pipe from his mouth. Flecks of greasy tobacco are stuck between his incisors. "Some characters, well, they know they're characters. They flaunt their character-ness, exaggerate it, and it's not as much fun to interact with them. Means they don't like improvising, and they're not so naturally eccentric no more. But a character who doesn't consider herself a character, well...that makes for all sorts of delicious opportunities."

I wrinkle my nose, though not out of disgust. I'm more perplexed than anything, holding tightly onto the shiny umbrella that shelters me from the dank haze. The vendor clicks his tongue again.

"Well, best not to spoil it and make you self-aware," he declares, uncrossing his legs and then crossing them again in the exact same way they had been before. "But do come by again before you leave and let me know how that umbrella's treating you, Miss Character."

"Molly." I say my name by instinct. It's only polite.

"Yes, Miss Molly," he corrects himself, and when his eyes glint under his pudding hair, I can't help smiling. "Don’t be afraid to stay acquainted. You never know when you'll forget an umbrella again."

I leave the man alone then, heading in the direction of what must be the Rarities Section, as he called it. In the corner of my mind, I wonder exactly where the man is from, or if he perhaps is just another victim of Little Anthem, taking advantage of Mania Market when it stomps by. And, at the same time, I hope that the smell of tree sap tobacco won't leave my nose just yet.

This week's prompt inspired me to slightly rewrite the first three chapters of my unfinished novel, The Authoritarian Auction, which you have the opportunity to read. Consider this a sneak peek before I actually (possibly) finish the novel, utilizing what I believe is a much better style and POV choice. Thanks, Arden Kilzer!