Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 41
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Ode to the Wagon Wheel’s
Mustang Flea Market
Rae Zalopany
I peeled the lychee’s pink bark back when another gust of
wind hit. The 昀氀ea markets kicked up dirt path were beneath my
昀椀ngernails, in my hair, my mouth. If I shut my eyes now, I can
still taste it. The watery hotdogs, the bejeweled cladded women
who clap at the gulls, the blind acoustic guitar player who sat
on a milkcrate by the used books booth. My father would take
me here, to the Mustang Flea Market, every couple of weeks as
a father-daughter date.
It was our thing.
The lychee tasted sweet, and I liked to imagine it was
an eyeball with each bite. We bought a whole branch, which
swung at my side in a plastic bag as my father looked over piles
of rusted tools laid out on a tarp. I sucked the smooth bullet
shaped pit in my mouth, held it between my teeth, pointed it at
my dad. I’d always aimed to make him laugh or for him to feel
impressed by me. I wanted to be distinguished or di昀昀erent than
my sisters, especially during our times alone. As the youngest,
most boyish, I found that I could be a sort of surrogate son to
my dad. We’d hit golf balls, throw spirals, sit and head thrash to
Van Halen in the driveway. I hated and loved these activities.
I would’ve been anything he wanted me to be if he’d asked.
*
*
*
My dad knocks on my apartment door after only giving
me a ten-minute heads-up phone call, “Can I come over? I have
something for Har-bear.”
I spent that ten-minutes putting pants on, feverishly
cleaning the house, lighting candles. Every time he comes over,
I want him gone and I want him to stay. There is a nagging, anx-
Non-Fiction
ious feeling I get in his presence. Like he’s going to ground me at
thirty years old.
I run and open the door to my dad shaking a plastic bag
of silly t-shirts. He likes to do this often, come over for 昀椀fteen
minutes, maximum, to bring my son little trinkets that are
thoughtful in his own way, but never quite what my son wants.
He brings t-shirts of cartoon characters my son doesn’t watch,
golf clubs rather than a chess board or video game merch, rare
coins my son puts in a wooden box in a drawer. He does this
for me too, always saving blood donation shirts crumpled by
the front door for me to take home because one time in high
school I liked a blood drive design. We never wear these shirts,
but we never get rid of them. These almost-somethings that we
receive from him.
My son saunters out from his room and looks over the
shirts, politely saying thank you.
I give my dad a hug and a kiss. Thank him, several times,
for the ugly t-shirts.
*
*
*
The market spanned over two to three miles. The outside
section sold fruits, vegetables, 昀椀sh, and garage sale style goods.
The inside section was a mix of antiques and white people selling
dream catchers and switchblades, carnival foods and parakeets.
My dad and I ambled over each stall, shaking our heads when
we wanted to move on to the next. I learned how to haggle here,
seven or so with a crumpled 昀椀ve-dollar bill in my hand. My sixseven-foot dad behind me with a cigar gritted in-between his
teeth. In our normal everyday lives, if I asked for something it
was almost always a no. But here, at the Mustang Flea Market, it
was like stepping into a parallel world. A world where I got what I
wanted: percaline fairy 昀椀gurines and time with my dad.
There was a booth inside that sold Yu Gi Oh cards, comic
books, and—my favorite—Sailor Moon 昀椀gurines. I had three:
Sailor Mars, Sailor Venus, and Sailor Mercury. They were bootleg toys with lopsided faces and discolored pleated skirts. I’d
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