To market

I took out my powerful propane-fired heater on Saturday, warmed my cold-benumbed hands on the frosty November morning, the air clear and cold, the post-Thanksgiving shoppers—faithful to the market—coming to buy some breads and pastries. My helper, a young woman home from her university studies, was glad to be back, happy to help at the market again—and thankful for the heat from the red-glowing gizmo atop the propane tank. I’d initially been a little afraid of the contraption, didn’t like the idea of having a powerful blast of flame in such close proximity to the fuel. But I’d seen others at the market using the things, concluded that they must be safe. No one had been blown up as far as I knew.

The new truck from Ohio wobbled to the market on its worn and eroded front tires. The steering components held together for the short trip, but I don’t know how much longer I can count on the loose ball joints, the tie-rod ends that need replacing. The truck will go into the shop this week for the necessary repairs—about a thousand dollars’ worth of work in all. The truck caused something of a stir on this cold day, the other sellers at the market noting the larger vehicle, wanting to know about it, what my plans were and so on. Mostly people were concerned with staying warm and tending their businesses. I was happy to talk about the truck, however, my trip out to Ohio to fetch it, the obvious disparities in the seller’s description and the actual condition of the vehicle. I’ll soon pare the story down to a few bare essentials, give my eager listeners a thumbnail sketch of the whole business. If anyone wants further information, I’ll be happy to have a question-and-answer session.

My broken car is at a friend’s shop now. On Saturday afternoon I gave in to temptation and called him, explained my predicament. I wanted his help only in getting the car back to my house so that I could check it out, see if the cam belt was the culprit—as I expected. Of course he offered to take it to his shop on the spot, look it over and get it running again. I said ok, even though I knew there was no way I could adequately repay him. He is exceedingly reluctant to accept money for these kinds of things, but he’ll have to make an exception in this case.

We got the car back to his shop, opened up the front of the engine to expose the timing belt area, and found that it was shredded, broken apart. He knew, from his many years’ experience with all things mechanical and automotive, that something had caused the belt to fail. Looking a little further, he found the reason: a seized tensioner pulley—a small wheel that puts pressure on the belt and makes it taut so that it can do its job properly. With the little pulley seized up, the belt overheated and started to shred, making the engine stop as I drove to my rendezvous with the prospective buyer.

I helped a bit as we toiled over the engine, the two of us alone in the cavernous repair shop, his projects scattered here and there. Over in the corner was a large chunk of an older American car that he’d dragged back to the shop, cut into pieces to use later on maybe. The engine was there, some other mechanical parts, the rear axle and leaf springs as well. I of course was interested in all of this, wanted to know all about it, was incensed that he hadn’t called to tell me he was getting this thing, was going to spend an afternoon tearing it apart. The rest of the hulk was out in the parking lot—the body and trunk of the car still intact with red primer dabbed—like leopard spots—all over the old car.

We drove to a local auto parts store, picked up a new belt for the car, checked on the pulley, which the store did not have. The men tending the counter were retirement-aged, their long grey hair tied back in ponytails, packs of Marlboros making neat rectangles in their shirt pockets. The store was brightly-lit and deserted, with one of the men taking a smoke break by the front door. He was the one my friend had described the part to—the little pulley that we needed to make the car go again. On the phone the man said that he was uncertain, didn’t know if the thing he had at the store would work or not. So we drove there, saw that the little pulley my friend held in his hand—about the diameter of a silver dollar—was nothing like the large and clunky part that the man had brought up to the counter.

About eight in the evening I left the shop. I still had to get the truck in order for tomorrow’s market, would have to go home and ready myself for the next day’s activities. We’d been dealing with the car since around three in the afternoon. Across town, in a comfortable subdivision populated by trees and generous homes, a party was getting underway. Friends were congregating for an evening of music and food and drink—an annual post-Thanksgiving celebration. I’d wanted to go, having missed this event for the past year or two.

I drove to where the truck was parked, worked in the cold and the dark, trying to make sense of the new and unfamiliar space, and went home. I was in bed by ten o’clock.

I set up the display on Sunday morning, having gotten enough rest the night before, not really in much of a hurry to get going. This being the end of the big holiday weekend, I did not expect a huge turnout—much less an early crowd. My expectations were borne out; my small offerings went fairly quickly to the few and loyal customers who wandered in, and by the end of the market I had practically nothing left. I could have used some more pastries, but was not terribly concerned about it; I tend to be a terrible businessman in this respect—wanting more to sell what I have than to have leftovers at the end of the day. As a result, I am often too conservative about what I bring to the market.

Some French people came by, pointing to a bag of bread sticks called fougasse, remarking—in French—that you could buy the whole bag for two bucks. I pointed out that the price of the breads was two dollars apiece—not for the whole bag. They were incredulous, not wanting to believe that each stick of bread sold for such an outrageous price. They moved on.

I packed up the truck at the end of the market, took to the city streets and a day considerably warmed by the brilliant autumn sun shining in a clear blue sky. I did little in the way of work on the other house—venturing over only for a little while to fasten some remaining roof panels on the little shed my helper and I had recently erected. It is still unfinished, wanting the addition of sliding doors for the entrance. I may get to it this week--maybe not.