We were hitting flea markets here and there on a lazy saturday, just at the end of summer. My pal Tom and I were mostly killing time. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular -- maybe a bargain on trash bags or something. Tom just liked rooting around in the piles for hidden treasure. We’d found a few cool pieces over the years: a perfectly good cooler, a great hall table, a pair of shoes that I suspect may have fallen off the back of a truck.
This particular one took up roughly one city block, a former 70s strip-mall that had once housed a night club, an appliance store, a laser-tag place, and some other forgotten retailers. The result was a rabbit warren of partial shells of partial walls and odd leftovers. The folks who ran the flea market itself had started in the former appliance store, but basically had allowed it to grow organically over the years, until it had filled up every odd-shaped nook and cranny in the building. Every expense had been spared, so a few of the corners were badly lit, and many of the spaces were effectively permanent.
It was somewhere deep in the bowels of this place that we spotted a table by itself, next to two closed up semi-permanent structures -- just a simple folding table with a multicolored blanket, and a few dozen trinkets of dubious merit. A sign on the table said “STEPPED AWAY - PLEASE PAY ON THE HONOR SYSTEM”, and next to it sat a cigar box, along with a yellow note pad and a pen.
We’d probably have kept walking if we hadn’t both spotted the lamp.
No, not a genie lamp. Just a perfectly ordinary desk lamp, the kind with the articulating arm. Great for reading, or doing detail work, that sort of thing. I used to have a chrome one I’d picked up at Ikea a million years ago but it finally shorted out after a storm. This one, however, was a classic, almost a steampunk twin of the old one, the same basic design but built to last. Probably either an original or a copy (the plug was at least relatively modern), with heavy brass fittings, and it appeared to be in good shape. The price marked? $10. A bargain if it worked.
“I dunno, what do you really need it for?” Tom asked.
“Says the guy with two antique water pump handles sitting in the shed.”
“Fair point,” Tom chuckled. “It is pretty, or will be once you polish it up. So get it, if you want.”
“I just wish I could test it out. It would be a shame if it didn’t actually work.”
“Also a fair point. There must be an outlet somewhere.”
“Alas, there is no lightbulb.”
And that was that. We continued on our wanderings, until we spotted a lady selling various household odds and ends. She had a bunch of hydroponic gardening junk in a box, which she explained at length had been confiscated from her son’s very brief foray into growing pot. But amongst the gear was a light bulb, and a quick shake told me it wasn’t broken. A shiny quarter later and I was hurrying back to the table where we’d spotted the lamp.
Still there! Though the table owner was not.
“I want to test this, but I don’t want anyone to think we stole it,” I said.
“Just leave a note and a ten-spot in the cigar box.” That seemed fair enough, so I did that and we split up and resumed the search for an outlet.
A few corners later, I found one that worked, and screwed in the bulb and plugged in the lamp, aiming the light at the wall..
Nothing.
Then I flipped the switch on the base, which made a satisfying noise before the lamp snapped to life, bathing the wall in a warm glow. Yes! I switched it off, unplugged the lamp, removed the light, and set off in search of Tom. Eventually I found him, distracted either by the treasure trove of old art supplies or by the shy young man selling them. I let him have his fun playing with a calligraphy set while I considered my find. It needed a good cleaning, and just a bit of lube so the arm moved a bit smoother, but really it was in excellent shape.
“Five bucks for the set,” Tom reported, with a big smile. “These nibs are the same ones I use for my old pens, and those little bastards are about ten bucks a pop now, and getting scarce.”
And both very satisfied with our haul, we returned home.
This particular one took up roughly one city block, a former 70s strip-mall that had once housed a night club, an appliance store, a laser-tag place, and some other forgotten retailers. The result was a rabbit warren of partial shells of partial walls and odd leftovers. The folks who ran the flea market itself had started in the former appliance store, but basically had allowed it to grow organically over the years, until it had filled up every odd-shaped nook and cranny in the building. Every expense had been spared, so a few of the corners were badly lit, and many of the spaces were effectively permanent.
It was somewhere deep in the bowels of this place that we spotted a table by itself, next to two closed up semi-permanent structures -- just a simple folding table with a multicolored blanket, and a few dozen trinkets of dubious merit. A sign on the table said “STEPPED AWAY - PLEASE PAY ON THE HONOR SYSTEM”, and next to it sat a cigar box, along with a yellow note pad and a pen.
We’d probably have kept walking if we hadn’t both spotted the lamp.
No, not a genie lamp. Just a perfectly ordinary desk lamp, the kind with the articulating arm. Great for reading, or doing detail work, that sort of thing. I used to have a chrome one I’d picked up at Ikea a million years ago but it finally shorted out after a storm. This one, however, was a classic, almost a steampunk twin of the old one, the same basic design but built to last. Probably either an original or a copy (the plug was at least relatively modern), with heavy brass fittings, and it appeared to be in good shape. The price marked? $10. A bargain if it worked.
“I dunno, what do you really need it for?” Tom asked.
“Says the guy with two antique water pump handles sitting in the shed.”
“Fair point,” Tom chuckled. “It is pretty, or will be once you polish it up. So get it, if you want.”
“I just wish I could test it out. It would be a shame if it didn’t actually work.”
“Also a fair point. There must be an outlet somewhere.”
“Alas, there is no lightbulb.”
And that was that. We continued on our wanderings, until we spotted a lady selling various household odds and ends. She had a bunch of hydroponic gardening junk in a box, which she explained at length had been confiscated from her son’s very brief foray into growing pot. But amongst the gear was a light bulb, and a quick shake told me it wasn’t broken. A shiny quarter later and I was hurrying back to the table where we’d spotted the lamp.
Still there! Though the table owner was not.
“I want to test this, but I don’t want anyone to think we stole it,” I said.
“Just leave a note and a ten-spot in the cigar box.” That seemed fair enough, so I did that and we split up and resumed the search for an outlet.
A few corners later, I found one that worked, and screwed in the bulb and plugged in the lamp, aiming the light at the wall..
Nothing.
Then I flipped the switch on the base, which made a satisfying noise before the lamp snapped to life, bathing the wall in a warm glow. Yes! I switched it off, unplugged the lamp, removed the light, and set off in search of Tom. Eventually I found him, distracted either by the treasure trove of old art supplies or by the shy young man selling them. I let him have his fun playing with a calligraphy set while I considered my find. It needed a good cleaning, and just a bit of lube so the arm moved a bit smoother, but really it was in excellent shape.
“Five bucks for the set,” Tom reported, with a big smile. “These nibs are the same ones I use for my old pens, and those little bastards are about ten bucks a pop now, and getting scarce.”
And both very satisfied with our haul, we returned home.