Experiment 6: Clothes at a Food Market

Handing coins politely in exchange for veg, fruit, pork pies, Cumberland sausages, packets of crisps, jars of jam, apple pies and apple strudel with custard and all the more foods and sweets and tasty things, the people of the market lick their lips and fingers and or tip their hats—straw hats, top hats, baseball caps or whatever—smiling as an extra gift in addition to handing coins. Pennies: brown. Pounds: bronze, gold. Pound notes: green, orange, purple. Some folks bag their goods; others carry them; some use one hand—others two hands; a couple share an armful of fruit, which they cradle instead of their baby as it whinges in its pram—a pram that one lover drives, nudging forwards with their knee. That knee has a plaster: that particular lover tripped earlier. The other fruit-holding lover had a first aid kit with them. They probably bring a first-aid kit wherever they go. Talk about being wary of falling. Clumsiness is the devil, sure, and difficult to learn from—a challenge to oppose. The pram’s stiff wheels fight against the lover; the wind steers them off course and causes them to redirect. Oh, and the pain of the lover’s requirement, their moral compass, their need to not head into, crash into, another pram—said pram also off course due to the wind. Said pram, other pram, driven by a phone-wielding, loud, suit-wearing person and a kid no younger looking than 10. The supposed parent has a red tie and one of those sleek suits, the kind you wouldn’t want to stain with wine; yes, that kind, you know the one. If not, imagine them—them with their clothes, bright enough to blend in with the clouds—against the unclear sky. Unclear as in it’s not nice out. The weather is bad. It’s cold. Bad weather, bad. It would be nice if it behaved. Have the sun on a leash. As in, bad sun, bad. Show yourself and stop doing nothing where no one can see you. You, the sun, behind the unclear sky. That sky. The unclear one. Not any other one: there isn’t another sky on earth. No. It’s.

Ah, yes, here we are. This thinking box—me—thinking words. I am a person. Yes. Introducing myself to no one, sitting on a bench, a wooden one, an uncomfortable wooden one, and. Here I am. Yes, surrounded by noise. Yes, surrounded by insatiable conversation. By golly. By beeping phones. Buzzing phones. Melodies of ringtones chiming for a second before halting, likely from someone ignoring whoever’s calling them.

The marketplace. The sweet allure of baked goods. The homemade, warm allure of those same goods. The not-so-great allure of sweat. My sweat. Me in my warm jacket. Me in my jumper. Me in my shirt. Me in seven layers of clothes. I’m still cold. Why am I sweaty? Think it over. Gloss it over. Ignore the drunk game of hopscotch to my left. Ignore the urge to join in. What was I thinking about? Right! Sweat. Sweaty me: sweaty why? Sweaty because of the noise? Sweaty because I don’t know the time of day. My watch broken, my phone broken, And, also, there're my legs, luckily not broken but still immensely sweaty. 

I need a good payment—a pay consistent every day, yes, yes, yes. Today is one good step to that goal. Today. A day. This is fine, this. Day is fine. A fine today. It’s fine today.

The body-sized bag next to me scares anyone hoping to sit here—to sit on this memorial bench. Good customers, so hope I don’t turn you away. Don’t think I’m carrying a body bag on this memorial bench. I’m not. It’s a bag of clothes. And it’s on this memorial bench. Another bag in front of my feet is open for money. And now I’ll open my clothes bag.

I get some weird looks. Of course, of course. Even that drunk lot over yonder are eyeing me—obviously in need of clothes, especially considering their worn and ripped, plain shirts with dozens of holes and coffee stains, tea stains, beer stains. But I haven’t emptied my bag, so I likely look like a murderer. Thankfully, I’m not one; so, they relax once I take out a folded jumper. I even hear a quiet burst of laughter. Anxious laughter, so I’d guess—their silly mistake of thinking I slaughtered a human, living, breathing individual. Oh, and that suit-wearing person is with them; so is the kid from earlier. The kid is sitting on a stool grasping their own chin. They tug the arm of their suit-wearing, supposed parent. That supposed parent pours some pound coins into their supposed kid’s hands. The kid runs off. Nearly smacks into a pram. The supposed parent’s supposed baby’s supposed pram. Babbling ensues. Whingeing ensues. The supposed parent shouts at the kid, and after that—and before going off on their own—the kid puts their pound coins in an expensive-looking wallet. The exchange. Quite the exchange. I praise the exchange. That humorous exchange. And funnier than that, that supposed parent immediately chugs a bottle of something alcohol related and joins in with the hopscotch. Their drink splashes their suit.

Now, the table next to my bag for money, yes, that’s where I’ll empty my clothes bag; that’s where I’ll set a paper sign saying give me £5, or I’ll steal your liver—and that’s a joke, that’s a joke, that’s a joke! And that table of mine—the cheap fold-up table—the one with the sign and all those now neatly placed, neatly folded, knitted jumpers, is where a pram nearly crashes into and, more importantly, where a baby nearly crashes into. But it doesn’t. And good job, because I’m not dealing with that.

That pram’s driver, the lover, the one with the plaster, apologises to me and sprints off with all the fruit in the world in their arms. Then, a cool breeze lifts my jacket; so, that jacket flaps like a pair of wings. Subsequently, trees rustle, flies buzz, phones buzz. Another wave of those buzzing darn phones. Still a loud chatter. People bargaining for lower prices, saying hi and goodbye and thank you and apologising for bumping into other people who also apologise at that same time for bumping into other, other people, all mind their business—in that they go out their days without paying attention to me. And a bee comes my way, and I dodge it. And the bee swerves back towards me, and I stand straight and do the limbo. But, right now, I can’t pull my body up from the limbo. Limbo, limbo. Limbo like purgatory. Limbo, limbo. The bee hovers over me, so I crawl off the bench, and I roll down onto the harsh, rocky ground. A couple people eye me. A couple people seemingly try not to laugh at me or direct any rude comments at me. All the merrier a time that they don’t; all the merrier a time for me to pretend like those people aren’t there.

A fly lands on my arm. I don’t shoo it off: the bee is directly above me still. More breeze, more rustling, more buzzing, buzzing, and a bit more, and a bit of whingeing from babies, and a bit of music from a radio with horrid static piercing my ears, and I discover the light of day—the thing melting my eyeballs. And I can’t move.

Now, a kid goes to me. They shoo the fly and the bee. They drop £5 in coins into my bag: astonishing. I get up. I pass them a jumper. They wave bye. I chuckle. I smile.

This is a fine day. I think I’ll buy a pork pie.