Flea Market Master Class
Visiting Canton Market with Pableaux Johnson.
(Page 4 of 4)
Infomercial people are the least fun to haggle with, since their inventory can be found at just about any strip mall dollar store. How excited can you get about a Swiss Army Wrench or Industrial Strength Hair Remover? In flea market format, these stalls resemble multimedia snake oil shows, with words like “wonder” and “miracle” describing every single product for sale. These folks are generally good for free demonstration of the latest miracle cure for athlete’s foot, but don’t let them draw you into actual conversation, since they can find ways to suck you into the action. After that, you’re in for a world of latenight hurtin’.
Typical Response to Hagglers: Well-scripted series of product-specific questions and answers.
Your Best Comeback: Faking a mild seizure.
You Cue to Leave: “Now, these go for $39.99 on TV, but I’ll make you a deal.”
Danger Signs
There are three million tall tales in the naked city, and just about twice that many in your average rummage sale. The better the story behind an object, the more you’ll pay for it, right? And it doesn’t help that anything over 5 years old can be officially described as “antique.” Here’s a partial list of danger signs to help you spot overpriced merchandise.
Anything described as “authentic,” “collectible,” “antique,” or “a real collector’s item.”
The brush with greatness: “This putter belonged to LBJ before he was president.”
When a seller says something like: “People from (insert name of faraway place here) are just snatching these things up and selling them for 300 dollars apiece. You’re lucky I have any left.”
Any sales pitch that ends in “Swear to God.”
Excessive markdowns—such as marking a Zippo lighter down from $3000 to $27.50. (“Look at all the money you’re saving!”)
The Haul
During our two-day jaunt through the wilds of Canton, the author and our expert, Ms. Johnson, amassed an impressive collection of random items that would otherwise clutter up the garages of grandmothers across the state of Texas. All told, we managed to blow a pocketful of cash—but not nearly as much as we would have had we not been practicin’ good hagglin’. Our outing ran the gamut of hits and misses, lost chances and well-timed deals, and in the end there was enough junk to fill a pickup. (We missed out on the regulation issue Piggly Wiggly sign, but it wouldn’t have fit in the truck anyway.) Here’s some of what we got.
Our Expert’s Finds
Wicker Chair
A very worn wicker chair that had obviously spent some time under water. This particular item was partially rotted, except for the decorative back piece, which Ms. Johnson wanted for a wall hanging.
Original price: $10
Strategy: Inspect Closely
Ms. Johnson: “Hmmmm … look on the leg right here. Is that an old mildew stain or some termite damage? Either way, that’s gonna take some fixing.”
Final Price: $3
Picture Frames
Three table-sized picture frames that contained art prints from the early 70s (miscellaneous sunset pictures, big-eyed children, etc).
Original price: $5 for the big one, $4 for each of the smaller ones.
Strategy: Up the Ante
Ms. Johnson: “Well, I don’t really want the picture in the big one, so how about half price for that? And while we’re at it, will you add these other ones for a dollar?Sound good?”
Final Price: $4 for everything
Roasting Pan
An old enamel roasting pan looked good, but the handle had rusted through at the base, hanging on like a loose tooth.
Original price: $8
Strategy: Barnyard Sounds
Pableaux: “Pfffft . . . Eight bucks? It’s got a broken handle, fer godsakes! It’ll take ten more to get it spot welded! That’s it, I’m calling the Better Business Bureau. Security!”
Final Price: $4.50 (with old enamel serving bowl thrown in to shut me up) along with a promise never to darken his table again. Ever.
Mail Sorting Grid
This old mail sorting grid came from the U.S. Post Office in Van Buren, Arkansas before they remodeled a few years back. Originally designed to route mail to regional offices, the grid is perfect for organizing old mail, bills that should have been paid months ago, and IRS subpoenas.
Original price: $12
Strategy: Watch the Clock, Return for Round 2
Pableaux: (On Sunday, after an unsuccessful Saturday attempt.) “So . . . How’s business treatin’ you? Yeah, it’s a long ride home . . . You take five for this now?”
Final Price: $5
Logistics
Finding The Fairgrounds
In a town the size of Canton, you’d be pretty hard pressed to miss the Trade Days Park, which starts a few blocks from the town square. Keep an eye out for signs advertising the event or follow the aroma of freshly fried funnel cakes.
Canton’s First Monday Trade Days runs the three-day weekend (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) before the first Monday of every month. (It’s a moveable feast. Take out your calendar and do the math.)
Operating hours usually follow the sun, with stalls opening a few hours after dawn (let’s say 8:00 a.m.) and shutting down about sundown.
Traffic
The key word here is GRIDLOCK. Once you get off Interstate 20, expect to spend a lot of time waiting for Canton’s few traffic lights to change. The primary traffic arteries (mostly two-lane) block up pretty quickly, especially during the peak traffic hours of mid-morning and dusk. When a small town swells to 20 times its usual size, the resulting logjam makes the Dallas rush hour look like the flag drop at Talledega. Since you’ll probably be spending some good time watching tail-lights, you might want to revisit some of those old childhood highway games to minimize the damage of mind-crushing boredom. (“I spy with my little eye. …”)
Parking
During Trade Days, vehicle storage becomes the town’s second biggest industry, and every piece of land in metropolitan Van Zandt County becomes a makeshift parking lot. You can expect to pay about $3 per day for parking (without in-and-out privileges). The prime lots are situated right opposite the main fairground gates, especially if you’re shopping for heavy and/or bulky items. Midway through a half-mile walk, a 25-cent anvil doesn’t seem nearly as good a deal as when you bought it.
Shoppers interested in making First Monday a multi-day project will probably find neon NO VACANCY signs lit up all over East Texas. If it’s possible to do a little advanced planning, try to book a room in nearby Terrell or Tyler, since the rooms in Canton are pretty much occupied until the next Ice Age. If you actually do find a room at the inn, expect to pay full pop for the privilege, since canny moteliers generally suspend discounts during First Monday Weekend. What good is a captive audience if you can’t milk ‘em for all they’re worth?
Miscellaneous
Weather: A quick spring shower can instantly turn dusty aisles into mud pits, so it’s best to keep an eye trained on the five-day forecasts and plan accordingly. There’s only so much room in the handicraft pavilions, and it fills mighty quick in a thunderstorm. If you’re caught flat-footed by a frontal system, you can usually find an enterprising concessionaire hollering “Plastic ponchos! Getcher ponchos! Two for twenty!”
Carriages: Several vendors rent two-wheeled metal laundry carts for your carting and hauling pleasure—carts just like the ones you’ll see professionals pulling around the grounds. Daily rental usually runs about $5 plus deposit, or $20 will buy you one outright.
Maps: Pick up a Trade Days map (usually available around the fairgrounds) and use it to keep track of where you’ve been. These handy charts can keep you from crossing your own tracks—pretty damn important if you want to see everything at least once.
Still More Shops: If you manage to exhaust the possibilities of all thousands of acres of fairgrounds, check out some of Canton’s alternate market areas—cavernous aluminum buildings packed with additional rummage that you won’t find at that other market. Actually, it’s pretty close to the same stuff you’d find at Market Days, but in a different place. Will the opportunities never cease?
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