Market missing

I miss the Market today.

It would be closed by now, of course. But I would have skipped out of work early and spent the afternoon window shopping comics, trinkets, maybe some herbs or incense. Walk down to the pier, although it was a stranger the last time I walked there because of the missing viaduct.

I’d buy a couple of börek to take back to the apartment, reheat for dinner, salad or quinoa with tahini dressing on the side. I was never a very good vegetarian back then — I couldn’t give up my cheese or butter, but I rarely ate meat when I could visit the Market. Honestly, I rarely ate at all.

But when I did eat, I loved my Sunday morning börek, before the Market opened up in earnest, sharing a little bit with the ravens when we talked under the totem pole about all the things. They’d tell me some poetry, maybe give advice on which skirt to wear (they always liked the burgundy crushed velvet, or so they would say, or sometimes the emerald green) before heading towards the light for a few lattes on my home.

Sometimes I didn’t make it home until the coffee bar closed at two in the morning. My apartment only has a view of the water, otherwise there was nothing for me there. And sleep? Who needed sleep when the life was squeezed out of you. Madmen don’t sleep. They stalk the night streets from laundry suds to hurricanes, following the mono tracks just because.

Sometimes I just walked. No destination. Sometimes that got me in trouble Saturday nights — I didn’t care. The “tourists” that came in to go clubbing from the outskirts would sometimes look for someone to fight and they didn’t like long-hairs in plastic, long-hairs in velvet, long-hairs not at all.

But I had friends. Thirteen Cents saw some good ol’ boys drunk and trying to pick a fight with me one night. Him and his “tribe” sauntered on over after midnight and asked what the problem was. The boys told him to fuck off — it was obvious he was homeless and they were ready to start something with him too until one of the big tribal guys stepped up. Fucker was huge. “This guy here,” he said pointing to me, “is one of the tribe cos this guy here,” he pointed at Thirteen Cents, “said so”.

“What’s the fuck are you talking about?”

“It means,” said one of the other homeless folks, a small gal, “We’ll all kick your ass if you touch either of these good folk. I think you’d best move along.”

The fire went out of the “tourists” manufactured rage. They swore, said they would be back with friends and clean the streets of the homeless and fags. A favor for Seattle. They didn’t come back.

“Thanks man,” I said to Thirteen Cents.

“No problem, my friend,” he said, resting a heavy paw on my shoulder. “Got 13 cents you could loan me?”

“Nope,” I replied, digging into my pocket. “Just this stupid quarter, nothing smaller.”

“Fuuuuck,” he said, genuinely disappointed.

“But I have an unopened pack of smokes that I’d be happy to donate to you for lending me a hand.”

His eyes brightened up under the street lights around 3 am.

“Thanks, bro!” he said handing my pack of Marlboros to one of the tribe in back. They quickly unwrapped the cellophane from the hard pack and started distributing the bounty to rest of the tribe, making sure that Thirteen Cents got one.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?” he asked. The others looked on expectantly.

“Sure,” I told him and lit twenty cigarettes in a row as some gave me a hug, others punching me in the shoulder.

“That’s what I like about you, bro. You’ve always got smokes and know how to share.” And then they walked towards an alley where they held court most nights. He seemed to have forgotten the incident the next day, as he panhandled in the mouth of the alley outside my workplace. I made sure I had picked up some change that morning.

“Got thirteen cents?” he asked.

I counted out a dime and three pennies and handed it to him, with a cig to sweeten the donation. It made him smile. “That’s what I like about you,” he said. “Always free with the smokes, and you don’t give me none of those fucking quarters.” He asked for a light and I went on my way.

And that was… what? Six blocks from the Market? Man, did I say I miss the Market today?