Just back from the Rust Riot where I sold old shit. What a long fucking Sunday. Up at 6 AM, out the door by 7:30 to get to Jim’s by 9:15, then on to the Yorktown Heights Grange to set up in the field. Another vendor – Kevin – was settled in and we took the spot south of him. A few vintage customs and hot rods were already parked on the field and more kept rolling in. First order of business was emptying Sweet T.’s car (I own a Mini now and it’s... mini). Pulled out the borrowed canopy (thanks, neighbor!), my two 4-foot folding tables, the Origami folding shelf, six banker’s boxes stuffed full and two Haliburton Zero cases also crammed. It was already hot – above 80º – and I was glad I went with shorts and sandals. Jim and I sprayed ourselves down with some natural tick repellent, then we got the pop-up canopy to pop up and set out the tables and shelf. The tables were covered with my custom silk-screened tablecloths (did them myself) and then we started emptying all the boxes and the briefcases.
I can’t count how many similar shows I’ve vended at before and after my antiques store That Cave (above) but I’ve been in and out of these same boxes easily a dozen times. They’re falling apart and I don’t know how much longer I’m fated to deal with this same shit. Friday and Saturday I again put in hours pulling everything out of the basement closet and the metal shelving at the back of the garage, doing triage to find all the automotive related shit these Rust Riot gearheads might go for. As we set up I told Jim I’d be happy to clear $300 after paying the $40 space fee. I don’t want to do the math and calculate how much that’d equal per hour.
Another vendor appeared – friendly guy peddling race oil and lubricants – and took the spot to the south of us. The temperature kept rising and Jim and I were grateful for the canopy (I gave mine away at the Mower’s Flea in Woodstock because I couldn’t take that piece of shit another minute) and any breeze that happened along. More old iron rumbled in and I got to thinking about the heat and its relation to the internal combustion engine and how, one day, you’ll only see fossil fuel power plants at shows like this. A few attendees wandered over as I kept tweaking the items on display, putting shirts (CRAGAR, PLYMOUTH, DODGE DEMON) on hangers and flying them from the canopy’s crossmembers, leaning framed items (MASTER LUBRICANTS, WILLYS JEEP) against its legs, and arraying my vintage lighters in a glass-topped display case on one of the tables. Nearly everyone who came by was a tattoed Old, with thinning white hair and a white biker beard. The other thing they had in common was an inability to part with cash. I had a few small sales early on but the shit I thought would go quick just sat there.
“Jim, I think it’s the economy. No one wants to spend.”
Jim and I sat on vintage folding web chairs cursing the heat and surveying the burgeoning field of rat rods, rust buckets and chopped and channeled customs, many sporting decals declaring your chosen make or model to be trash. Or explaining how you could kiss the owner’s ass if you don’t like the American flag. Or otherwise setting up and knocking down straw men.
Jim said What’s up with that? Why do they feel the need?
“Hasn’t that always been part of this? That oneupmanship?”
The music coming out of my portable speaker was soon competing with the first of three live bands scheduled, an instrumental act Sweet T. and I saw at the “Luau at the Lake” in Lake George. I made a few more sales, fielded even more questions and joined Jim in neutralizing the threat represented by the onion rings, french fries and hot dogs he bought. We were stunned to realize they weren’t selling beer but the organizer set us up with a Pabst Blue Ribbon each. Jim wandered off to check out the roughly 40 vehicles on the field and I kept hearing You have such cool stuff! and replying “And it’s all for sale!” to mild chuckles.
The day wore on, the sun beat down hotter (at one point my phone said it was 92º) and some kid asked me if I’d take Apple Pay for a Ziploc™ bag of 30 circa-1973 Topps trading cards featuring Ed “Big Daddy” Roth rip-off illustrations of, for instance, “Creep in a Jeep.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m set up to take Apple Pay. Let me check...”
I opened my phone, tried to search how I could take Apple Pay, got nowhere.
Zelle? the kid asked.
“No. I can take PayPal or Venmo.”
Okay. Let me see if I can get some money.
I had the cards priced at a buck each but told the kid (probably 10 or 11 years old) I’d take twenty for the bag. Ten minutes later he reappeared with a twenty and handed it to me. I gave him the bag and Jim and I were astounded to see him carry it a table over to Kevin and try to sell it to him FOR FIVE DOLLARS MORE.
Hey mister, you give me twenty-five for these?
Sorry. I only deal in baseball cards.
As the kid walked off dejected Jim and I squinted at each other, saying You believe that shit? and That little CAPITALIST! and What fucking BALLS!
“Look, it didn’t work out for him. He’s stuck with those fucking cards.” I said.
Another kid bought my repro Corgi Batmobile, mint in box. If you grew up in the 1960s, as I did, the Corgi Batmobile circa Christmas 1966 was the greatest gift you could’ve gotten. It did all kinds of shit. Shot little missiles out of its exhaust. Had a saw blade in the grille that you could engage. And Batman and Robin riding side-by-side. The repro was from the Corgi Model Club, a group of enthusiasts who either got all the tooling or replicated it and a few years ago began releasing every Corgi ever made. Corgi was the shit back in my day, the finest, most realistic diecast cars and whatnot you could buy. I don’t know how often I gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the rotating Corgi display case in the West Babylon A & S toy department. If I find a Corgi at the Meadowlands Flea I’ll take it home but last Christmas I bought two of the repro Batmobiles and gave one to Jim. I thought I’d keep the other one but we’re about to spring for a solar panel system on our roof and I’m selling most of what’s not nailed down. The kid who bought the Batmobile (okay, his grandfather bought it, after his father came and checked it out) wanted to open the box and play with it right there. His grandfather said Ryan, maybe we should wait until we get home.
“Ryan, listen to your grandfather. There’s lots of small parts in there. You don’t want to lose any.” I added.
The kid goes off with his grandfather and a few minutes later I’m telling Jim the story when I look to our right and see the kid with his father and grandfather and they’re emptying the Batmobile box contents into a small cardboard tray. The kid must’ve thrown a fit because he’s playing with that shit RIGHT NOW.
“Jesus, Jim. If those were my parents they would’ve said I TOLD YOU NO, CHRISTOPHER! and that would’ve been that.”
Around 3 pm several vehicles VROOM-VROOMED their way out of the show. A trickle began, then intensified, old engines firing up LOUD and heading back to where they came from. I thought about my electric Mini back at home and how utterly quiet and fast it is, that instant torque, on demand instantly, perhaps the fastest vehicle I’ve owned. It would never appeal to this crowd, who needed to see blowers atop huge manifolds, chromed valve covers and chromed exhaust pipes and chromed anything-you-can-chrome and who needed to smell gasoline and diesel and oil and exhaust to know that somehow they were alive. But mostly they wanted everyone else to know via the ungodly racket they produced through their not-quite-legal mufflers, that ear-splitting, brain-shaking BLUMMM-BLUMMM-BLUMMM that says YOU CAN’T IGNORE ME and I AM HERE and FUCK YOUR PEACE AND QUIET. Is it uniquely American, this need to draw as much attention to yourself as possibly through your vehicle? To go down the road producing jet-engine levels of noise with your engine or your stereo or both? This aching desire to disrupt the very fabric of space and time with your presence?
Just behind the inability to pop your hood and show off the hulking powerplant you wrenched yourself , the single biggest obstacle to the widespread adoption of electric vehicles is all those dudes who won’t be able to make that ungodly racket. Though some EV manufacturers are now replicating all that noise to pipe into the cabin and out into the world, you can’t fool these guys. They want to produce that ear-splitting offense the old-fashioned way: by accelerating global warming.
Jim and I called it at 3:30 and began packing up. There was a nearby garbage can and I took pride in my ability to THROW SHIT OUT, items I’ve carted back and forth for years, pulled out of boxes repeatedly, attempted to sell and got nowhere with: in the trash. Burden lifted, we got the Prius fully packed and hit the head one last time. I drove Jim back home, then headed home myself, arriving around 6:30. I debated putting the Prius in the garage and dealing with unpacking tomorrow but decided to push on through and leave my Monday clear. As darkness fell I was swapping the Prius with my Mini, which had been parked on the street out front. Once back in the garage, I plugged the Mini in via our Level 2 charger and thought about my Mercedes, now down in Austin. Part of me missed its smooth ride and endless range, its capacity and heft. The other part was glad I was no longer shelling out at least $50 every time I filled up with Premium, recalling my shock at seeing it priced at $4.55 a gallon last time I drove past a gas station. Internal combustion brought us a long way and still has its application. But the future is electric.
Selling Marlene, my Mercedes, has somehow loosened me to sell off all the other relics I hold on to. As Sweet T. reminds me Let go of what no longer serves you. Monday I emailed an antiques store owner in Asbury Park, offering to sell him my entire remaining stash of old shit. We’re putting solar panels on our roof.