For years, my wife mocked me for not seeing lost objects that were directly in my field of vision. Then her friend told her that, as hunters, men evolved to see moving targets not stationary ones. The mockery only diminished to a thinly-veiled exasperation, but I finally had an explanation for why I miss small, hidden or hard to see things at the flea market. For years I blamed it on laziness and a mild case of mysophobia, which kept me from getting too close to the dirty boxes with the hidden jewels. Now I realize I'm looking for things in motion. The ladies of the flea market, I guess. Fortunately, last week the petite jewels waiting for me at the bottom of an old box of photos were hinted at by an oversized color print of some classic 1960s cheese cake that was draped haphazardly on the concrete loading bay. Not the kid of thing I'm likely to miss.
As usual I was late to arrive at Alemany that morning. It wasn't raining but the place had a desolate look. Many dealers stayed home to avoid the weather, which sucks there even in summer because of its location along an icy wind channel. I strolled around, winter coat and gloves, five fresh twenties from the cash machine folded in my pocket, a limp leafy zine just waiting to be peeled apart. I see a familiar face surrounded by the aforementioned pin-up material. I know him to be a buyer of storage lockers, the thing everyone's obsessed with now that storage locker auctions have their own reality show. WTF??!! It's a godawful business but you do hit now and then and when you do the material is fresh.
The technicolor pulchritude draws me in; I leave my gloves on and start to dig. Aging file folders, 8 x 10 prints of the interior of something called the Cinema Lab, many photos stamped Blaire Dixon. He turns out to have published a book of photographs called Polk Gulch, which document Polk Street between California and Geary in the 70s when it was a queer sex playground. Little envelopes. Small format travel pictures. Wait a minute. Bingo. Polaroid: woman taking her top off: signed Eric Kroll, the renowned fetish photographer. My blood starts to boil. There is something about scoring vintage fetish photos at the flea market that is so San Francisco. I briefly experience the rare feeling that I'm living in the right place. This shit ain't turning up in Wichita. I try to speed up the process as curious people sensing my energy mill around. Nothing to see here, I telepath. Most people are respectful, but every now and then some desperate person will try to bowl me over and take my stuff.
After 4 or 5 minutes I accumulate five to 10 more prints, and a couple of obscure New York art journals from the '70s. If I take any longer the seller's going to charge me rent. I show him my pile: "Gimme $35." I give him two of those twenties. Like a true flea market seller, this one hates to give change. How much will you give me for me the whole pile? he asks. I groan in negativity as we survey the ruined landscape of photos, ephemera and crusty cardboard. He's clearly desperate to leave before the rain starts. "How bout $40 for everything." Really desperate. Later, I count 20 early Eric Kroll photos, including some wicked '70s pulchritude and an image from my old stomping ground, the old Studio 54. One elaborate set-up finds a couple on their bed with a buddha, a telephone and a spaceman television reflecting the buddha's face,which looks like a leather hooded mask. The woman's holding the phone and the man a 1975 copy of video art by Ira Schneider and Russel Conner. That TV, the copy of Video Art and all those wires in the bed—very prescient.
Day went to Eugene, Carol had time to ride that took more or less down the road. In the afternoon it had received a 350 km, the city of Red Bluff. It was less than one hundred miles to go.
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