Good Luck, Fatty

pearl-faced bangle bracelet (which just-so-happens to also tell time) from her wrist and passes it to me. “Don’t lose it,” she says with a stern face (for her anyway).
    I remember the spark in Denise’s eyes when Orv sprang this bauble on her two Christmases ago. I snap it onto my wrist and say, “Sure thing.”
    Three tables past where I part ways with Orv and Denise, the flea market branches off into a maze of rough, cluttered alleys that are loosely (make that very loosely) arranged by the type of product for sale. After a couple of false starts, I locate the quasi-electronics section, which offers a wide selection of used video games (going all the way back to Atari), car stereos (with their guts hanging out), battered VHS tapes, and, just to spice things up, a random toaster or push mower jammed in here and there.
    I crunch through a pile of twigs (did I mention that this flea market is practically in the woods?) and stop by a table that prominently features a basketful of old MP3 players. “Do these work?” I say with a flick of my bangled wrist.
    A wizened old lady in a webbed lawn chair puffs a ring of smoke in my direction. “Two bucks each,” she tells me.
     “But do they work?”
    Another smoke ring drifts my way. “Don’t see why not.”
    I pick a shiny red player out of the basket and press the power button, but nothing happens, so I toss it back in and fish out another, this one white and boring-looking. When I juice it up, a stream of block letters scrolls across the screen. “This’ll do,” I say, more to myself than the old lady, whose gaze is focused somewhere in the trees. I slap a couple of ones down and move on.
    After scouring every table in the vicinity (and burning through twenty-five minutes of my thirty-minute time limit), I’m about to give up on the next item on my hit list, until…
    Balanced precariously atop an owl-shaped cookie jar, on a table I must’ve passed four times already, I notice just the kind of portable mini speakers I’m looking for. My pulse quickens as I move in on them, a reaction that seems a bit like overkill, since I’m not about to steal the things.
    From the bed of a grungy pickup, a ten-year-old boy surveys me with coal-black eyes. I stare back, pop my shoulders and cock my head as if to say, What are you looking at? He takes a long swig of his bottled root beer, keeps his gaze unnervingly pinned to the side of my head. “How much are these?” I grumble, the speakers cupped in my palm, their clip-on chain dangling over my thumbnail.
    He cracks a smile, his gnarly teeth the same color as the root beer bottle. “Ten.”
    “Ten dollars?”
    “Yep.”
    That’s all the money I have. “How about five?”
    He wags his head. “Uh-uh.”
    I scan the area for the brat’s parents, who will hopefully be more reasonable than their offspring. I mean, the kid didn’t drive himself here, did he? “I don’t have ten,” I lie. “Will you take six?”
    No parents in sight.
     “Nine,” he offers, his eyes narrowed to slits.
    “Seven.”
    Again he says, “Uh-uh.”
    Give me a break. “I can’t do nine,” I say, frustration rising in my voice. “Seven’s all I’ve got.”
    He clangs the bottle against the tailgate. “Eight bucks. Final offer.”
    Does this kid have x-ray vision? I swear he can see into my pocket. “Whatever,” I agree, defeated. I count the money out in front of him, making sure he sees that I’ve still got two bucks left, which means, technically, I’ve won.
    I clip the speakers to my belt loop and shuffle toward the hot dog stand, my eyes peeled for the final item on my list. But I doubt I’m in the right section of the flea market for jewelry. And I’ve got a total of two-hundred cents to my name.
    I check Denise’s watch and find that I’m already a minute overdue for our rendezvous. Now that the deadline’s blown, I might as well take a look-see down the most sparkly aisle here (which, as it turns out, is only two rows away from the electronics section), the sheer volume of silver burning my corneas as it reflects—and seemingly magnifies—the sun’s rays.
    At the halfway point of the jewelry aisle, I hit the cheesy, costume-y stuff, my only hope of snatching up what I need and staying within my paltry budget. Of course, I could ask Orv or Denise for a loan, but I won’t.
    Bins are my friends, I’ve decided. Whatever these vendors don’t give a crap about gets tossed into some mangled cardboard box or