The audience members added any number of delicacies to the movie madness: shrimp rolls, greasy fries, and a cold twelve of Strohs smuggled in next to the hidden passenger in the trunk. Then there was the more serious business: strawberry frost lipgloss leading to sticky fingers after a run around the bases in the back of a conversion van.
On the weekends, the local landmark transformed into that self-contained American spectacle, the flea market. Memphis Triple had it all: boxes of socks that fell from the truck, second-hand dungarees for a dollar, and "collectibles" ranging from old Iron City Beer cans to thick-as-you-please center-stapled Playboys.
All of that is history. The landmark has been sold to an undisclosed buyer, whose plans for the 20 acres of uneven and pot-holed gravel have yet to be announced.
The weather was crisp and clear for the last flea-market hoorah. The crowd was imbued with a surprisingly festive mood. After all, Baby Magic samples were 30 for a dollar. There were no takers for a wedding cake serving set marked "Miranda and Christopher June 21, 2003. One can only hope the happy couple fared better than the beleaguered utensils, but for $2, who minds a little tarnish?
"No money, no honey," said the man next to her.
Bicycle seats and Beanie Babies, Lawnboys and Elvis. Frampton Comes Alive!
"Call me sometime and I'll let you know where I'll be," said one vendor to a winking blonde as he handed her a slip of paper before she moved on to a table loaded with Dove and Caress.
"That's off a Navy ship," swore another as he pointed to a bench vice. For $25, who would argue?
"Ten for a dollar on the VCR movies," hawked yet another.
Then a gentlemen of a certain age displayed what it means to not go gently. He stood before his flock, his tables brimming with rusted wrenches and screwdrivers, bins of bolts and wire. He opened his arms and bellowed, "I love all you people."
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