Simon stood all alone at the dry mouth of the market. Unsupervised man, his partner joked. Normally, Simon would spend Saturday morning traipsing round in his partner’s footsteps, daydreaming, bag holding. But today, Simon was in control of the shopping list. He was fine with that – had already been to the Macro-Barn and picked up their week’s worth of macrobiotic attack yoghurts.
The market shimmered in the midday heat, blue striped awnings flapped feebly in the tired breeze. Shoppers bristled in the heat and pushed like a tide, filling the space between stalls like water, flowing eagerly along the thin strip between vendors. Cries filled the air from all sides, a woman’s cracked voice made a claim her imported handbags were never going to fulfill – “Change your life!” Simon gripped the black, branded bag of tomatoes in his sweaty fist and paused to check his list. He was a rock in the river of shoppers. The river broke against his sun maddened neck and flowed on past him.
Simon rolled up his sleeves and checked his tattoos – Tomatoes, leeks, vegetables scrolled on his left forearm, under the beautifully inked name, Vega-organic. The ink on his arm matched the bag he held. Simon smiled and held his finger to the words. The ink rubbed off on his finger and bled down his right arm, coming to rest above his elbow with a neat line through it. The tattoos on his left arm now said Zoy Dogz, Party EGgs, 3 Size Peas.
Above the tang of the market bins, dust and baking shoppers, he could smell the next stall on his list. He turned into the flow and followed the honey that drifted to him on the wind. Past the Planet Wide Distress stall with its sun-bleached green logos, its all too dramatic banner scrolling lazily in the heat above the stall – we will not be here to clean it. Past a stall where a chrome cat cried and licked its own tears back up in a perpetually upset water cycle.
Past an ancient looking stall where foot high alphabet letters grew purple fire-moss. Some moss had made its way off the side of the stand and was collecting by the metal legs of the stall in a faded drift, giving the impression it had been rusting there for years.
A fly buzzed close to Simon’s face. He swatted at it lazily and watched as it landed on the stall in front of him, right in the middle of a music-web. He heard the spider advance, beautiful notes appearing on the wind as the tiny vibrations on the delicate web instrument strummed into life through the sound system. The fly struggled in electric misery, vibrating terrified arpeggios. Simon turned his head and followed the honey scent.
It was hot and dry, so Simon stopped for a NubaLime. It wasn’t on his list, but he felt like he needed it. He checked the list again, and repeated the items out loud so he wouldn’t forget them. Zoy Dogz, & Party EGgs. The spore, mood-circus, bubble stall had a crack in its top and was visibly leaking little puffs of yellow, delight spores. When he set off again, Simon made sure he shuffled past just close enough to the yellow spores to put a smile on his face.
Simon reached the centre of the market place where all the streets twisted together and a few tenacious mobile food stalls crept oppressively close to the shoppers. What was it about lists that he found so hard to remember? Simon shifts his bags from left to right arm, checking his list again. He glances up from the only item on his arm, the monogrammed Zoy Dogz and tries to get a fix on the stall. He peers down two dank corridors of people, leading away from the marketplace, looking for something familiar. All he smells is trouble.
Simon sees tentacles thrashing from one stall, vile, corrupted jets of sound bleating from a directional sound system, sweeping its broken noise at unlucky passers-by. After another NubaLime, for the heat, and a corn from the Street Corn guy, Simon felt more disoriented than refreshed. He dropped his corn husk, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and tried one of the streets.
Barely two steps in, the people close so tight that the sunlight briefly disappears behind the flap of a ripped tent top. It’s not even a relief to be out of the glare of the sun and Simon shifts his bulk uncomfortably as people press themselves against him. Other people’s bags peck at his knees with uncoordinated jabs, randomly protruding sharp edges swinging into his shins. Their hot skin brushes against his. Then a jolt as non-human fur brushes against him, lightly curling across his forearm making him flinch at its electric touch. The contact is drenched in animal faux-romone, something about the smell makes him think of foxes.
Uncomfortably, he turns against the flow of people and wades out again. The crowd seems to strengthen with every step he takes against the natural tide. Gaudy, ethereal ripples splash on the faces of the people surging toward him, dancing like light on water and when he looks again they all have his face. He closes his eyes and presses for the market square not two steps away: he could hear them all, mumbling and whispering the same thing as they pass too close to him. ‘Savings,’ ‘Multipack’.
He breaks free, back into the square with a heavy wheezing breath. He needed another NubaLime. The honey mist trail was hard to find again, it was clogged with dust and a sizzling confusion of street foods. Someone had dropped their tattoos, people were stamping the letters into the dust. The ink rose and bit at their shoes, looking for flesh it could crawl onto.
Simon checked his arm again. His ink said Bran Fox. It was the only thing on the list. He rubbed the black, flowing ink and the honey smell rose in his nostrils again. The stall was actually a lot closer than he had thought. It was right there in front of him. The dusty man at the Bran Fox stall shovelled bran into a brown paper bag with a mangy looking felt tip fox scribbled on the side. The bran had dried star shaped fruit in it, which reached out with its five arms for the scoop as it came near.
Simon paid for the bran and shook his head at the things his partner asked him to shop for these days. His arm was clean and the weekly shop was done. As he hefted his shopping bags he pondered that they felt a lot heavier than usual, but that was probably because he was carrying them all on his own. Shaking his head happily, he rummaged in his pocket for what little change he had left and bought a case of NubaLime for the journey home.
