The Waiter: Dador Geschenk, Page 2

  Part of the market’s appeal came from it being an assortment of area-based vendors supplying regional produce and wares to other locals. Strict rules regarding membership and product origins had kept the market operating as a purely local entity since its establishment in the 1970s. Only vendors from surrounding counties, with original, verifiably local items, were eligible to become sellers.

  The market itself was set in a star-cluster of four main buildings. When viewed from above, the complex loosely resembled a bluish-grey bird in flight with its wings outstretched, as if floating along on a thermal wave. The stands and booths were not all confined inside the lofty wooden frames of the four structures, but it didn’t matter much. The open sides and high ceilings made it so one didn’t feel the least bit enclosed. The cathedral roofs did serve to keep the rain out, but unless the downpour was heavy, the cover was hardly noticeable. A light rain in the air was simply second nature to life in the Great Northwest.

  There were other aspects of the farmers’ market, aside from regional bonds, that transformed shopping from a dreadful undertaking to a relatively enjoyable experience. Little things. A collection of little things.

  No barcodes or industrial shrink wrap. Restocking done by hand, not by forklift. And those working the booths had a sense of pride as well. They weren’t hocking pallet loads of items manufactured in distant lands across the ocean. The products sold were creations they sweated over and tinkered with in their own garages the previous day, or baked in their kitchens during the early dark hours that very morning.

  The seafood at the market varied from day to day. As one shop owner would say, the menu depended entirely on what catch came back aboard her husband’s boat after the day’s fishing trip.

  The market flowers were vibrantly raw in color and held unbelievably deep and natural smells. And each glance at the perfectly arranged, tightly-packed bouquets of lilies and sunflowers had the makings of a postcard photo.

  Unlike most grocery store varieties, the market’s fruits and vegetables didn’t glow with the same waxed uniformity that comes from being pumped and sprayed with untold amounts of artificial, chemically-based enhancers. The market’s assortment were spotted and gangly in shape, but perfect in taste. And Ben did not mind shopping for them.

  Ben also had no problem strolling the grounds while nursing a coffee. Just soaking in the comings, goings, and general happenings of others. Just observing honest people doing honest work. The busy activity and chatter of vendors arranging and restocking their booths did little to disrupt the tranquilness of the market’s atmosphere, if anything it all added to the effect.

  In this environment Ben had found what others so desperately seek to find in pilgrimages to malls and department stores. He couldn’t fully explain all the nuanced differences related to this form of shopping, but he also didn’t owe such an explanation to anyone either. He was simply lured by a different variety of the shiny objects he so despised elsewhere.

  One shiny object in particular.

  He found it at a booth he hadn’t seen before in his previous trips to the market. Not surprising really. Each day gives birth to a new market entity, as the vendors move locations depending on the lot number they receive during morning roll call. To the casual eye, these different locations made for the appearance of a new and revived market each day, but for the most part, the vendors and their wares remained the same, just reshuffled.

  After a few Saturday morning trips, Ben had grown accustomed to most of their faces and the products they were selling. The middle-aged Korean woman at the honey stand offering glass jars filled with thick golden syrup was a regular.

  The duet of twenty-something males had been there before as well. Both men diligently realigning and perfecting soft purple rows of lavender plants, uniformly bedded in a formation of black plastic containers, as if they had been doing so since time began.

  But along the southeast edge of the perimeter, where Washington and Market Streets intersected, Ben stumbled upon the new shop.

  “Lawetlat’la’s Treasure” was etched in bold, black lettering across a zip-tied banner that loosely dangled above the booth occupying lot #57. Along with the text of the store’s name the banner held the silhouetted image of Mount St. Helens.

  Aside from the sight of a new booth, what caught Ben’s eye was the new vendor herself. No more than 25-years old, she certainly was not hard to look at. Her shoulder-length brown hair matched perfectly with her light, creamy skin. A spattering of freckles dotted her cheeks. These in turn held up the narrow, thin-framed and red-tinted glasses that squished her nose just so slightly.

  Shifting his focus back toward the shop, Ben conducted an initial scan of the booth’s three tables. Their horseshoe-shaped layout held an assortment of necklaces, cups, and other trinkets all neatly positioned for display.

  After a moment’s pause, the young lady at the booth began conversing with Ben. She had stealthily moved to his side while he was focused on his overview of the shop. By simply resting her hands on her hips once she was in place, she had subconsciously signaled that she now shared Ben’s view of her humble storefront.

  Not across from him attempting a sales pitch, but rather next to his side, as a likeminded connoisseur of fine trinkets willing to offer her own seemingly unbiased opinion of the products on display.

  Although she wore no nametag, she mentioned that her name was Morgan. Although he wore no nametag either, with only a flirty smile and soft handshake she had divined that his name was Ben.

  He mentioned that he didn’t recall seeing her booth before.

  And that, Morgan responded without missing a beat, was because this was her store’s first Saturday at the market. She had taken over her parent’s brick and mortar storefront downtown on Thurston Ave after they retired a few months back. And now she was looking to branch out a bit and, hopefully, attract some business from the farmers’ market crowd.

  Morgan’s introduction came with a subtle and well-crafted manner of speaking that is an art form among seasoned salesmen. She was able to answer Ben’s question in such a way as to come off completely natural, while simultaneously hinting--but without directly suggesting--that perhaps he might like to buy something. Help a dame out and prove her risky endeavor was a wise choice after all. Become a hero with just a small cash transaction.

  As Ben awkwardly struggled to find words to keep the conversation moving, she continued with ease by noting that all the items on display were made with local ash and rock from the famous 1980 volcanic eruption blended into their mixture.

  Long before the explosion, Morgan explained, and long before English explores had dubbed it Mount St. Helens, the indigenous Cowlitz tribe had called the volcano “Lawetlat’la,” hence her store’s namesake.

  Despite well-timed and suggestive hints, Morgan wasn’t overly aggressive in her sell. She didn’t have to be. Simply talking to a potential customer as a refined and knowledgeable old friend was much easier and much more effective.

  Nothing as generic or routine as asking if he needed any help or had questions ever came up. She simply continued mentioning little tidbits of information to Ben about the blending process, timelines, coloring and design selection. All the while conveying to him in unspoken terms that she knew not to waste his time. Whether it was an act or not, she credited him as a savvy shopper, and no doubt a fine discerner of quality and taste in all things associated with volcanic ash.

  The sale had already been made before she even mentioned that she had crafted all the items with her own hands. He was sold and would no doubt buy something, it was just a matter of selection.

  A trinket made of volcanic ash was by no means essential, but under the circumstances Ben was willing to make an exception. The Olympia Farmers Market wasn’t about restocking the necessities. That was handled elsewhere. The market was about the experience and indulgence. No pretense of a timed scavenger
hunt, no shopping lists for toilet paper, or deliberately quickened pace.

  Thinking about a useful placement or visualizing a prime spot for an object, however, did help Ben’s mind to somehow rationalize such impulsive purchases, no matter how rarely they occurred. If he could picture a place for it, then it would at least be frivolity with a degree of purpose.

  His eyes moved quickly past the jewelry. The necklaces and rings. He never understood them. Overly expensive items with no function other than to restrict movement, showcase wealth, or make clacking noises. Quite useful for tracking as cowbells, but rather obnoxious on humans.

  Laid out on the edge of the table, just beyond the jewelry, Ben spotted a handful of watches that looked interesting enough. Watches at least could tell the time. But then again so could every phone made in the last two decades. Plus he already had a watch. He also had a phone, so he never wore the watch, and getting a second one was simply out of the question. Aside from service as bookends, useless objects were no less useless in pairs.

  He valued items with purpose. The essentials mainly. But not all items had to tell time, or display their meaning in such an obvious fashion. His one-story house was populated, albeit sparsely, with trophies. Little trinkets and knickknacks he had acquired