“Hey you! Yeah you! Ga-Get into my car. Who me? Yes you! Ga-Get into my car!”
Aw, the Billy Ocean song that defiled a generation.
No one can sternly demand women to get into his car the way Billy could. “Get in the back seat, baby!” He would insist. What woman could refuse this polite invitation for potential assault?
Anyhoo, I was asked by the bakery (where I used to run my sub shop out of) to help sell their bread and pastries at the Sunday farmers market.
Since I like talking to all the weirdo’s and needed the extra cash, I gladly agreed.
I arrived at 7:30 a.m. (sans hangover) to help set up. Don’t fret, I won’t go through every inch of my day.
One of the perks of working the SFM is we get to trade our bread with all the local vendors for their wares.
The old tomato guy (who is a spitting image for Super Mario) comes up and hems and haws about maybe getting a few scones for the fellas back at his booth. “Well, they like anything chocolate. But only if you have a few extra… Did you like the heirloom tomatoes I got ya last week?”
He then returns with a tiny bag of tomatoes. One of tomatoes inevitably splits open, soaking the bag which I’ve placed on the ground.
I also, inevitably, step on the bag, making tomato soup, and toss the whole thing altogether.
“What did you think of the cherry tomatoes??” he asks an hour or so later.
“Um…a bit too sweet!”
The pesto lady wants free bread.
But does she give us free pesto?
She gives us free samples of pesto on dry bits of bread that she would give to every other customer.
So, this week I stomped over to her booth, bread in hand.
“Five dollars!” she shouts.
Only sort of joking.
I snatch a container of pesto and be on my merry way.
The booth next door (Mexican food made my Asians) makes us delicious breakfast burritos at the end of each afternoon. They throw everything they can find in them (leftovers). Probably items I would not want to know about.
I soon get to know the vendors and at the end of the day, I take a big ass bag of bread and walk around, trading bread for a carton of eggs, fresh almond butter, a lemonade or usually just a smile and “Thanks!”
There’s this one homeless guy that comes around asking if he can buy a croissant for a quarter. I politely decline. I’m going to hell.
There are the celebs who push their kids in front of them and demand they ask for their own muffin. The tiny, nervous robot speaks its lines appropriately and then I give it a reward.
“Where’s the old bread guy??” People enquire constantly. “They had the best cinnamon snails!”
First of all lady, What The HELL is a Cinnamon Snail?
Second, we took his place and we’re better.
At the end of a hard day’s work, I grab my free bags of baguettes and scones and brioche buns and go home to give to all my friends.
I’m there every Sunday, stop on by if you’re around!