There was NO sign.

Why is it that some guys insist on calling you nicknames? I see the wisdom in addressing someone you see everyday in some way but I am sorry to say that because you are line in front of me at the Convenient Mart two or three times a week doesn’t make me your “Pal”, your “Buddy” or even give you the right to call me “Big Guy”.

I don’t know you. If I did I would greet you by your name and I assume you would too. So the “pal” stuff is just because you don’t know my name, right? I would prefer almost anything else. “Hey You” would be preferably to the “Buddy” routine.

I guess the problem stems from the incident at the Flea Market in Saylorsburg a few weeks back. The Blue Ridge Flea Market is a pretty intense experience, not for the faint of heart. It’s more than 25 acres of everything under the sun and some things and people that would be better left in darkness.

The parking lot for this giant Flea market is a joke. Pitifully small, dusty and carved out of a field with boulders and large trees left in the way it’s a challenge to find a space and like the pot of gold at end of the rainbow when you get one near the action. The day in question after circling the parking lot 25 times and nearly getting sideswiped or rear ended a dozen times a space appeared right in front of the booths. It seemed too good to be true and as it turns out it was.

As I walked away from the car (My long suffering wife was far ahead of me having departed for the action like a sprinter) a huge guy stood in front of me and said ” Hey Pal that’s my space. You’ll have to move.” I looked back at the space and try as I might I couldn’t see a reserved sign, an orange cone or a sawhorse marking his territory. I told him this and his reply was “Hey Buddy I been here 15 years and that’s my space”.

I remarked that it was not my problem and began to walk away. He called me a name, not so much under his breath. A name that rhymes with grassmole if you get my drift.

I turned and asked him to repeat it and his quick retort was “You heard what I said, Pal.”

Rather then fight to the death over a parking space at a flea market I just said “I’m not your Pal and I’m not moving”.

Of course I spent the whole day looking over at the spot praying that my car wouldn’t be in flames.

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About James Rising

A recovering radio addict wrestles with the written word.
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