On our way to the concert, the one at Joe’s Pub yesterday down in the East Village, we walked through nearly a mile of temporary stands and tents filled with shorts, hand bags, wallets, sunglasses, lemonade, and sausages – ones either smothered in pepper and onions, or pierced by wooden skewers looking very much like fleshy, misshapen lollipops.
At every stop, we searched for something a little different in a style or color not normally found at Target or Walmart. And at bargain prices having been mass produced, as they were, in such exotic places as Nepal and India and Croatia and Switzerland.
Some vendors openly mixed their politics with their sales – “Socialism: we are Trump’s worst nightmare” – and some just hustled for big name, corporate America. Side by side. All just trying to make a buck. The same buck it turns out. And each in their own way on a cool New York City summer day.
We did walk off with a few things. Gifts to ourselves and, in return, a gift to this street economy of merchants. Many of whom will return again next week to a street not called Broadway.
Even the socialists, I suspect.
A profit is still a profit.
Image Credit: Pixabay