The Collapse LXXXXVIII: Market Day

10 May 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Preparations for Market Day had begun well before today.

The road through our small town, as you might recall, literally bisects it. If one faces West (which is more or less how the road runs, the ex-post office lies to one side with the offshoot of what was the main street of the community once upon a time to the left side and the former bar/RV park to the other with housing divided equally between the two sides. The day before (really after I had sent my letter to you), people had started slowly making their way in from what I can only assume were some outlying settlements and the farther towns. Some walked, some rode horses, a number rode bicycles.

The road through town apparently became – perhaps by default – the agreed upon marketplace as individuals started to stalk about spaces along it. Some had brought tents, others had brought tarps, and some even apparently just intended to spend the night out in the open. Judging from my brief observation on my way to Pompeia Paulina’s house with honey to aliquot, things seemed relatively calm and good natured, individuals in small groups talking together and even laughter.

Laughter in public. How long, Lucilius, since we have heard such a thing?

Of note, everyone was armed. That was not that unusual here even in the time before The Collapse, but seemed far more relevant now. I mention it because certainly where we grew up, such a thing would be wildly inappropriate (if not illegal). Here, it just seems to mark the new world.

Young Xerxes came by as I was re-distributing honey. We chatted a bit about agreement and set up – apparently there was no “charge” to sell. Security had been worked out between the three groups of towns that were enabling the market, with the agreement that each would provide an equal amount for what was an ad-hoc security force.

And so, the next morning, pistol on belt and honey in a cloth bag, I set out for the market.

Someone had taken the trouble to post a piece of plywood with the rules written on it. They were likely not a surprise to anyone, let alone myself: Weapons to remain holstered. Deals were between buyer and seller only. Exhibitions of violence or out of control behavior would get the individual summarily cast from the market.

Theft, it almost goes without saying, would be dealt with swiftly

The day was the sort of Spring day that makes life really worth living here: blue skies, the green grass all along the road and winding back up into the hills around us, the water gurgling in several streams that run through and by the town. Perfect weather for a market day, one might say – especially after a long and cold Winter that probably represented the best one we would see for a while.

The sellers were lined both sides of the road for 100 yards or so. If it reminded me of anything as I wandered up, it would have been that of a flea market of years past: tables and boxes and even blankets on the ground being used to display items, the hopeful look of sellers as someone wandered up and looked – and then the look of disappointment as they turned away.

The people themselves were a mix: on the whole, everyone seemed relatively cleaned up although it was pretty easy to note there was hardly an overweight soul to be seen. There was conversation in the air and several reunions of old friends on the street. There was also more than one breakdown as (I suppose) someone learned of a death they had not expected. In this cases the third wall was never breached: people carried on around them as if nothing else had happened.

Of the items for sale? Most of what you might expect. In a lot of cases, the leavings of a society which no longer had use of the items but the sellers had hopes someone either felt some level of nostalgia or desire. Clothes of course (easy to transport and easy to abandon if they become too heavy). Some tools, although on the whole in such poor condition that they would have easily broken. A few knives, most of them dull or chipped at the end. The occasional store of reading material (We have not, apparently, come completely to the stage of burning books, for which I am grateful).

There were a few more desirable items as well. Few – a very few – medical supplies of the most basic kind. Ammunition, but largely of unusual calibers. Some food in the form of preserved or even dehydrated. Some actually good tools, few in number. I believe there was a little livestock in the form of pullets – I am told; they had gone long before I got there.

And services. That was the truly interesting thing to me. A great deal of innovation there. Someone was selling charges off a battery for electronic devices and smaller batteries. Someone else had a small farrier’s anvil and forge and was making small repairs. A knife and axe sharpener. A gunsmith. At least two people cutting hair. And even a massage booth (Pompeia Paulina and Statiera plying their trade).

Medium of exchange, you ask? It varied: barter was the primary mode that I saw, although small silver coinage seemed to exchange hands as well. The sales were a hundred percent bargaining, the way of any market place: the buyer would walk up and pay attention, the seller would engage them, and the haggling would commence. Just from my wandering around, there was some spirited discussions.

The mood? It was somewhere between gaiety and concern. This was the first time (likely) in a year that so many people had come together for an event, which itself was a matter for rejoicing. The circumstances under which they came together was, sadly, less enjoyable.

At one point I walked into the ex-post office. Playing my “I watch the road into town” card along with dropping Young Xerxes’ name, I wandered into the command center. It was a variety of men and women coming in and out. I might have gotten shooed back out by Young Xerxes made eye contact and waved me over. Somewhat miraculously, I was now “in”, as they say.

The conversation here was on different subjects – partially on what was going on outside (no disturbances, thankfully), but partially about what was going on in the wider world. Someone had found a topographical map of the region and put in on one of the walls; someone else had gone to the trouble of outlining the towns that made up the association that was represented here. From what was said, no-one had a truly clear idea of what was happening out in the “real world”. There were some troubling rumors slightly to the North – nothing definitive, just outlying farms suffering depredations and roving bands moving by night – never quite seen, but heard.

As they say, wars and rumors of wars.

After listening for a bit, I walked back out – and bumped into Pompeia Paulina, who had been loitering by the door waiting for me (she claims it was purely an accidental timing issue; I choose to believe otherwise). Business was slow, it seemed, and so arm in arm we walked the street.

Was there anything I needed? No. My biggest needs are the same as everyone else’s biggest needs: food, medicine, defense (Yes, I know I have these things; I also know they will not last out ten years). These, no-one had at any price I could afford.

There was one stall in particular, which had nothing remarkable, but the young man manning the stall looked as broken as some of the items he had on display. He looked up with dim hope as we approached his blanket. There was nothing there that was remarkable: a few bits and pieces of things that had no value, one or two rusty tools, and a smattering of printed materials.

It was at this moment that Pompeia Paulina suddenly decided that she needed one of the tools – a hatchet which, although the head seemed good if a little rusty, the handle had seen better days – and a copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility with a creased cover. “I need a new hatchet and I have misplaced my copy of Sense and Sensibility. We should buy them”.

By “we”, she meant me, and by “buy”, she meant I should over-barter for them – which I did, willingly enough, giving up four of my small bottles of honey for these two items. The look on the young man’s face – and on his wife’s, when she came over – made up for any apparent loss I might have had.

The market itself ran for 5 or so hours; then people started packing up to head back home – the farther outlying ones would reach it slightly before dark. One underestimates the time it takes to travel when the only mechanism for transport are feet, beasts of burden, or bicycles. An ill-defined “next market day” was mentioned off sometime in the future, but really without any details.

That early evening (I was invited to dinner with Pompeia Paulina and Statiera and Young Xerxes), the general conversation ran about the day. From Young Xerxes’ point of view it was a great success: no violence, contact was made between different areas, and some intelligence was gained. From Pompeia Paulina and Statiera’s point of view, it was a great success – I had not know this, but they were offering their masseuse services for free. They had collected a few small tips of silver coinage, but felt that they had achieved far more than just the money.

Myself? I had a hatchet I needed to repair

On the way out the door, I looked over to a bookcase in the living room. There, filed away, was a very nice copy of Sense and Sensibility. I pointed over to the bookcase. “I though you said you had misplaced your copy?”

Pompeia Paulina shrugged, the shrug women throughout time have given when confronted with a seeming contradiction. “Heavens” she replied, “there it is. I completely forgot”.

It now seems I have a hatchet and a second copy of Sense and Sensibility. Perhaps the nature of why I have both and over-bartered for them may be known to Miss Austen.

It is not, apparently, well known to me.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca