A hillbilly in the big city

the sunday farm market spends winters in the old anerican can factory but now is back outside on fifth avenue over by the old stone house, a three hundred year old dutch farmhouse that figured prominently in brooklyn's contributions to the revolution. that revolution, yes. i have learned my lesson trying to wrangle a stubborn dog while navigating a farm market and so i go out into sunday morning free and dogless. the weather is cool but it is spring and i am determined to act like it. i stroll out with sandals and a big straw basket even though the rest of the world is swaddled in thick scarves and wooly hats and puffy coats. i am looking for a cotton half slip and because you can't find such a thing in this day and age i stop by a thrift store i like. there are no slips but there's a sassy red cotton bag that looks like a teacher ought to sport it. it is only a matter of time before this straw basket i'm carrying comes apart from the books and produce i pile in it. the bag, with bright flowers embroidered on the two front pockets, goes into the straw basket and out the door with me.

some days there is music at the market and today is one of those good days. there is a lovely old upright bass. this is always a good sign. pair it with a piano and you've got a decent chance at some thick, smoky jazz. put it with an old jug and a banjo and you've got the music of my homeland. my eyes scan the trio and fall on the banjo just as the player begins to pick. it is not like strumming a guitar or a bass. it is more like tickling a small child. and i know right away what it is, their song. buck owens. my very own buck owens. there are men and women and children standing all around the musicians and each one is stock still, watching maybe and listening, but not letting the song wash over them, get into their skeletons and move them around. that isn't even possible. i stand back far enough the band won't hear me and i open up my mouth and sing every word they know, head back like a howling dog, tapping my toes and rocking like a madwoman. i am a hillbilly in the big city.

we finish the song and i wander on down to the produce, still shaking my head at all those folks unmoved by that music. idiots. but the pickle man is just in front of me and my heart picks right back up from its worry over those fools. one of the pickle guys turns up his radio and says, "this is my jam!" people should not say this. ever. it sounds stupid. but he says it again and grins like a cheshire cat as the guy with him shrugs. i smile because i want pickles and he tells me i must know the song. i hear nothing but a fat thump like a heartbeat and shake my head.

i don't know your stupid jam i am thinking, but he laughs and says i'll know it in a minute. i ask for a quart of quarter sour pickles as much because i love the vivid green of them as because i love their just-this-side of cucumber sassiness. he crams five million fat pickles into the quart tub as new york, new york, is everything they say and noplace that i'd rather be howls out of the box behind the counter. and he is right. i do know his jam. and he is so into this song that nobody else will admit to knowing that i can't help but laugh and tell him he's right. i loved huey lewis in tenth grade. he nods, smiles, sings along. he knew he was right. he hands over the five million pickles with a flourish. there is nothing you can't get in brooklyn.