Things I’ve Said Since Becoming a Flea Market Owner That Would Sound Insane Anywhere Else

There are certain sentences you expect to say when you own a business.

“Have a great day!”

“Thanks for stopping in!”

“Let me check on that price for you.”

And then there are the sentences you apparently say when the business you own happens to be a flea market.

Things like:

“Whose teeth are these?”

That one really makes you stop and think about the direction your life has taken.

Before owning The Old Pioneer, I don't remember spending a whole lot of time wondering who misplaced their teeth. I certainly didn't anticipate reaching a point in my career where finding unidentified body parts—human, animal, artificial, or to be determined—would sometimes just be part of the workday.

But here we are.

And the really concerning part?

Most of these sentences don't even sound weird to me anymore.

“Whose teeth are these?”

We're starting strong.

I don't even think this one needs much explanation.

There were teeth.

I didn't know whose they were.

So naturally, I asked.

This is apparently my life now.

“The dust and dead spiders are free.”

One thing about flea markets: sometimes you're buying more than the item on the price tag.

You might also receive a complimentary layer of dust, a cobweb or two and, if you're particularly lucky, the dried remains of whatever eight-legged creature called your new treasure home for the last decade.

At The Old Pioneer, we believe in value.

The dust and dead spiders are always free.

You're welcome.

“Is that pee or just old?”

There are questions you ask because you genuinely want an answer.

There are other questions where you're really hoping nobody answers.

This falls into the second category.

Old things have smells.

Old furniture has smells.

Old buildings have smells.

Boxes that have been sitting in barns for 40 years have very specific smells.

Sometimes you investigate.

Sometimes you decide ignorance is a gift and move along.

“Is that where the mice live?”

Notice I didn't say:

“Are there mice?”

That's an entirely different question.

When you deal with old barns, garages, sheds, furniture, boxes and things that have been stored since approximately the Truman administration, you eventually accept that other creatures may have enjoyed your antiques before you did.

Which brings us nicely to another sentence I've actually said:

“There's something living in that.”

That's never what you want to discover halfway through unloading.

“Who knows what's on my hands.”

You know those people who carry hand sanitizer everywhere?

Smart people.

Very smart people.

Because there comes a point while digging through boxes of old stuff where you've touched dust, rust, mystery residue, mouse evidence, something sticky, something greasy and at least one substance you have made the conscious decision not to identify.

At that point, you stop asking.

Who knows what's on my hands?

Not me.

And I don't want to.

“Don't clean it too much.”

This is one of those sentences that makes perfect sense to antique people and sounds absolutely ridiculous to everyone else.

Normally, dirty thing = clean it.

But when you're dealing with antiques and vintage pieces, cleaning something within an inch of its life can sometimes do more harm than good.

That grime might be dirt.

It might also be patina.

And sometimes figuring out which one you're looking at is a dangerous little game we like to play.

So yes.

Clean it.

But not too much.

“Don't throw that away. It might be worth something.”

This sentence is also how you accidentally end up owning a flea market full of things.

Because once you've spent enough time around antiques and collectibles, throwing ANYTHING away becomes surprisingly difficult.

That ugly little figurine?

Might be collectible.

That old piece of advertising?

Better look it up.

That weird thing nobody can identify?

Absolutely don't throw that away.

Because the second you do, someone will inevitably tell you it was a rare whatever-it-was worth $600.

So now we keep everything until proven worthless.

It's a very healthy system.

“Is that real?”

I say this more often than you'd think.

And the problem is that “real” can mean a lot of things around here.

Real silver?

Real fur?

Real bone?

Real antique?

Real autograph?

Real human hair?

Which, incidentally, brings us to...

“Is this real human hair?”

There are moments when you realize you've become entirely too comfortable with your profession.

Holding something in your hand while casually asking whether it contains actual human hair is probably one of them.

And yet somehow, at a flea market, this is a legitimate question.

So is:

“What kind of animal did that come from?”

And:

“I think that's taxidermy.”

I don't know exactly when these became normal workplace conversations, but apparently we've crossed that bridge.

“Are we legally allowed to sell that?”

Every small business owner probably has to consider laws and regulations occasionally.

I'm just guessing their questions usually involve things like taxes, employment laws and permits.

Mine occasionally involve staring at an object and saying:

“Are we legally allowed to sell that?”

If you have to ask, it's probably worth asking.

“Whose skeleton?”

Again, context is everything.

Say this at a hospital?

Problem.

Say this at a police station?

Bigger problem.

Say it at The Old Pioneer?

Somebody probably just forgot to put their vendor number on it.

“Whose leg is this?”

See above.

Owning a flea market has really changed my relationship with unidentified body parts.

Fortunately, most of them belong to mannequins.

Most of them.

“Has anyone seen Bertha's boot?”

Bertha is one of our mannequins.

Which means I can yell things like:

“Has anyone seen Bertha's boot?”

And nobody even looks up.

Bertha is missing footwear.

Bertha may be missing clothing.

Bertha may occasionally be missing an entire appendage.

This is just another Tuesday.

Which is probably why I've also found myself confidently saying:

“Even without a head, it'll sell.”

And the worst part?

I'm probably right.

“I need someone to price this bag of doll heads.”

There are jobs where someone walks into the office carrying a briefcase.

There are jobs where someone walks in carrying paperwork.

And then there's The Old Pioneer, where apparently someone can hand you a bag of disembodied doll heads and your primary concern is making sure they're priced.

Not why there's a bag of doll heads.

Not how we acquired a bag of doll heads.

Not why anyone needs this many heads.

Just:

What's the vendor number and how much are they?

Business as usual.

“Is that a porcelain doll with an alligator head?”

Yes.

That is a sentence that has come out of my mouth.

And frankly, I don't think additional context is going to help.

Some things are better experienced without explanation.

“Somebody will buy it.”

If The Old Pioneer had an unofficial motto, this might be it.

I say this all the time.

Ugly?

Somebody will buy it.

Creepy?

Somebody will buy it.

Missing a head?

Somebody will buy it.

Absolutely no idea what it is?

Somebody. Will. Buy. It.

And you know what?

I'm usually right.

That's one of my favorite things about flea markets. There really is something for everybody.

The thing one person walks past and says, “Who on earth would want THAT?” is the exact thing another person spots from 30 feet away and practically runs toward.

I've learned not to judge.

Much.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?”

If you have to ask this question, you already know the answer.

Probably not.

“Why did I buy this?”

This usually occurs sometime between the thrill of buying something and the reality of unloading it.

At an auction:

I NEED THAT.

Three hours later, standing behind the trailer:

Why did I buy this?

Usually followed shortly thereafter by:

“Don't tell Josh.”

To be fair, I don't think this problem is exclusive to flea market owners.

Junkers everywhere understand.

Sometimes you buy with your heart and figure out the logistics later.

Which is also why I regularly say:

“I need this like I need another hole in my head.”

And then, apparently, buy it anyway.

“Well, that didn't sound good.”

I say this one a lot.

Like...a lot.

There is something uniquely concerning about owning a large building filled with thousands upon thousands of breakable, stackable, old, heavy and occasionally questionable objects.

Every once in a while, you'll be standing at the counter and hear:

CRASH.

Silence.

And then:

“Well, that didn't sound good.”

Sometimes you investigate immediately.

Sometimes you wait to see if anybody starts yelling.

It's called experience.

And Finally: “I'll figure it out.”

Of all the ridiculous things I've said since becoming a flea market owner, this might actually be the one I say the most.

Something breaks?

I'll figure it out.

We bought something that won't fit?

I'll figure it out.

A vendor asks me a question I've never encountered before?

I'll figure it out.

Something is leaking, missing, unpriced, unidentified, headless, possibly alive or smells like it may have died sometime during the Reagan administration?

I'll figure it out.

And maybe that's actually the best description I can give of what it's like to own a flea market.

There isn't exactly a handbook for this.

Nobody gives you a chapter titled “What to Do When Someone Hands You a Bag of Doll Heads.”

There's no training module for “Identifying Mystery Animal Parts” or “Locating Your Mannequin's Missing Boot.”

You just learn as you go.

You ask questions you never imagined you'd ask.

You touch things you probably shouldn't touch.

You buy things you absolutely don't need.

You hear a crash from across the building and mutter, “Well, that didn't sound good.”

And somewhere along the way, sentences like “Whose teeth are these?” stop sounding strange.

I don't know whether that's personal growth or a cry for help.

Either way...

I'll figure it out.

Now I want to hear yours: What's the weirdest sentence you've ever said at work that would sound completely insane without context?

And if you're a fellow junker, vendor, antique dealer or flea market owner, I KNOW you've got one.