I had always wanted to go to a flea market, wondering exactly what goes on at such a place.
Thinking about it reminded me of an episode of Seinfeld, where George Costanza believes a flea market is where you encounter fleas. I had to witness in person if that could actually be true.
So my wife and I embarked on an early September morning to a flea market, some 80-plus miles from our big-city home to the hilly, rural Virginia countryside. Just in case there were fleas, I brought along a can of bug spray to prevent getting bitten by one.
Recently, that happened to, of all people, Dr. Anthony Fauci. He ended up with the West Nile Virus. Luckily, the good doctor recovered and he’s fine now.
Our Flea-Market-Mission-Maybe-Possible? To sell copies of my paperback book, Temporary Insanity: Costa Rica: My Way, about my numerous trips to Costa Rica.
We anticipated selling to those looking for an easy read -- my book offers a humorous, breezy tone about getting away from the everyday. For my wife and I, traveling to these distant hills meant we were already getting away from the city hubbub, which was one of the side benefits of selling my book here.
I had bought 15 copies for $9.99 each from Amazon, which was selling the book on its website. I figured readers always relish travel stories, so we set the book price at $15.50. The cost for renting a table was $2.50. I also posted a sign to advertise how much the book cost, and had bought bottles of water to hand out to thirsty customers who hadn’t brought refreshments for the occasion.
I’m no savvy businessman. But I hoped to still make a small profit after all was said and sold. I also figured we wouldn’t need to stay that long at the flea market. Copies of the book, I perhaps naively thought, would sell like hot cakes. We would sit back and enjoy watching customers delight in discovering the book. We expected to sell out so fast that we’d be leaving soon to have a leisurely lunch in a nearby country town.
We sat at our designated station, in a row with all the other vendors selling their wares at their own tables on the hallowed flea market grounds. We delighted in the crisp Fall-like weather and watched the stream of cars arrive in the parking lot. Customers made the rounds to where all of us entrepreneurs were selling our goods (and maybe “bads,” judging by the well-worn looks of some of the stuff being offered).
Everybody seemed in a jolly mood. Maybe flea markets bring the best out in people, especially since there didn’t seem to be any fleas around. Why the odd name--flea market--which in some circles is called a swap meet? I learned that the term originates from the mid-1860s when a bargain hunter in Paris sifted through flea-infested second-hand furniture and nicknamed it le marché aux puces (market of fleas.)
We had arrived on the scene very early that morning to secure a good selling location near the parking lot. Customers would first have to pass by us on their way around the grounds. Brilliant marketing strategy, I congratulated myself, for coming up with that plan. Actually, it was my wife’s idea. But we were in this adventure together.
The customers came by, smiling at us and the book, and then kept going. What? They weren’t buying it? Was it the price? Too high? I crossed out $15.50 on the sign and wrote, “Marked down to $13.95.”
Still no sales. I crossed that out and made it $10.95.
A few potentials thumbed through the book and moved on to the next table on my right, where the guy was also hawking a book for $8.95. Except he had gone whole hog on promotion, with his canopy tent shielding customers from the now relentless sun, while a tape of country music warbled in the background. He also had put up balloons to celebrate the occasion. I watched with envy as buyers shelled out cash or produced credit cards to buy what he was selling.
I crossed out the $10.95, and marked it as $5.95. Still too high. I finally marked it down to $2.95. A young guy came by, perused the book, and said it looked intriguing. He had always wanted to go to Costa Rica. Success! A sale! That would get the ball rolling. After an hour, two more sales. Keep this up, I might even be able to afford to buy a cheeseburger at lunchtime, which is about when we packed up the remaining unsold books, folded the table, and took our gear back to the car.
As the expression goes, “There’s gold in them thar hills.” In our case, in the hills of Virginia, maybe there wasn’t any gold, but at least I had found a few buyers. Better than nothing, which was almost the book’s final price.
But the day was a learning experience on how to sell my book if I am ever inspired again to place it on a table for public consumption. And the next time around, most assuredly, I won’t expect to see fleas. But if any do show up, as Dr. Fauci would doubtless advise, I’ll have a can of bug spray by my side.
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Author Bio:
Eric Green, a Highbrow Magazine contributor, is a former newspaper reporter, U.S. congressional press aide, English-as-a-second-language teacher, and now a freelance writer in the Washington D.C. area. His articles have appeared in various newspapers and websites, including the Washington Post and Baltimore Sun.
For Highbrow Magazine