[SFDXA] The Flea Market

[Bill]

http://www.eham.net/articles/29853

Or here's the timely story.,..

The Flea Market
from Don Keith, N4KC on April 12, 2013

THE FLEA MARKET
A short story by Don Keith N4KC
http://www.n4kc.com/ http://www.donkeith.com/

Jerry Lowe leaned back in his folding chair as far as he dared without 
tipping it over and stretched his aching back. It was almost 8:30 and 
most of the early “lookers” had already filed past his couple of folding 
tables piled high with various amateur radio treasures. The hamfest 
theoretically opened its doors at 8 but the early-birds seeking bargains 
had begun showing up in the boneyard well before 7, while Jerry was 
still pulling stuff from the trunk and rear seat of his car and 
strategically arranging each item on the tables. Some of the early guys 
would be back with lower offers later, he knew. Some he would likely 
accept, others he would just grin and nod “No!” He needed the room in 
his shack and shop, but he was not about to give anything away. Gas was 
$3.60 a gallon. It was true, too, that he needed cash in case he spotted 
something else he could not live without. This particular fest had a 
reputation for having good items in its flea market.

Finally, Jerry stood, yawned (the alarm clock had caused a lot of QRM at 
4:30 that morning), stretched, and took advantage of the lull to survey 
the tailgaters lined up across from and to each side of him. He 
immediately recognized some of the stuff from previous hamfests and swap 
meets. Some still had the same hand-lettered signs Scotch-taped to their 
fronts with the same exorbitant prices. Others might have been familiar 
gear but they were on different tables this particular morning. Seemed 
like some of it got bought sold over and over. The old Kenwood 
transceiver with the meter hanging by its leads out of the front panel 
like a gouged-out eyeball. The dirty stack of old, rusty military 
surplus gear that was certainly worth more as scrap than anything else, 
but absolutely nowhere near the price the OM had on it. The twisted 
Mosley beam that appeared to have had a violent entanglement with a 
tree. The stacks of old QST and CQ magazines. The nicotine-enhanced Swan 
350 with the bent corner on its case signifying a rough landing at some 
point in its long, long life.

But then something caught Jerry’s eye, a bit of gray front panel and the 
distinctive Collins logo. A 75-S3 receiver, right across from him. Jerry 
felt a tingle run up his spine. He stepped around his table and crossed 
the row to get a closer look, keeping a sideways view of his own table 
in case he got a shopper.

“How much you asking for that old Collins receiver?” he asked the man 
behind the table.

“$750.” The man wore a Collins logo belt buckle. Anyone with a Collins 
logo belt buckle surely knew how to handle the care and feeding of such 
a fine piece or gear. Unfortunately, he also was aware of its true value.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jerry asked. He did not mind a fixer-upper.

“Just like brand new. I re-capped it myself and used it on the air up 
until a couple of weeks ago. Never been around cigarette smoke, either. 
Works as good as the day Art Collins soldered it all together.”

Jerry twisted the knobs and tried to get a glimpse inside. The receiver 
was clean, all right. Knobs and switches were properly nimble and tight. 
Meter case and dial clear.

“Yeah, but how much would you take?”

“$750.”

Jerry scratched his chin.

“Why are you selling it, then?”

“I’ve been wanting another KWM-2 since I got rid of my last one,” 
Collins Belt Buckle answered. “I love them things but people keep 
offering me too much money for them and I can’t turn ‘em down. I got a 
KWM-2-sized hole on my shelf, just waiting.”

“OK, I have a couple of items on my table I’d have to sell first, but 
I’d give you $650 cash for it if I do.”

The man looked up and down the way to be sure nobody could hear their 
haggling.

“Tell you what,” the man replied in a half-whisper. “You bring me $650 
cash, she’s yours. That’s how bad I want that KWM-2. And if you get her 
home and she doesn’t work the way I say she will, we’ll un-do the deal. 
Money back guarantee’s hard to beat.”

The two men shook hands and Jerry retreated to where he was set up, but 
he could not help gazing back at the receiver he coveted so much. It 
seemed to be uttering his call sign, calling his name. Carefully, he 
moved his immaculate Johnson Viking Ranger II transmitter and Hammarlund 
HQ-170 to a more prominent position on one of the tables and re-did a 
sign to say, “Complete vintage station: $800.” If he could get anywhere 
close to that price, that beautiful Collins would be his.

Not two minutes later, a tall, slender man wearing a “Know Code” tee 
shirt ambled by, stopped, came back, looked, and lovingly touched the 
big VFO knob on the Ranger.

“First radio I ever had, that Ranger,” he said quietly, as if 
reminiscing about a prom date. “I still do some AM with my new-fangled 
transceiver, but man, these babies sure sound good on AM. Always wanted 
me a Hammarlund, too. How much you take for them?”

“$800,” Jerry said, without hesitation. “If you’ve checked, they’re 
worth a couple hundred more. In great shape, too.”

The man moved the VFO knob so the pointer arced up and down the band, 
turned the receiver’s dial to match the frequency, and finally looked 
up. Jerry did not miss the hunger in Know Code’s eyes. He wanted this 
station for his very own.

“Tell you what,” the man finally said. “I got an Icom transceiver on my 
table up the way. If I sell that for what I need to get for it, I’d give 
you $700 for the pair.”

Jerry watched a flock of crows claim a hickory tree at the far end of 
the flea market. They cackled and cawed and haggled at each other as 
they jockeyed for the best perch.

“Okay, it’s a deal,” Jerry told Know Code. “But I can’t hold them for 
you or guarantee they’ll still be here at this price.”
“Understood, but the old Icom is priced to sell and I’ve had some 
tire-kickers already.”

Jerry watched the tall fellow hurry back up the way to a table behind a 
big pickup truck. Jerry yawned and then eased back into his chair, 
answered a few question from others who stopped by. A couple of them 
made silly, low-ball offers on the Ranger and HQ-170. He sold a plug and 
a cable or two, but for only a few dollars, not nearly enough to claim 
the Collins.

When he had a chance, he kept an eye on Know Code’s setup. He really 
needed the guy to move that Icom so they could do their own deal. Sure 
enough, in a few minutes, a fellow in a GigaParts baseball cap stopped 
at Know Code’s table. He spent several minutes turning the knobs on what 
appeared to be an older hybrid Icom transceiver on the other ham’s 
table. They talked, laughed, and talked some more. Finally, GigaParts 
Cap pointed down the row of tailgaters, gestured affirmatively, and 
shook Know Code’s hand.

Jerry nodded at the fellow as he passed his position but the man walked 
with a purpose, back to a big SUV with its rear gate up and its back end 
full of gear. He quickly moved a big linear amplifier from beneath a 
stack and to a more prominent location. He scrawled something on a sign 
before taping it to the amp’s front.

Jerry knew at once what was going on. GigaParts Cap had to sell the amp 
to buy Know Code’s transceiver. And that would enable Know Code to buy 
Jerry’s transmitter and receiver. And ultimately, Jerry could go over 
and take possession of the 75-S3. Collins Belt Buckle would have to 
locate his own KWM-2.

The newly uncovered amp down at GigaParts Cap’s setup immediately caught 
some interest from a guy in an Elecraft jacket. Jerry watched with 
interest as the two hams haggled, laughed, and haggled some more. By the 
time they shook hands—preceded by Elecraft Jacket pointing back toward 
the far end of the flea market to where he had his own flea market 
setup—the flock of crows had abandoned the hickory tree and were looking 
for worms and other tidbits in a big field at the far side of the 
building, beyond where the indoor hamfest activities were being held. 
The population of crows had grown considerably and so had their fussing.

Jerry sold a few five-dollar items and an HT with a bad battery—totally 
disclosed to its new owner, of course—but his attention stayed on 
Elecraft Jacket as he walked away from GigaParts Cap’s place. He 
followed him all the way to a truck at the very end of the tailgate 
section. It was piled high with tower sections, rotors, and various 
antennas and parts. Aluminum and steel sprouted everywhere. Even from 
that distance, and even with the distraction from the casual lookers at 
his tables, Jerry could see that he had put a new price on something in 
his truck, and that it had attracted some quick attention.

“I’ll give you $200 for the Viking Ranger,” someone offered, 
interrupting Jerry’s observations.

“I wouldn’t sell you the tubes out of it for that!” Jerry responded with 
a grin.

“How much, then, for just the transmitter?”

“I already have an offer for the set,” Jerry told him.

“Shoot, I got three HQ-170s already. I bring one more in, I’ll need a 
divorce lawyer. But I’d love to have the Ranger. How much?” The man 
pulled his billfold from his hip pocket and opened it. It was obese with 
twenties.

Jerry looked at the lovely Collins on the table across from him. It 
fairly gleamed in the early spring sunlight. And down the way, at the 
truck full of towers, Elecraft Jacket had shaken hands with a fellow in 
a University of Georgia sweat shirt, and that guy was already 
double-timing back to a table stacked high with VHF and UHF repeaters 
and base station antennas.

Things were getting more complicated but they were still stirring.

“Naw,” Jerry told him. He could already hear that fine audio spilling 
out the speaker from the 75-S3. “Come on back after lunch and if I still 
have it, we can talk.”

As the man reluctantly ambled away, Jerry glanced again at Georgia 
Sweatshirt. He was shifting around a particularly nice looking repeater 
so it could more easily be seen by passersby. In no time at all, a 
couple of guys wearing shirts embroidered with the local club’s logo 
walked up. Jerry had heard the club had been planning on adding a backup 
repeater for the .98 machine. With any luck, they had just decided on a 
purchase and it would keep this complex “circle of life” in motion.

There was a sudden ruckus over in the open field. Someone had apparently 
tossed a half-eaten hamfest hotdog that way and the crows were 
fluttering, squawking, fighting for the morsel. A couple of kids had 
joined in the fray, throwing out bits of popcorn, and that only 
contributed to the noise.

Meanwhile, Club Repeater Guys were already shaking hands with Georgia 
Sweatshirt, pointing back toward the table where the club had stacks of 
donated gear they were trying to sell to enhance the treasury. 
Obviously, they needed to move an item or two to be able to afford the 
backup repeater system.

Jerry tried to tune out the QRM from the flock of crows and looked 
toward the club’s table. Volunteers at a club table would not 
necessarily be as aggressive in moving items. This snag might derail the 
whole round-robin that had been so promising for all concerned up to 
this point.

However, somebody familiar was now standing over there at the club 
tables, blocking Jerry’s view as the man studied a particular item.

Wait. Wasn’t that Collins Belt Buckle, the owner of the 75-S3 Jerry 
desired so badly? The man shifted his position slightly and Jerry could 
see that he had been lovingly caressing what appeared to be a Collins 
KWM-2 transceiver. And he was telling the volunteer behind the table 
something, even as he pointed to where Jerry sat, watching, stretching, 
holding his ears to block out the screeching of the black birds in the 
nearby field.

That’s when Jerry realized what had to happen.

Collins Belt Buckle was already marching his way, a determined look on 
his face.

“You still want the receiver or not?” he asked loudly as he drew near, 
to be heard over the crows. “I just became a motivated seller.”

Jerry looked down the way, toward where Know Code had been trying to 
sell his Icom transceiver. Sure enough, Know Code was looking his way, 
as if he had figured out what was happening, too.

Jerry pointed toward Collins Belt Buckle and did an exaggerated 
questioning shrug of his shoulders. You still want the Ranger and 
Hammarlund?

Know Code gave him the “Wait!” sign with the palm of his hand. Jerry 
turned and, remarkably, GigaParts Cap was watching them both from the 
other direction. He gave Know Code a tentative thumbs-up, then the same 
“Wait!” signal, and turned to look even farther down the way, toward 
where Elecraft Jacket stood next to his stack of galvanized 
gravity-defiance sticks.

It took only a casual wave by GigaParts Cap to attract Elecraft Jacket’s 
attention there at his own table. He nodded animatedly and started 
jogging up the way to Georgia Sweatshirt’s table full of repeaters. The 
two men nodded and shook hands again and Georgia Sweatshirt trotted over 
to the club table.

The two Club Repeater Guys were just leaving the club table, bound for 
the snack bar inside. Thirty seconds later and they would have been 
gone. Georgia Sweatshirt flagged them down and pointed to each of the 
other hams’ setups and then, finally, to the club table, explaining to 
them what was going on. They all enjoyed a laugh.

Thankfully, the flock of crows had flown on, looking to scavenge and 
pore over morsels somewhere else. Time temporarily stood still as Jerry 
quickly considered the situation.

For anything to happen, one of the various cogs in this wheel would have 
to let go some dollars. That would start the chain reaction. But, once 
the big deal started, if even one of them balked on a pre-arranged deal, 
somebody in line—and maybe most of them—would be left holding the bag. 
Or a piece of gear, at any rate.

Jerry stood and walked over to Collins Belt Buckle, took out his wallet, 
and peeled off enough bills to complete the transaction. Thank goodness 
for that last-minute stop at the ATM that morning. He made sure 
everybody else involved saw that he was starting the snowball, right 
then and there.

He hauled the beautiful Collins receiver back over and placed it 
lovingly beneath a blanket in the back seat of his car. He was thrilled, 
not just at the price but at what appeared to be a fine piece of 
American craftsmanship that now belonged to him. He couldn’t wait to get 
it home, get it on the table in the shack, and hook up AC and an antenna.

When he turned around, Know Code stood there, money in hand, ready to 
consummate the deal. Jerry thanked him, put the cash in his 
newly-emptied wallet, and helped complete the transaction by carrying 
the heavy Ranger transmitter for the buyer. Meanwhile, Know Code hugged 
the big Hammarlund receiver close to his chest, a grin on his face, as 
they made their way up to his vehicle.

GigaParts Cap was already there, waiting for them. He helped them put 
the gear into Know Code’s truck and, as Jerry headed back to his own 
table, those two hams quickly settled up.

GigaParts Cap winked at Jerry as he double-timed back past him, proudly 
carrying the transceiver he had just purchased. He was on the way to 
where Elecraft Jacket was already standing at the SUV, lovingly studying 
the meters on the front of the big amp. Jerry watched as both of them 
lifted and carried the after-burner down to where the truck full of 
tower sections sat.

With the amp safely deposited in the truck’s crew-cab, both men helped 
Georgia Sweatshirt carry multiple tower sections back and lay them down 
on the asphalt next to his truck. They carefully avoided toting them too 
close to the precarious mountain of repeaters and antennas, 
circumventing a costly avalanche.

Club Repeater Guys joined to help in moving the last of the tower 
sections, and then they consummated the deal with Georgia Sweatshirt on 
the repeater and antenna, happily toting the pieces over to the club 
table. There, Collins Belt Buckle was carefully counting out the 
bills—some of them the very ones Jerry had given him only moments before 
for the 75S-3—and excitedly collecting his KWM-2.

The sun was now warm on Jerry’s face as he eased back down into the 
chair, and, after the early rise that morning and the drive over to the 
hamfest, he was on the verge of dozing off. He was starting to dream of 
the 75-S3 and how great it would accent his shack. He already had a 
manual and had printed out some mods he wanted to try.

Just then, someone walked up to his table, casting enough of a shadow to 
pull him back from the approaching dream.

“How much you asking for the FT-1000?” The man had a big “I DO YAESU” 
button on his hat.

“Tell you the truth, I don’t much want to sell it,” Jerry told him 
honestly. “I just don’t need it and brought it down to see what it might 
bring.”

Yaesu Button rubbed his chin and made an enticing offer, more than Jerry 
would have imagined.

“Well, sir, I’d sell it for that, I guess.”

Yaesu Button glanced down the length of the boneyard to where a young, 
blonde lady sat behind a heap of computers, telephones, and odds and 
ends of various ham gear.

“Tell you what,” the man said. “I need to sell a couple more particular 
items, and when I do, I’ll come back and grab this baby. If you still 
have it by then.”

Jerry thought for a moment. On the trip up to deliver the Ranger to Know 
Code, he had noticed a particularly nice looking Collins 32-S3 
transmitter on somebody’s tailgate. He snuck a glance. Yep, it was still 
there.

A single crow had just settled into the top limbs of the hickory tree. 
The bird let out a screech eerily similar to some noises Jerry had heard 
in some DX pileups. Soon, he knew, the tree’s branches would be filled 
with its brethren.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll be here ‘til about 2 o’clock...”