We are going to the Randolph Street Market, a European-style indoor and outdoor antique market located in the historical West Loop neighborhood of Chicago. It is one of the largest and liveliest urban antiques market in the USA. My mom simply adores it.
We don’t say much on the ride there. I stare out of the window most of the time, admiring the skyline of my city, which I never tire of. Upon spotting the rusty elevated railroad of the central line, I also think I am glad Mom came with her car so I don’t have to use public transportation…at least for one day. Traffic is not too bad and we get there in good time. Luckily, they have a cheap valet service, which means we won’t need to circle around for an hour to find a spot or pay thirty dollars for a two hour stop.
“So Mom, what do we need to find today?” I ask her as we exit the car.
“Well,” she answers, while handing over the keys to the valet, “I need to find a corner wrought-iron rack for my vases. It has to have different layers like a stair, but sort of rounded.”
I take her arm under mine and we jump into the search of the numerous stands displaying all kinds of antiques. The market is bursting full of people and sounds. There are some vendors shouting to attract the attention of passers-by, others vivaciously negotiating with their customers, and the general chitchat of shoppers enjoying the market’s colorful display on this sunny day. A live band is playing traditional bluegrass music on a side stage, adding more verve to the already kinetic-energy filled environment.
Weird and wonderful treasures may hide in this labyrinth of objects from all eras, but a lot of it just looks like heaps of rags and old junk for sale. We pass a giant stand completely covered in mounds of bric-a-brac, porcelains, vases, plates, and, to my utmost disgust, even an old chipped chamber pot. It was no doubt something used by royalty from the look of it, but it is still a used chamber pot. Ewww.
Despite this, the more we walk around the more I am enticed by the atmosphere of this place. My skepticism begins to evaporate, leaving me free to feel the pull of all these objects, of the lives that have been lived in them. Moving forward, I get more and more fascinated by the diverse array of vintage fashion, art, fresh flowers galore, jewelry, and decor stalls showcasing eclectic artwork and crafts. I am particularly taken by an old rusty booth displaying antique charcoal sketches. I feel transported into a bohemian Paris, so I spend a long time leafing through them, imagining the secret history behind each one together with my mom.
After that, we wander around for about an hour. We have fun deriding the vast selection of plaster Snow Whites, old scratched toys, and various knick-knacks, and admiring the magnificent display of wood furniture, vintage accessories, and art from the fifties—one of my favorite decades.
As we’re walking, a movement of the crowd separates me from my mom, pushing me against a cart of used shoes and her toward a lopsided scaffold acting as a stage for a bunch of colorful, old-fashioned furniture. This place is way too packed for me. I am becoming all sweaty and sticky, which is even less to my taste.
“Mom!” I shout. “I am moving over there to the side lane.”
“Okay!” she shouts back, “I just want to have a look there.” She points at the rear end of the furniture stall.
I give her the thumbs-up and push my way out of the crowd. When I finally manage to disentangle myself from the coils of this anaconda of humanity, I spot a drinking fountain at the end of one of the lateral alleys and head there. In my present overheated status, it appears as inviting as an oasis in the desert. I reach it with a few quick steps and quaff as much fresh water as I can without choking.
I already feel much refreshed, and since there is nothing else to do, I slowly find my way back to the uncongested part of the market. As I poke around lazily, looking for an unknown object, two men are bargaining over an old fire fender, the bygone music of a lost opera plays from an ancient phonograph being tested, and the air seems infused with a mystical atmosphere.
I am attracted by the smallest stand. A very old lady is sitting behind it in a rocking chair, an odd hat obscuring her face almost completely. On each side of the stand are two vertical panels, and dangling from them is the most amazing collection of bizarre objects. The horizontal surface of the cart is covered by an amazing array of cute little boxes; jewelry cases, I think. I am particularly drawn to one, and I grab it to have a better look. It’s made of some kind of metal, maybe brass. It’s really shiny and beautiful, all carved with small opaque stones attached on each side and a roundish, protruding grip on the top.
“I see you have been chosen!” the old lady says out of the blue with a shrill, croaky voice.
She startles me so much that I almost drop the little case.
“You are a very lucky young woman, my dear,” she continues, standing up. She seems completely unaware of my recent distress. “After today, your life will be changed forever.”
“Mmm, yes. Sorry, I was just looking,” I say, putting back the box.
This old lady must be nuts.
“Oh no, no. This will not do! It chose you, now it is yours,” she insists.
“Eh. No, really, I was just poking around. I don’t really want to buy anything, thanks.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear.” She shakes her head vigorously while retrieving the little box from the cart and offers it to me again, outstretching her arms in front of me with a pleading expression.
Her face is a crisscross of deep wrinkles that give her such an air of frailty that she’s making me feeling sorry for her. I begin to think it would be easier to just buy the damn thing and be done with it. Granny here is either completely wacky, or she has the best selling strategy I have ever seen. I am about to ask her how much it is when I am saved by my phone ringing. I gladly grab it from inside my maxi bag and answer right away. It’s Mom.
“Sweetie, you have to come and help me,” she says. “I’ve found my rack, but I need you to carry it out of here.”
“Where are you, Mom?”
“Still at the furniture stall—do you remember how to get here?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Sorry, I have to run. Maybe next time,” I say to Granny, glad I have a real excuse to escape.
I wave goodbye, turn around, and step away before she can trap me again. She mumbles something after me, but with all the surrounding noise I am already too far away to hear what it is…and, honestly, I don’t care.
By the time I get back home it is already six in the evening. Mom insisted on having lunch together after the market, which took longer than I expected, and after lunch I had forgotten I had a hair appointment, to which I added a mani-pedi and some beauty product shopping. I decided to load my weapons for Monday and at least try to look my best, even if I feel the opposite inside.
Overall, the day went a lot better than I would have anticipated this morning. Well, with the exception of nagging thoughts of James and Vanessa occasionally creeping on me unexpectedly and knocking the air out of my lungs, leaving me breathless for a second or two every time.
When I finished with the pampering it was already five-ish, and since I had no intention of cooking tonight I went to my favorite Chinese takeout and grabbed some dinner to enjoy at home in sad loneliness. So, right now I am entering my apartment with my steaming to-go order in one hand, a huge bag of beauty products in the other, and I’m just about ready to sag back into darkness and self-commiseration. I deposit the food on the kitchen countertop and drop my maxi bag on the floor, where it lands with a heavy thud.
Damn, my shoulder feels really sore! I must stop carrying everything around in my purse. I promise myself I will do an inventory check after dinner to see if there’s something I can take out. I change into some comfy clothes and decide to eat at the bar of my L-shaped open kitchen. I set all the little white food containers on it and pull out two stools, one for me and one for Sugar. Once I break my chopsticks, I am ready to start.
I share the occasional shrimp or chicken treat with my furry friend, who is thrilled whenever he gets to eat my food…or human food in general. I don’t know why; does he feel more involved? Maybe I should study a bit of feline psychology. Once he has had his fill, he strolls away to drink some water from his pet fountain. I know, he’s spoiled rotten. He then disappears, probably to find a soft spot to sleep. Sometimes I wish I were a house cat; their life seems far more uncomplicated.
After just a few minutes of peace, I hear worrying meowing and clinging sounds coming from behind the counter. I lean forward to check what’s going on, only to find that the little pest has scattered the contents of my bag all over the place and is enthusiastically playing with it. Quite the opposite of sleeping. My feline empathy is off today. In particular, he is attacking a little bundle that I don’t recognize.
I hurry around the kitchen island to salvage whatever it is that Sugar is butchering. I snatch it away and, to my utter surprise, I find myself holding a small, nicely wrapped package whose origin is a complete mystery to me. I weigh the enigmatic parcel in my hands for a while before unwrapping it. It is quite heavy; no wonder my shoulder was so sore! What could it possibly be? I carefully undo the cover, recognizing immediately what lies beneath. It’s the jewelry case from the flea market; the one the creepy old lady insisted I should buy.
This is impossible! I didn’t buy it, and sure enough, I didn’t steal it. I perfectly remember putting it back on the stand and then running away to catch up with Mom. The old lady was never near enough to drop it in my bag, nor would she have had the time to wrap it so carefully. Then what?
Uggh! Now I’ll have to go back to the market tomorrow and try to explain it all to Granny. Just what I needed!
Well, nothing I can do about it now. I am just going to finish my Chinese food, not thinking about stupid boxes magically materializing in my bag. But honestly, how can you not think about an ancient looking little box that has magically materialized in your bag? It is simply impossible! I quit trying almost immediately. I set aside my unfinished food and begin my examination of the object.
It certainly is very nice and, judging from the quality of its embellishments, very old. The metal is cold to the touch and has a golden shine to it, but surely it can’t be solid gold! I peek at it more closely. The stones that appeared opaque this morning now seem changed; they are almost translucent. Someone must’ve cleaned this thing. Probably the same someone who put it in my bag.
I wrap my fingers around the little knob at the top, undecided. Finally, I gather my courage and open it. I gasp as I see…nothing. It’s empty! Well, what was I expecting? I am being silly right now; even my heart is beating faster for no reason at all.
I close it again, turn it around in my hands a couple of times, and play a little with the knob on top, which suddenly turns producing a loud click. I study it for a second; the little knob seems to be attached to some sort of gear mechanism on the lid. I lift the cover again.
Argh! A nasty puff of dust just blew in my face, almost choking me. This is what I get for fooling with obscure objects I shouldn’t have in the first place. Where did that dust come from? It wasn’t there a second ago.
I need some water to ease the itchiness in my throat. I am heading for the fridge when something odd catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turn around to check and gasp even louder when I see a man comfortably settled on the living room sofa. I don’t know if I am more stunned by the fact that there is a stranger sitting on my couch, by how he is dressed, or by the fact that he must be the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
He has dark, chin-length hair, deep blue eyes, and a fair complexion. He is sitting, but I can tell he’s tall. Very tall. He must have some sort of costume on because he looks like an English gentleman from the eighteenth century.
The man is wearing a double-breasted dark blue tailcoat with large gilt buttons that are unbuttoned. The coat opens on a figured silk vest that is tightly fastened over a white and perfectly ironed and starched high-collared shirt, which is complemented by a creamy silk knotted cravat. His pants are a pair of tight fall-front breeches made of pale yellow buckskin that have an orderly line of three covered buttons at the knee. His footwear consists of black leather Hessian boots adorned with golden tassels. As if this wasn’t enough, he’s fully accessorized with black gloves, a gold-mounted cane, and a black top hat.
I am so dumbfounded that when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out, so I close it. I try to speak again, but nothing happens. I must look like a fish underwater. Now I understand when they say how fear can completely paralyze you. He stands up, and I instinctively withdraw until my back is pressed against the fridge. He really is tall, at least six feet two.
“My lady,” he announces, “I am deeply sorry if I have startled you. May I introduce myself?” Then he bows. Yes, a full gentleman-like bow.
“So you are British.” It’s all I can come up with when I find it in me to speak.
“That would be technically correct. However, I would rather be addressed as English, if you please,” he states with extreme politeness, coming toward me.
“Stay where you are.” I try to make it sound like an order, but it probably came out more like a plea.
“As you bid, milady,” he says, sitting back on the couch.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, exasperated.
“Arthur, your most humble servant. Pleased to meet you, my lady.”
“Lady who? How did you get into my apartment?”
“I believe you summoned me.”
“I didn’t summon anyone!”
“Did you not turn the Wheel of Destiny and open the Coffer of Fortune?”
“I didn’t turn any destiny thingy, or open any fortune widget,” I say angrily. “Listen, I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about. I just think you’re some kind of weird lunatic dressed funny who somehow has broken into my apartment.” Admittedly, a very good-looking lunatic.
Ally, get a grip. Ogling psychotic burglars… Have I sunk so low?
“But the Coffer of Fortune is right next to you!” he protests, pointing at the jewelry case.
“What are you saying? That by opening this stupid thing, I somehow magically summoned you to my apartment?”
“That would be accurate.”
“And why exactly?”
“I am enslaved to the coffer and eternally cursed to grant the wishes of its owner.”
“Ah, well. You should have said so in the first place. Now it all makes perfect sense. You’re the genie of the lamp, arrived here to grant my wishes,” I say ironically.
“Djinn are merely a myth, ancient legends created by men in the hope of—”
“Enough hocus pocus for me!” I briskly interrupt him. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I am asking you to leave right now or I’ll call the police!” I grab my phone and dial 911.
“Oh, I am mostly apologetic. Were you planning on visiting someone tonight? This police friend of yours? Have I made you late?”
“You are completely crazy! This is the last time I ask you nicely. Please get out of my house now!”
“My lady, the only way you can rid of me is by letting me grant your wishes.”
“I’ve had enough of this—I am calling the police!” I press the green button on my phone.
“911, what is the nature of your emergency?” a metallic voice comes from the speaker.
“I see I have to resort to extreme measures,” the lunatic says.
“Hello, my name is—” I begin to say.
BANG!
My living room is transformed into an African desert. My hardwood floor has been replaced with high dunes of fine, warm sand, and I can feel my feet sinking into it. My furniture is gone, my kitchen is gone, even my walls are gone. I am standing in my PJs in the middle of the freaking Sahara. I look up astonished, my mouth dangling open. The English gentleman is quietly sitting cross-legged on my couch, nonchalantly rotating his cane in the air, except the couch is now positioned atop an orange sand dune. Poor Sugar is meowing pitifully while he struggles to climb up a sand pile, leaving a trial of small paw prints behind him.
I look back at the stranger, who is eying me from under his cylinder hat with an amused, challenging smirk.
“Miss, I am sorry I didn’t get your name.” The metallic voice comes from my phone, which I’m still solidly clenching in my right hand. I look at it, still mesmerized, and press end.
“Ok. You’ve made your point,” I say, still a bit dazed. “By the way, I’m Ally,” I add, as an incredulous smile spreads on my lips. “Ally Johnson.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Johnson.”