Chapter 14
Generally speaking, my gifting philosophy is to avoid purchasing new material things. My preferences are for homemade, thrifted, upcycled, or experiential. I like to give people gifts that already have a story, or the potential to become one.
So where Audra takes us is my gifter’s wonderland.
“Trusting you two will prevent him from spending his life savings in there,” Izaac says to Diya and me before heading off.
“No promises,” I say, at the same time that Diya says, “You have my word.”
Cash salutes Audra, then kisses Izaac. “ThankyouI’msorryIloveyou,” he says, all as a single word.
“You’d better,” Izaac says. “All that.”
I try to read whether he’s joking or actually annoyed with Cash. But I’m getting very mixed signals.
When they head off, Cash pushes open the door and lets Diya and me go in ahead of him.
We’re greeted by a whoosh of warm air and a buzzing hive of hip, young humans.
The building itself is an airy, sprawling labyrinth of vendors, with high ceilings and exposed beams and brick walls painted different colors.
There are booths with original art and ones with thrifted or handmade clothes.
There are screen-printed umbrellas and all kinds of jewelry.
Handmade neckties that I can imagine myself learning to tie someday (probably with Izaac’s help) and pairing with a tailored suit (probably with Cash’s help).
It feels like there’s something for everyone in here, like the Cooper Bazaar if the Cooper Bazaar were indoors and cool .
I could make a documentary just about this place.
And I’m not the only one enchanted by the selection. Cash and Diya immediately begin perusing the merchandise, striking up conversations with vendors. I trail and catch it all on camera.
I pause as Diya combs through a selection of winter hats, which are definitely not her size or style.
“Something for Seichi, perhaps?” I ask. “To keep him warm on those lonely mornings when he’s out plowing the cold streets?”
She jumps. “Bosley! You scared the shit out of me,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. These are very versatile hats for… hat enthusiasts.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
Cash is at the next booth over, admiring handmade leather wallets.
“I bet you could have a booth here someday,” I tell him as the vision appears right in front of my eyes. “Cash’s Custom Costumes.”
“Oh, I love that for me!” He winks.
We meander around together while I record, and after a few minutes, Cash and I stop at a hand-poured soy candle stand while Diya chats with another maker about eyeglasses made from upcycled Christmas ornaments.
“Hmm, do you think Aunt Bev is more of a buttery chardonnay, or a marshmallow fireside?” Cash asks, holding up two handmade soy candles.
“Nothing for Bev yet?” I ask.
At least I’m not the only one struggling to find the right gifts this season.
“She’s not been doing great.” He sighs. “It’s hard to know what’ll cheer her up these days.”
My stomach sinks. Aunt Bev took Cash in freshman year, after his mom died.
We all love her, in part because she stocks the best Trader Joe’s snacks (which Izaac gladly delivers) but mostly because she shares Cash’s love of live theater.
On nights when Cash gets home early enough from work, they stay up together watching VHS tapes of Pavarotti—an old Italian dude who Bev swears can break glass with his voice.
Maybe Cash has been on his phone so much because he’s checking on her.
If that’s the case, I feel guilty for making such a thing of it.
“I think I see Bev as more of a gingerbread doughnut,” I say, handing over a third candle that smells like clove and molasses.
Cash sticks his nose right into the jar. “Ohhh. That’s the one. You really are the best gift giver, B. You know everyone so well.”
I don’t admit that I don’t feel that way this year, or that I wish knew what I could do for him . I can’t help with Bev, or if he has concerns about his grades. But Izaac… maybe I can do something there.
He carefully returns the other candles to where he found them, and an idea dawns on me.
“Hey, those wallets back there… I know Izaac said no spending, but what if he were the beneficiary? Those had his name written all over them,” I say. “In fact, I think you can actually monogram them…”
“Oh, we decided not to do gifts this year,” Cash says.
“Seriously?” That is not like these two, who jump at every chance to be theatrical or grand, always trying to outdo each other.
Cash shrugs. “Money’s a thing, ya know?”
“Right, of course,” I say, but is it that much of a thing for them that they’d take Christmas gifts off the table?
I chew my lip and run a rapid internal brainstorm session.
“Well, what about something that wouldn’t cost anything? I mean, you and Izaac have both been so busy lately, what if you surprised him with a date recreation for Christmas? Like, something from when you guys first started dating—maybe the Lady and the Tramp date?”
Sometimes a reminder of the good old days is all it takes to inspire new happy memories.
“B, I love you and your nostalgia, but I want to look forward a little bit more this year.”
“Right,” I say, but he doesn’t elaborate, and it feels like yet another example of me being behind on everything.
“But! Your gifting skill and grand gesture instinct is just one of the many reasons Eve will be so lucky to have you.”
My heart warms with appreciation, and I wish I could make him feel better too.
“Well, anyway, just gonna pay for this,” he says, and heads off toward the registers as a couple strides up between us, debating whether tapers or floating candles are more the vibe for their co-op’s holiday open house.
I wait for a moment and think about what I would get Eve, if Eve were mine, and as I daydream, I migrate to the next stall over, where a dreadlocked white woman with quarter-sized wooden ear gauges is sitting behind a table, repairing a necklace with a small handheld welder.
It’s sending tiny sparks into the air—perfect B-roll.
I step closer and train my lens on her hands, in awe of the intricate details I see in my viewfinder. But just as I’m zooming in closer, she looks up at me, and her face twists in anger.
“Hey!” she shouts, and reaches up to push my camera away.
“Whoa!” I shout back, because I’m so startled that I almost drop it.
“This isn’t your personal Instagram live channel,” she snarls, standing now. “Get outta here!”
“Jeez, sorry,” I sputter, stumbling back.
A small crowd has formed, so I turn, eager to get away as fast as possible. It’s not easy, given the congestion of the aisles, and I hear her talking about me to another customer.
“I don’t mean to be rude, ya know, but these kids come here and take videos for their TikTok or whatever and don’t buy a single thing! It’s just all so they can build their brand , or whatever…”
“Ugh. Gross ,” the other person says.
That’s not at all what I was trying to do with my camera, but I wouldn’t even know how to explain myself if I tried: I’m sorry but actually I was thinking your work might be proof that humans are magic ?
She probably wouldn’t buy that either.
I finally make it to the aisle but a small woman with thick black glasses and super short bangs is standing there, blocking my way, and as I try to pass, she sticks out a tiny plastic spoon, nearly poking me in the face with it.
“Sample?” she says, offering something blue and vaguely gelatinous. “Blueberry basil, with wild fruit from my upstate farm, and rare opal basil.”
“I, uh.” I just stare at her because I don’t have a clue whether I’m supposed to eat it or rub it on my skin, and I really don’t want to get blasted again.
“Sorry, I’m a vegetarian,” I blurt.
She gives me a WTF look and says, “It’s jam ,” and I wait for her to bestow a Dumbest Ever award upon me.
I wriggle past her and manage to escape without causing a whole scene again. I make myself as small as possible to squeeze through the crowd, which seems to have gotten a lot more intense in the short time we’ve been here.
“Hey!” a bearded clothing vendor in a blue flannel button-up calls to me as I pass his stand, and I duck because what did I do now? But then he says, “Great jacket,” and the compliment lifts my spirits a little.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, looking down. I almost forgot what I was wearing. “It was my mom’s.”
“An heirloom… Respect that!” he says. “We’ve got some boots over there that would go great.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, and head over to the rack, in part just to get away from the current of people trying to move through the aisle. “So these are all thrifted?” I ask as I scan tweed skirts and wool cardigans that smell like mothballs and weed.
“Thrifted?” he asks, incredulous. He corrects me as he snatches back a blazer I’ve just pulled off the rack. “No, dear. Nothing here is thrifted . This is all vintage . Big difference.”
“Oh,” I say, though I still don’t know the difference (beyond the eye-popping price tags). “Sorry.”
I duck back into the aisle again. I’m running out of apologies the way a video game character depletes their stash of lifesaving coins. But the disorientation sets in big time. In my rush to escape, I’ve lost track of where I’m going.
All I do know is that I’ve got to get out of here.
I thought this place would be filled with my people, but every spot of magic seems to sour when I reach it.
So far, all I’ve learned at this market is that despite my confidence earlier today, I’m not even remotely ready for Brooklyn.
Maybe I’m not ready for Eve, either. She’s probably used to this kind of thing—these crowds, these prices, these people, these rules…
She probably knows the difference between thrifted and vintage, or even why an alpaca sock costs twenty-seven dollars.
I need to find my friends. I can feel myself spiraling to a dark place, but the layout is more complicated than the Cooper corn maze at Halloween time.