Homosassa > Heaven

Being a native North American, the holiday season’s oft-delayed demise left me with the same desire everyone has: visit Buddy Max’s Cowboy Junction Flea Market!

Unfortunately the flea market is only open on Tuesdays (if at all).  I’m now stuck fighting the desire to take a Tuesday off just so I can drive all the way back to Lecanto again.  The website clearly said the flea market was open Tuesday and Saturday, with Saturday bringing a Buddy Max concert.  Hence my trip. 

Nothing.

Nada, as all my Spanish readers say.

(Actually the website says it’s only open on Tuesdays now, but when I checked it, it said Tuesdays and Saturdays.  The site’s been changed in the last few weeks.)

I would have taken some better shots, but I didn’t feel too comfortable in the (almost) vacant lot.  Literally thirty seconds after I pulled into the lot, this car pulled in behind me.

They didn’t stop to introduce themselves, or ask what I was doing there, or what I wanted.  They just mean mugged as their car crawled by and parked itself about a hundred and fifty feet away.  Then they continued staring. 

This would’ve been the last (only?) time in the year where I would have been comfortable communicating with them.  Look at the pictures; the lot itself practically asks the questions!

Who are you?

Is this place still open?

When did it close?

Do you like pizza?*

Is Buddy Max dead?

Are you Buddy Max?

Clearly I couldn’t ask them any questions.  I thought about walking over to them, but the windows were rolled up and the engine still running.  (Do cars that ancient even have air conditioning?)  I figured they’d end up pulling away really slowly after I was twenty-five feet away from them.  Then I’d have to triangulate their trajectory to cut off their escape angles and force them into a corner.  This fantasy made me giggle.  Which probably wouldn’t have helped me out in this situation. 

(In fact, giggling like a school girl never seems to help me out.) 

I didn’t have time for that; since I felt certain that they’d call the cops if I walked any closer to the building or them.  I was estimating whether they had already called the cops.  (Does Lecanto have cops?)

This fear seems foolish looking back now.  How would they call the police?  From the appearance of their car and the grounds, they’d be unfamiliar with technology from the eighties.  There’s not a snow ball’s chance in hell they’d be using cell phones.  I barely use one!  Maybe they’d messenger pigeon a constable.  Or just shoot me dead.

The most telling part of all this was my initial reaction.  I read their vibe first as wanting me gone.  This seems quite obvious.

That’s fine; I’m used to it.  Most of my friends have trouble standing me all the time. 

But I then thought, maybe they’re here for the concert too!  I honestly thought of hopping into my car and following them as they rolled by.  Follow them to the true, obviously hidden, flea market.  Which, at this point, would be populated with faery vendors and shit; ‘cuz clearly I’ve lost my mind.

Reality struck home when they (finally!) pulled into visitor parking and waited.  Thus crushing my hopes of an even greater adventure into Eldorado or wherever I was thinking of.  (At this point it was two parts Voltaire’s Candide meets one part Black Sabbath’s “Fairies Wear Boots.”)

This Tuesday business needs to be investigated though.  ‘Cuz Monkey Island is twenty minutes away from Cowboy Junction.  Which, if it’s still rocking, would make Homosassa better than heaven. 

Really.

Does heaven have an island of monkeys?  Not according to any Bible I’ve skimmed through. 

  *This, of course, is the set-up to a dirty pick-up line.  Actually, the line isn’t so much “dirty” as it is really straight forward and thus blunt. Old people confronted with dirty jokes – the new territory I’ll be exploring in blogs for years to come.

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