But there's another type who travels -- the showman. They're the ones selling merchandise. T-shirts. Hemp necklaces and book-bags and CD compilations. You name it -- you've bought it. And they probably sold it to you. They work the tents all day in hundred degree heat armed with nothing but bullhorns and spray bottles and their own style.
"Hey you -- Freckles," says Rob to a Ginger Girl walking past. "Buy something."
Rob's holding a shirt that reads: Get Naked. The kind of shirt every guy would wear on a first date if he were really being honest.
But the Ginger Girl shakes her head, smiles and says, "No, thanks."
"Hey, you -- Black Guy. Buy my shirt. It's cheap and sexual."
But the Black Guy meanders on his way.
At that moment, a cocky 15 year-old with pimples and braces and wearing a shirt that reads: Fuck Everything, strolls up.
"You're a terrible salesman," the kid says.
Rob fans the wad of 20s, 10s, 5s and 1s in his hand -- a hearty stack. "Oh, yeah?" And in one foul swoop, SLAPS the kid across the face with it. "Buy a shirt."
"Um..." the kid stammers.
"Buy a shirt," Rob insists.
The kid looks over his shoulder at his two friends as if to say, "Help me." But the only backup they offer is --
"It is a pretty cool shirt, dude."
The kid looks at his feet. Looks back up at Rob.
"How much?"
And like the fish that's bitten into the worm, you can tell by the twisted expression on his face -- he knows he's fucked.
"$55."
"$55?"
"But for you I'll do $25. I'm feeling generous today."
The kid reaches for his wallet. Riffles through the 1s and 5s I'm sure his parents had given him for lunch at one point, and finds a twenty tucked way in back. "Here," he says, handing over the money.
Rob rummages through a set of bins beneath the table. "What size? Small, medium, or fat-ass?"
"Medium...?"
"Medium it is."
Rob returns with the shirt. The transaction is complete. And as the kid walks away, Rob calls, "I love you!" He turns to me and adds, "You can pretty much say anything to anybody as long as you end it 'I love you' just as another Gangly Teen with poor hygiene walks past.
"Hey -- you. This shirt will make you much less ugly."
A brief glance, but no sale. For now at least.
"OK -- I love you!"
But the Ginger Girl shakes her head, smiles and says, "No, thanks."
"Hey, you -- Black Guy. Buy my shirt. It's cheap and sexual."
But the Black Guy meanders on his way.
At that moment, a cocky 15 year-old with pimples and braces and wearing a shirt that reads: Fuck Everything, strolls up.
"You're a terrible salesman," the kid says.
Rob fans the wad of 20s, 10s, 5s and 1s in his hand -- a hearty stack. "Oh, yeah?" And in one foul swoop, SLAPS the kid across the face with it. "Buy a shirt."
"Um..." the kid stammers.
"Buy a shirt," Rob insists.
The kid looks over his shoulder at his two friends as if to say, "Help me." But the only backup they offer is --
"It is a pretty cool shirt, dude."
The kid looks at his feet. Looks back up at Rob.
"How much?"
And like the fish that's bitten into the worm, you can tell by the twisted expression on his face -- he knows he's fucked.
"$55."
"$55?"
"But for you I'll do $25. I'm feeling generous today."
The kid reaches for his wallet. Riffles through the 1s and 5s I'm sure his parents had given him for lunch at one point, and finds a twenty tucked way in back. "Here," he says, handing over the money.
Rob rummages through a set of bins beneath the table. "What size? Small, medium, or fat-ass?"
"Medium...?"
"Medium it is."
Rob returns with the shirt. The transaction is complete. And as the kid walks away, Rob calls, "I love you!" He turns to me and adds, "You can pretty much say anything to anybody as long as you end it 'I love you' just as another Gangly Teen with poor hygiene walks past.
"Hey -- you. This shirt will make you much less ugly."
A brief glance, but no sale. For now at least.
"OK -- I love you!"
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