My Name Is Henry
Once I had my old rickety camp cot made and everything looking spiffy inside the tent, I took a tour of the place, and found a good looking young man named Shawn setting up his chain saw carvings. I offered to help him carry things, and fell in love with a wooden bear that just seemed to say to me, “My name is Henry and I want to go home with you and be your door guard.” So I traded my new friend four chair massages for Henry.
Shawn was built like a brick shit house, as my grandmother would say, and I was glad Jerry had recently taught us how to do “Deep Issue” massage, because nothing but my elbow would get through all that muscle. He was a sign maker by trade, but creating beautiful things using nothing but a chain saw and a sander was his passion.
From there, I talked to lots of other vendors. I followed the sound of a ukulele to Sander and his brother Nickolas, who had made their livings for the last thirty years selling CD’s of their homegrown music and any junk they thought was interesting. Though their musical style wasn’t exactly my taste, they wanted to trade a CD for a massage. For good measure, they threw in a green cat and blue dog balloon figure they make for kids.
I figured that since I didn’t have any money invested in inventory, I wouldn’t be losing any money in this trade. But I found out that the real value to me wasn’t in the DC, (or the animal balloons); it was in the friendship and their offer to tell all their vendor friends to come see me for a massage.