It was surprisingly cool at Fulton Street and a slow steady breeze flowed from one end of the platform to the other. Robert checked his flashy, but mildly expensive watch continuously. Several announcements heralded the numerous trains that had passed by noisily as the minutes ticked down to midnight. Each time his concern grew over being mislead or worse wrong altogether. He had a leather backpack, but it did nothing to help with the chill. The platform was silent now save for the steady drone of subway noise. The distant clatter of trains. The drone of the air exchangers. The occasional murmur from the few sparse late commuters remaining nearby.
The doldrum was interrupted by a near quiet clatter that was easily masked by the ambient noise. An ancient subway engine dragging several antique passenger cars pulled slowly into the station. It approached in a lazy meander, it’s doors opening once the last car was in the light. Much like the older lady had informed, the train did not stop but rather continued its slow progression as it made its way down the Fulton Platform. Rob quickly approached and stepped aboard. Though dimly lit with ancient styles Edison bulbs, he could easily see that each one of the cars were packed with carts, crates, wagons, and patrons silently waiting for the final destination.
“Tickets.” Said a man dressed in period trainmaster attire. “Tickets. $50.”
Each occupant, whether they were holding a bag or pushing a cart, handed over their cash without grumble of remark. Doddson waited patiently with his money in hand. When the conductor reached him he handed over the three twenties and broached.
“Hey, uh.” The artist began. ” This is my first time here. Do you guys have a map or brochure or something? “
The sharply dressed man regarded him only briefly as he passed a ten-dollar bill with a classic looking train stub to Robert.
“When you get to the platform, ask the first vendor if Roach is here. He’ll know.”
The train picked up considerable speed once the last car passed out of the station. The boarding sequence repeated three more times before picking up considerable, and noticeably quiet, speed. This must have been the last pickup, Doddson thought as he swayed between a couple of hippies. Yes, really hippies, his mind reiterated. Smelly, trashy, long-haired freaking hippies. The dim light of the archaic subway train continued to add to the surreality of the situation. Though not normally, the artist began to feel slightly claustrophobic. It was as if the Mos Eisley Cantina from Star Wars had three-quarters of its square footage removed and all the aliens packed in together like sardines. Do I smell sardines as well? Is that it?
The car rumbled along swiftly. Popping up topside to cross the Williamsburg bridge before plunging sharply back down into darkness. The train slowed to a more jogging pace compared to before. These must be the older tracks, he thought to the combat panic, tunnels that had been long since abandoned by the metro proper. The train slowed again, signaling the end of the trip. Robert breathed slowly and scanned about him. None of the other passengers seemed to suffer the same, low-level anxiety that he was exhibiting. Through his nose, he took a few deep breaths.
When the doors opened, the image was not far removed from what he expected. There was more florescent lighting, but still kept the Blade Runner mixed with Walking Dead vibe. The platform was littered with a random assortment of small stores. Each varying in complexity. Some looking like your usual street fare of purses on a tarp to small shack stores with shelves of random trinkets. The lighting was equally varied ranging from medieval braziers to camp lanterns and other battery-operated lighting. Robert found himself briefly transfixed by an ensconced wall torch as he followed the crowds toward the stairs. To his surprise, there was a military-style checkpoint with honest-to-God police officers checking IDs.
“Ticket, sir.” the younger one said to him as he approached.
Robert showed him the ancient stub and was waived along.
“Wait a minute,” Robert said, his mind clicking back into place. ” I was told to look for a person by the name of ‘Roach’. “
The other officer hollered “Tour Guide!” Without missing a beat. Pushed along by the flow of the crowd, the artist was brought face to face with a black gentlemen with a big smile, but eyes that held him in suspicion.
“Reporter?” The man asked.
“What? No, I am an artist. This is my first time in the night market. ” Robert replied.
“First time, eh? Fifty dollars.”
“I already paid for admission. ” Robert said, showing his stub.
“You see the scabs outside the gate? That’s the only free ride here. I am going to take you around, answer any questions you got, and help you look for what you are hunting for. For fifty MORE bucks.”
The artist thought for a moment. He didn’t have time to blunder about in the dark, hoping to find the last ingredients he needed to anti-poison himself onto the path of creating his own genuine artwork.
“What’s the difference between the scabs and the shops up here?” Robert asked as he fished out his wallet.
With the change from the train and a couple twenties, he made his additional fare whilst the crowd mulled last them in the dim light. When the money was in his hands did Roach finally respond.
“Long story short, the people who are on the platform are the non-conformists. The Night Market started as a secret free trade location. Total free trade in anything and everything. Which meant drugs, sex workers, child pornography, and so on and so forth. Gangs and drug runners began warring over control until a vast majority demanded the city to get involved. Now we have cops keep to the peace, but now it costs money to do business here. Those who refuse to switch to the new way of things remain outside to roll the dice on who rolls them up. The police or the thugs. “
They were walking as Roach spoke, climbing the flight of stairs to the main concourse. The ancient subway station sprawled before them illuminated with several flickering and pulsing pools of light. People went about their business as they reached the edge of the market. Either manning, setting up, or shopping, the denizens were like ants in a stylish hill.
“So what are you about?” Roach asked, rounding on the artist.
“I’m not an undercover cop or anything. ” Robert replied after a moment.
“Oh, I got that from go. That’s why the cops called for Tour Guide and not Roach.”
It took a moment, but Robert finally caught on.
“I was told to try a drastically radical cleansing. The ingredients I need have become obsolete and incredibly rare in standard herbalist shops.”
“Herbalist? You serious?”
“Yeah, here’s the list.”
Roach glanced it over and handed it back. He half-turned and glanced around, deep in thought.
“I was told the ingredients weren’t illegal just that nobody carried them anymore.”
“That’s not the problem. The problem is most you artsy, creative types are usually looking for typewriters or vcrs or cursed artifacts. Always the weird random stuff. Come on. This way. I know a few of the older shop owners may know who you need to talk to.”
Roach led Robert along through several of the booths and shops throughout the bazaar. Robert tried to remember as much of the geography as he could. He intended to visit the market again after his current deadline was met and a lot of the vendors had a lot of interesting wares. Every now and then Doddson quizzed his guide on trivial matters of the night market. Roach was surprisingly knowledgeable on most subjects broached and was not annoyed by the questioning. After visiting several booths they were finally directed to a hard constructed shop in a dark recess of the concourse.
They were greeted by an elderly Cuban gentleman who spoke great English under a heavy accent. Robert admitted he had expected a Chinese gentleman selling gremlins. Nobody got the reference. Roach agreed to wait until the business was concluded while Robert surrendered his list to the old man. Though tiny, the man was able to disappear into the darkness of the shop. Only the sound of drawers and packaging being rustled marked his activity.
The shopkeeper milled about the shadows for some time. The artist reckoned that the Latin gentleman must have been in business for some time or was blind because he did not turn a single light on other than the dim incandescent at the front of the store. Nor did he fumble and swear.
“So, Roach,” Doddson began, trying to break the silence. “Is that your real name? Codename?”
“Alexander Roach.” The tour guide returned. “This is my side gig.”
“Not much time for sleep and a day job is there?”
Roach laughed and shook his head.
“I am in international investments. Stocks, bonds, trusts, and the works. Europe and Southwest Asia, mainly. As most of their markets don’t open until late in the evening, I’ve had to adjust my sleep patterns.”
“Still, you cant possibly tell me that you do that and this at the same time.”
“Modernization and the internet has made my job considerably easier and given me a lot of free time. Not a lot of worthwhile places are open around the time I finish my ‘day’ work.”
Robert made to press further, but the herbalist returned with a cardboard box filled with many plastic and paper bags. Suddenly they were all awash in a sharp white glow.
“So that covers all the items on your list.” The older man said, glancing over the artist’s paper before adding it to the box as well.
He then switched the cell phone’s light off and calculator on. After a few short computations, he showed it to Robert. Doddson blinked at it briefly before fishing the amount out of his wallet. The older man thank them for visiting as Roach led the artist back out into the market.
“Is there anything else you were looking for?” Roach asked as the artist as the stood in the dim light outside the store.
Robert wanted to shop around more, but he desperately needed to complete his work. He needed to get back and try at least one of the recipes tonight.
“I think that’ll do for now,” Robert replied, shifting the box on his hip. “I have to get going.”
Reached lead him back into the main throng and to a set of turnstiles.
“Take the stairs all the way to the brick wall. Press against it slowly and it will open easily enough. Just don’t force it. You’ll find yourself in the service area of new subway station closer to ground level. Continue out without saying anything to anyone. No one should stop you as long as you make your way straight to the subway.”
Robert thanked Roach and headed for the stairs. Just before, he stopped and turned back.
“Hey. Is there any way I can reach out to you again if I am in the market? Or am looking into stocks and bonds if this artist gig doesn’t pan out.”
Roach handed him a very professional looking, embossed business card. Robert was taken aback by it as the man who handed it was rather plainly and blue-collar attired.
“Hey, it’s not like this place is open all the time, but I will give you a preferred customers discount next time.”
The stairs back to the main level proved daunting. At first, Robert held his cellphone before him, its tiny camera light illuminating the twenty or so feet of stairs beyond it. The lightly filled box soon began to grow heavy as he continued his climb, switching the phone and box from one to the other until bothering were equally tired. Fearing the loss of battery life, he switched the phone off entirely. Relying on the handrails, he continued on for an eternity.
Robert did not know what time it was when his foot fell to the same level as his previous step, signaling the end of his climb. He was delirious with fatigue when he shuffled his phone out of his pocket and switched the mini flashlight on.
The wall was not much further. The red bricks felt heavy and solid to the touch. Robert shoved as hard as he could, aching arms and legs protesting, but he remembered what the tour guide said. Pressing steadily, with gradually increasing pressure, the wall slowly swung squealing open into harsh fluorescent lighting.
He found himself in the hallway between a maintenance break area and locker room. The door quickly swung back into place behind him. Though he could clearly see the bricked up archway of the old stairway, had he not passed that way just now, he would never have seen the hidden hinges of the door.
James C Gilliam 