The other day, at four o’clock, I’m working on some doodles, applying the finishing touches, and imagining what it’s going to be like to carry this momentum all the way until dinnertime, and it hits me like a tetherball to the face. This is the first Friday of the month. Tonight is bazar night!

It opens at five, and everyone is still setting up until about 5:30, so this gives me plenty of time to get ready. I haven’t left my apartment all day, but this isn’t a pants issue. I’m always wearing pants, except for when I’m taking a shower and that thirty seconds between switching between day clothes to my jammies, but I want to put some effort into my appearance. It has nothing to do with my crush on the printmaker who put the bazar together. Honest.

With plenty of time, I head out, wearing a nice shirt and my expanding collection of bracelets.

I make it to the station swiftly, just in time to watch the southbound Red Line pull out. The next one arrives in eight minutes, and I’m on edge. Are they going to start bazarring without me? I had a friend to text with, and that passes the time until I arrived in Artswalk plaza.

The plaza sits directly between the Metro station and Catholic University, which is surrounded by the nice neighborhood of Brookland. A lot of commuters and students pass through on their way home, and most of them stick around, for a few minutes. Some even stay for the backgammon. It never ceases to amaze me how many backgammon players there are. Mina, who I am not trying to impress (honest) explains that backgammon is huge in the Middle East. She herself is very competitive and not above nuking the board.

Hungry, I tried rookie eatery Amour Falasteen, a Palestinian popup with professional signage and menus, but spit and bailing wire for cooking. I order kafta arayes, a pita stuffed with shawarma beef, tahini, tomatoes, and onion. It smells great, and most of their profit goes to Gaza, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence that they have to keep checking the menu for the right ingredients. I shouldn’t have worried—it’s excellent.

Before I sit down and eat, I have to greet my new friend, Isa, the Ballstonian, the purveyor of Turkish delights, such as Turkish delight, Turkish coffee, and baklava. He’s thrilled to see me and shakes my hand with the force of the father of your prom date who has his eyes on you. Since I don’t want the top of my head blown off, I pass on the coffee and order the tea. I’m interested in some of his honey-heavy baklava, but all he has is chocolate, and my favorite baklava is baklava-flavored.

Isa, assembled out of pure class, offers to carry my order to the closest bench. I don’t mean to say “offers.” I mean to say “insists.” Sitting me down, he introduces me to the cute coed on the other end, who now has somewhere else to be. This is not the end of my reunion with Isa. The chocolate baklava surprises me by being amazing. Not as amazing as plain, though.

Next, I swing by Anahita Herbal Medleys, the place that sells the honey concentrate syrups supposed to cure all maladies. I don’t know if the ones I bought the previous month did what they were supposed to, but they taste great, so I bought more. I also pick up something called “De-Stresse.” (Note: the next day, the scent of it stresses Oscar out, so I’m going to have to return it and say it’s busted, Saira remembers me, and he gives me a generous discount, along with a little something extra.

Next, I pull into a little Persian tent with one specialty. You can tell what that is through its name, Baklavaaa! They’re serving three different kinds today. Advieh, which has kind of a woody texture; rose, baked with rosewater; and pomegranate, from which a kick is promised. I don’t need more baklava tonight, but there’s always breakfast tomorrow. Note: a variety pack is the best way to start the day.

To my delight, Zack the Psychic is there. The last tarot-card reading gave me was not the worst one I’d ever had. That honor is reserved for the lady at the Colorado Renaissance Faire this summer. Still, he’s far from good. Zack, however, is charming and enthusiastic, and ten bucks for his company is a small price to pay for his company. We spend most of our time talking about ourselves. For example, he was in an MLM for ten months, bailing before they seized control of his life and finances, and he’s trying to free his friend, who is being love-bombed by one before it’s too late.

Last time, he told me there was a younger woman in my life who was trying to steal secrets from me. He asks after her and makes sure I didn’t tell her about what the cards said. I assure him that I did not spill his secrets, mostly because she doesn’t exist, and I have few secrets.

My reading this time has a lot of pie imagery.

One of the cards he draws is the Lovers. He explains there is someone important in my life who is going to speak the things I need to hear, when I need to hear them, and it’s imperative I listen. As you can see, his deck is pretty and wild, and what he needs me to see is on the card from the Rider-Waite deck, which you’ve definitely seen before.

He explains that the other party, symbolized by Eve, is receiving the harsh truths from the snake. Adam. will receive that wisdom from her, not the angel above. He said that I should pay close attention when someone gives me a snake or something snake-adjacent. I should also watch for a pair of trees, probably at an orchard. It is literally the most literal tarot reading I’ve ever gotten.

Satisfied that I will not be encountering a snake at any time in the near future, I return to Isa.

He tells me how relieved he is to see me. He and the people I met last month were concerned that Malcolm had driven me off. In case you missed it, Malcolm was interested in World War II cosplay. Grant (or, as I know him, GRANT!) referred to the SS, which I thought was a joke. When Malcolm ran off to put on his stormtrooper costume, I asked, kidding, which kind of stormtrooper it was going to be.

Even though Malcolm chose wisely, Grant was not joking.

Malcolm is autistic, and he thinks the Nazis had great style. The whole group in Isa’s orbit has been trying explain that the SS is bad. Their only victory came when they convinced him to stop Sieg Heil saluting strangers on the street. Once, after watching a Tarantino movie, Malcolm called Hugo, who is black, the N-word with a hard R. Isa assures me he’s a sweet guy, though.

Understanding, I bring up the George Carlin quote, “Try explaining Hitler to a kid.” With his whole body, Isa says, “Exactly!” He loves the irreverent comedians, from Lenny Bruce to Richard Pryor, because they say everything (not “anything,” but “everything,” a huge distinction). He swears up and down he got to hang out with D.C. native, Dave Chappelle. Maybe not “hang out with.” But he met him.  

Isa is either a master bullshitter or the most fascinating person I ever met. Between his effusive expressions and his interests, he has my permission to talk, uninterrupted, for hours. We discuss my writing, and he asks about my method. I explain how it’s been hindered by my messy divorce weed, he tells me he smokes it in the winter when he can’t open up the coffee truck. I tell him I had to quit because I have an addictive personality, he tells me he has one too, though that doesn’t explain how he can quit nine months out of the year.

I point out we’re situated between rival poetry readings, and he replies he doesn’t like any of that modern crap. He studied the classics, and he dropped an endless list of poets I don’t recognize. He grew up lonely in the slums of Istanbul, and reading was the only way he could get through it. He loves words and literature. He made a movie and wrote a play, which is true because I have his website bookmarked. I still haven’t watched either.

When I tell him I got through my lonely childhood with comics, he gets very excited. Comics were the first things he ever read for pleasure. His neighbor had an impressive collection, and he disappeared into the colors and the dynamism. When he needed more input, he found real books.

He takes the occasional break to call out to passersby, like a traveling salesman in the Old West, about his beverages. Not a single person escapes his gravitational pull. He hard-sells everything, but no one goes for the coffee. I’m guessing most are aware that a single shot-glass-sized dose will keep you awake for a week. I’m jittery enough from the tea.

I have about a week’s worth of use-or-lose vacation, and I don’t want to use it all at once, out of fear of being drowned with work upon my return. My plan is to stay home and plug away at a project, whatever that might be, but maybe I want to go to 4000 Wilson Boulevard, where his truck is parked because it’s broken, and he can’t move it.

He tells me the Wednesday boys are something special. Everyone’s special at the Ballstonian. Isa shrugs. “It’s a magical spot. I don’t know what it is.”

It reaches an hour where, if I don’t leave right now, I will turn into a pumpkin. I announce my departure, and we shake hands like friends. Then he yanks me in for a hug. “You and I,” he says into my ear, “we’re kindred spirits.”