Fun, Family And T-Shirts At The Pulga, Or Swap Meet

Some people call them pulgas. Other people call it a tianguis. My family always called it swap meet. Whatever you choose to call it, it has always been an adventure. There was always something magical in the air every time we’d go as a family — especially when the car was packed with children who were too cool to admit their clothes came from the swap meet.

Sunday mornings might have been spent on church, but Saturday mornings were a far more religious day. The only thing that could stop my dad was the rain. When I was young, I actually felt that the swap meet was a more sacred place. Church would still be there on a rainy day – we would always say we would go to the evening mass, but we would never go – you could not say the same thing about the swap meet. It operated like Major League Baseball: rain meant you had to go home and hope for sunshine.

My parents always went with bargains on their mind. They wore their wait-and-see attitude like badges. As a kid, I wanted all my clothes to come from the mall. My dad would say things in Spanish like:

“It did come from a mall… it’s just that they’re a little different. The mall can’t make deals like this because it hurts the economy. Besides, a 10,000 Maniacs shirt is nothing. Your shirt says 100,000 Maniacs. That’s way more maniacs for my dollar.”

At the time, I did not have the heart to break it to him that I was not even a fan. Swap meet clothes were considered our everyday school and play apparel. Our church clothes came directly from Sears. In fact, my parents hated when someone died because that meant we had to make an unscheduled trip to Sears. After all, it would be tasteless to show up with my misspelled Los Angeles “Doddgers” shirt.

The swap meet was the breeding ground for the deal. Socks could have sold 5 pairs for a penny, but my mom would spend an additional hour haggling in order to get that sixth pair thrown in for free. Then when they counteroffered with a “no,” she would spend an additional twenty minutes displaying her dealing skills, by asking to throw in just one sock. I guess she figured I would lose my socks, and I could always use a spare.

My dad could be a cruel fashion magnate. He thought it was humorous finding obscene t-shirts and then having me explain them to him. Then he would pretend to be mad at me in front of the vendor and making it my idea about buying the shirt in the first place:

“Oscar, put this shirt on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oscar, put this shirt on. Come on, it has a nice color.”
“No. It’s nasty.”
“How is this nasty? It just has two pigs playing.”
“It says making bacon!”
“So what? Bacon comes from piggies.”
“They mean bacon in another way.”
“What? I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”
“Making bacon, means they are making love.”
“Jesus Christ, why would you ask me to buy you such a dirty shirt?”

Those were typical trips to the swap meet. When I got older, I would walk around secretly avoiding classmates, and getting the same vibe from them. My mom would make us go through two or three times the entirety of the swap meet – not because it was good exercise, but because it would give the Sock Man a chance to reconsider her deal for that one sock.

My sister and I would always ask my father to take us for some fast food, but he never did – stating that I didn’t deserve it, considering I just asked him for such a nasty shirt.

Follow Oscar Barajas on Twitter @Oscarcoatl