Los Angeles

What $20 Can Buy at Melrose Trading Post

The residential neighborhood of Fairfax is often seen as one that adequately summarizes the city of Los Angeles. Spacing out even briefly during my drive through the streets of the bustling city disorients me. It’s as if in the time my eyes have been closed, the city has totally changed; here, the wealthy coexist with the impoverished. Storefronts share walls with cafes which appear to have been built by competing architects. The underlying factor that unifies this strange amalgam of demographics is merely the city of Los Angeles itself, bringing together the wide array of diversity enjoyed by few other cities in the world. In LA, it’s not only commonplace but perhaps expected that these storefronts look drastically unalike. Unique cultural aesthetics that elsewhere would not meld somehow share their perfect home on the streets of Melrose.

I walk through Melrose Trading Post, aware of its reputation as a location that poses as a residential flea market, but in reality exists to pick the pockets of the naive individuals who expect to find shocking deals. And though my initial expectations were met by vendors selling easy bait for hipsters, I cannot help but notice and engage with those who seem to hold onto something more dear than just the exploitation of Southern Californians. 

Ephemera

The day begins. I wander through the sea of white tents, desperately searching for at least one vendor who will sell me something for under twenty dollars. If simply to satisfy the article assignment, I tell myself, I will buy anything I can find with this twenty dollar bill. 

There’s a mysteriously quiet man staring blankly into the distance in front of an array of tables. Brass keys, doorknobs, pins — objects from a forgotten world — lie sprawled across his plastic fold-outs. I rummage through the piles, looking for something that might inspire. 

I hold up a key. “How much for this?”

He tilts his head, and, within a fraction of a second asserts, “Three dollars.” 

“You don’t have a student discount?” I ask, smirking. 

“No. Three dollars, great deal.” 

He’s not one to ramble. As I go through the same process with pins, tags, and other memorabilia, I realize that these cannot be items collected throughout this vendor’s life. When I ask, he tells me about life as a Korean immigrant. He turns 70 this year, and though he credits his debut in this line of work to his former passion for collecting, that life was lived decades ago. The items he sells and the memories they hold are as forgotten as his days as a starry-eyed collector. He’s sold everything from his personal collection that he once held dear, and sets this tent up every Sunday to provide for his grandchildren. What’s the point, he says, in collecting these useless items if not for money? 

I buy a pin and a key. 

The next tent’s setup catches my eye. Vinyl records are displayed next to old photography prints, which share the same display cases as old matchbooks and magazine covers printed decades ago. Joe, the vendor, squints at me with eyes that have seen decades pass before them. 

He’s been here for twenty years, and he’s probably closing up shop next year. Trends change, the spirit of the time drifts away, and though they might have been in years past, people are just not very interested in buying old souvenirs. Ephemera, he calls them, after pausing for a bit to remember their technical name. 

When I survey the assortment of items underneath his tent, I begin to see exactly where the word comes from. These things represent trends that were temporarily appreciated, and promptly forgotten. They hold particular meaning, but only to the people who lived through their heyday. Besides the records and the old photography prints, who would have interest in these random artifacts? 

I buy two polaroid photographs, a matchbook, and a clay ring. 

Aspirations

My journey through the flea market is far from over. The time I spend here is dependent on how long the unforgiving Los Angeles parking meter dictates I have remaining, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I stall paying the fee for just a short while longer. 

White curtains that decorate a makeshift bookshelf float and sway, caressed by the breeze. Small books in shrink wrap lay perfectly organized in rows of wooden crates. The desk in front is occupied by a radiant young woman, happily checking out books to her gratified customers. She introduces herself to me when I walk up with my six dollar poetry book. Jenny studied photography in college, and began “A Good Used Book” about a year ago, selling vintage photography books online. What began as a hobby turned into a fully-fledged business venture that supports her young family. She points to her husband Chris, who is happily chatting with customers, supporting his wife’s dream.

The other tent staffed by a young couple catches my eye. The lovely minimal, highbrow aesthetic juxtaposed against the backdrop of this sprawling flea market is enough to grip my attention. These two share a journey similar to Jenny and Chris’. The wife had the idea to begin her dream, and her husband willingly followed. Stories like these seem unusually commonplace in a city like Los Angeles; they stray from the usual career path I’ve accepted as standard in university, and retrace the boundaries for courageous impulsivity previously thought of as impossible. The items sold at Lilah Lifestyle Co. are slightly out of my budget, and I’m on my way after wishing them luck.

Melrose Trading Post is not a site which dictates the type of individual that is allowed to enter the premises of their humble high school parking lot. An entrance fee of $5 sends me into a maze of vendors who have seen Hollywood celebrities walking beside the common nobody. Items sold vary dramatically between sellers that stand within feet from each other. 

The only thing that seems to bring this community together are these ubiquitous white tents. No matter the difference in the type of person selling, the motivation behind their vending, or the items they sell, the place is unified by the tarps that offer them shade under the unrelenting Southern Californian sun. 

Much like Los Angeles, then, the Melrose Trading Post is an unapologetic collection of individuals, dreams, and perspectives, that only make sense together because of the setting that they all call home. In the same way that Fairfax, Los Angeles is the unprejudiced home for communities to coincide, Melrose Trading Post is similarly the unified grounds for synchronized diversity. It’s comforting to know that the $6 book I can get at A Good Used Book stays $6, even for the likes of Tyler the Creator and Kendall Jenner (who frequent the place), and that no matter how the seasons change, Melrose Trading Post will always be here selling glimpses into the past alongside the trends of today.  

Words: David Chen

Photos: Samhita Sen