Saturday morning at the farmer’s market I’m heading back to my truck with potatoes Already reading the crowd out of habit Who’s browsing, who’s about to buy There’s this fellow standing at my window Well-dressed, peering through the glass At a book sitting on my dashboard Miguel De Unamuno’s Niebla — that Spanish one I’ve been wrestling I walk up, say “Hello there” He turns, smiles warm and easy
“You enjoying that?” he asks, pointing at the book I chuckle, say “Well, I’m trying to learn the language So far it’s beautiful — that fog between what’s real and what we tell ourselves” He nods, “Unamuno knew exactly what he was doing with that fog” We talk a while, philosophy, Spanish letters I’m thinking this guy’s sharp, well-spoken Not the kind of talk I usually get Standing in a lot of dusty pickup trucks So I ask him, friendly-like “What do you do for a living?” He smiles, says simple: “I work at the market” I’m a little taken aback — doesn’t match what I’m seeing “What do you mean?” I ask He grins, taking the micky out of me a little “You know, the market — where people send their stuff to be sold I help facilitate that transaction between seller and buyer” Ah, I get it. I thought to myself Same gig, same shit Whether it’s stocks or strawberries, brother Same dance with supply and demand Same trust, same timing, reading the crowd We’re both middlemen standing in between What someone’s got and what someone needs Just different markets Same gig, same shit He asks me, “What about you? What do you do?” I smile now, seeing where this is going “Well, I also work at the market — in New York City Same gig, same shit, if I’m being honest” His eyes light up, he gets it, looks me up and down We both start laughing right there in the parking lot Two market men, different products Same understanding, how the world really works See, I used to think Wall Street was different Tailored suits, marble floors, a world apart But the fog in that book don’t stop at any border Same fog rolls through a trading floor and a farmer’s cart And sometimes the guy with dirt under his nails Sees clearer than the one with the fancy watch
Same gig, same shit Whether it’s stocks or strawberries Same dance with supply and demand Same trust, same timing, reading the crowd We’re both middlemen standing in-between What someone’s got, what someone needs No hierarchy here, just honest work Same gig, same shit Yeah, same gig, same shit We shook hands, exchanged numbers Mutual respect between market men I drove home with my potatoes The fog lifting just a little On what I thought I knew About sophistication