The small courtyard is crowded with splintered cafeteria tables cluttered with various items in various states of cleanliness: worn black Reeboks, outgrown children’s clothes, hoards of garish costume jewelry, books that should have been long ago returned to a library, disc-man headphones with slightly gnawed on connection jacks, and, the most archaeological finding of all, teetering pillars of VHS’s stacked haphazardly atop each other like ruins. There does not appear to be any connection amongst the miscellaneous items shoved onto a table save for the fact that they all belong to the flea market vendor’s past. All together they tell the story of a life; a story that is for sale; memories for a dollar fifty. The Immaculate Conception courtyard, home to the flea market on weekends, cramped with used objects and worn people, is hemmed in by buildings of prestige on either side of it.