March 24 - The Vendor

"What are these?"
"Those? Those are teeth."
"Seriously."
"Seriously."
Alan held the baby food jar up to eye level and looked inside. It was more than halfway filled with teeth, many of them with roots, some with blood marks.
"Jesus. Where are they from?"
"Dentists' offices, mostly," said the guy, dusting off a mason jar that was filled with murky liquid and a fetal pig.
"And people buy them?"
"Sometimes, sure."
"Who?"
"Who?"
"Yeah, who buys them? Just curious." Alan hoped he wasn't unwittingly asking the vendor to violate some sort of buyer/seller confidentiality.
"I dunno, people?" he said and went to another part of his section at the flea market to help another customer.
People, thought Alan as he scanned the guy's card tables and tin shelves: More jars of teeth. Another jar labeled toenail clippings was filled with what looked like toasted shredded coconut. Paper bags labeled blond, brunette, amber, etc. lined the bottom shelves. A card table had framed sections of plaster, tile, drywall, and paneling with what looked like bullet holes in them. More jars with murky liquid, silt, and animal remains. What looked like several first attempts at taxidermy: pets, squirrels, birds. A human skull. The headless torso of a mannequin painted white and fixed with wings instead of arms. Medical textbooks, photos of burn victims, prosthetic limbs, spent shell casings. Various blunt objects: bats, golf clubs, tire irons. Cutlery. A rogues' gallery of ragged and stained stuffed toys. Doll babies with missing limbs and eyes.
Alan noticed the guy was standing near him again.
"Where do you get all this stuff?"
The guy gave Alan an appraising look. "You a badge?"
"A--No. No, I'm not."
"If you are and I ask you, you have to tell me. Otherwise, it's entrapment."
"No, I promise you I'm not a badge." Alan was 95% sure the guy was using 'badge' to mean 'police,' but whatever else badge could have meant he was sure he wasn't that either.
"Sorry, gotta ask. With some of this stuff, well, not sure it's 100%, you know. Anyway, I got sources. People. I got people in places who get me this stuff."
Alan felt like the guy must have thought he was wearing a wire, what with the way he was cryptically talking around his answer without using any identifiable nouns.
"I got friends on the force who get me crime scene stuff like these," he said handing Alan a couple of shell casings, "you know, after the trial is all done. Dental hygienists get me the teeth. Hair's easy. You can get hair anywhere."
Good to know, thought Alan.
"Other stuff, I got meth-heads who go dumpster diving at hospitals and clinics."
"No."
"Yeah. Swear to God. Shit, meth heads'll do worse than that for money. Way worse."
Alan didn't need any examples, nor did he want to know what was in the coolers.
"So, like, who buys this stuff?"
"Ah, I dunno. People? Some rock singer wants a necklace made of baby teeth. Some Goth wants some," he used his hands to illustrate, "dark and disturbing shit for their apartment. Some people probably use some of it for voodoo."
"Seriously?"
"I dunno. Sure, why not? Point is, there's no one kind of people that buys this stuff. It's all kinds of people."
Alan shrugged.
"Hey, different strokes, right?"
Alan nodded in agreement, thanked the guy for his time, and went to the next vendor's section.