The Bizarre Bazaar

(614)’s “man about town” Matt Mahoney dives head-first, and first-person, into the eccentric, eclectic world of the South High Flea Market

By Matt Mahoney / Photos by Cassidy Lee / Story Design by Atlas Biro

Columbus, OH – 7.8.23

Antique auctions, thrift stores, and flea markets especially have become the final frontier of American commerce; the last remaining bit of wild-west-style action that one can find in an economy that is growingly regulated, formalized, and centralized. If you’re brave enough you might walk away with your own personal goldmine, but on the other side of the coin, this is no country for old men. It’s okay to be scared, sure, but don’t let the sharks see that; lest you end up paying $5 for a DVD of Tombstone that goes for a buck on eBay, or worse: haggled to death.

Truth be told, I’ve never been to a flea market, but this strikes me as something I might enjoy. While scanning my available resources, I saw there was one not far from my home at South High Drive-In on Columbus’ Southside.

Now, things are a bit different on the Southside. I’m not talking German Village; no, the real Southside. It’s not always for the faint of heart. I should know, I live here.

Part of what makes the southside of Columbus so uniquely exciting is a phenomenon I like to call “guys with stuff.” Go down Parsons on any given day (and at any hour) and you will see at least a couple folks hauling what looks like (but is not actually) junk down the street in a truck, van, wagon, stroller, shopping cart, rickshaw or sometimes even on foot.

Where are they all heading? I always ask myself. Come to think of it, they all seem to be headed south: away from the bustle of downtown and towards the no-man’s-land between 104 and 270.

I know now, they were heading to South High Flea Market. So I took a trip myself.

When I first pulled up to the South High Flea Market, I was immediately struck by the scale of the event. This is the big show, I think to myself, as I stroll by a man carrying what looks to be two dolls created in the image of George W. and Laura Bush. There has to be at least 100 different vendors here, and likely many times more shoppers. The sellers at South High Flea Market, like the offerings, are decidedly eclectic in nature.

You’ve got the professionals who roll out tables upon tables worth of collector sports memorabilia. Then you have the hobbyists who don't seem to be in it for the money so much as the spectacle of the whole thing. Finally, we have a third class of attendees who can’t possibly be there with a serious intention of making money.

A collection of 80’s metal records brings me to the table of a man who later identifies himself as Larry Cline. This is actually a bit out of the ordinary, as I had trouble even getting a first name from half the people I talked to. We make small talk for a few minutes while I flip through Judas Priest and Ratt.

Just when I was about to move onto the next vendor, I saw it: there, obscured by a few stray records, was a box of vintage adult mags. I began to dig through the collection, and Larry tried to play it coy at first — even going so far as to mention something about the quality of the articles contained within — but after seeing I was comfortable with the “content,” he began to relax.

I ended up paying two dollars for a January 1987 copy of Playboy (the “Holiday Anniversary Issue”) that originally went for $4.50. Don’t complain to me about inflation.

The big shots at events like these get there early, forcing the later arrivals off to the periphery. I spotted one of these later arrivals starting to set up camp, and approached expressing interest in what looks like, but is not actually, an Atari 2600. The man’s setup looked a tad meager compared to some of his competitors. Rather than employing a table, he appropriated the hood of his car and a bedsheet that sits directly on the ground. A copy of Radiohead’s “The Bends,” a cork belt buckle, a portable air compressor: some might say this collection lacks cohesion. But in this, too, is beauty.

“I’ve been picking all my life, ya know. Here, check this out,” he said. After some interrogation, I got a name: Sweeney Todd. A pseudonym to be sure, but a surprisingly fitting name for a man who very well could be known as the Demon Barterer of South High Street.

“Ten dollars. Take it or leave it, I don’t give a [four-letter word that starts with “F”],” he retorted to a man eyeing his air compressor.

“That’s how you sell,” he turned and told me with a grin. To my surprise, this did not lead to a sale. I try to thank Sweeny Todd for his time by purchasing a belt buckle with ducks on it, but at $10, that’s a little much for me. Onto the next one.

As I made my rounds, I began to feel at home. Some of the faces might look fierce at first, but most folks here are happy to chat with you after you level a few compliments towards their collection of what looks like, but is not actually, junk. Minutes later as I walked, a squirrely figure darted out from behind a van: it was Sweeney Todd. He ran up and gave me a sealed plastic bag filled with what looked like mesh clothing, but turned out to be garbage. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked as he scurried away.

“You’ll know,” he responded, although I did not.

Our next stop: Fred’s place. Fred occupies the flea-market middle class I spoke of earlier; I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s pulling in some decent money from this operation, but there’s also room for improvement. We made fun of the American Pickers for a few minutes, before I spied a Bud bottle opener going for a dollar. I’ll take it.

The day ended where the party started: back at Sweeney Todd’s bazaar of wonders. Despite wavering sales, Todd maintained an even keel. Yet another shopper came by and eyed down a collection of vintage video games, but was immediately warded away by the sticker shock when our beloved salesman looked him in the eye and said (not asked) “$1,000.” No sale.

It can be easy to laugh at some of the things you see here, but there’s something noble to these efforts, as well. Flea markets are a remnant of a different time: an era in which people thought long and hard before throwing things away. Repair, repurpose, recycle; only now, this conservation is done for amusement and beer money rather than survival. As long as I can scare up the $2 entrance fee and withstand the 8 am wake-up call, I know where I’ll be on Saturdays this summer. Sure, it’s not for everyone, but with the right combination skill and gall, you just might be able to survive the day at South High Flea Market.

To learn more, visit southdrive-in.com