The sale of the past

Early morning of the weekend. Dusk has not yet dispersed, and life here is in full swing. People with carts, bales, bags are dispersed on the territory near the railway station. This is how the morning begins every weekend near the station Saltykovskaya, Balashikha. On weekdays, there is an interceptor parking lot. Balashikha residents working in Moscow, in order not to stand in traffic jams, leave their cars here, getting to work by train. On weekends, the parking lot is transformed. Already at six o'clock in the morning, the movement begins. The regulars have their own place, a retail outlet, if you are late, it will be occupied, you will have to huddle somewhere on the outskirts: - That's something else! In the very season, in the summer, people take up places at night! People with flashlights are walking around looking for something - these are the first buyers, resellers. By eight o'clock, the square is filled with a colorful abundance of all kinds of junk and becomes like a colorful living carpet. - People! Buy something at least! I have nothing to live on! A man with a reddish face shouts. - I've bargained for twenty rubles! - one old lady brags to another. There is a dialogue next to each other, like brothers, of homeless-looking people with obvious traces of chronic alcohol addiction on their faces: - Did you pour Vaska again? We're not going to make it! – says one, standing on his feet, staggering a lot. - Nah, he himself ... - the other one justifies himself. Right there, on some kind of box, Vaska is sitting, risking falling sideways, apparently, staring at nothing with a meaningless gaze. - Do you need a phone? - a guy of gypsy appearance asks, looking out of the window of the door of an old foreign car. Two more people are sitting with him, appraisingly examining passers-by. On the sidelines, despite the cold, laying out her goods on the ground, sits a neat-looking grandmother- you can't live on retirement, but there is no trade today… Flea market. It's as if you find yourself in some indefinite period of time - samovars, fur coats, smartphones, old brass utensils, grenades from the Second World War: - They don't explode, it's for collectors. - the trader explains, glancing at the camera in fright. There are really a lot of interesting things here for collectors - badges, stamps, books, coins: - Here! - the seller proudly says - This coin was pierced by a real bullet! Maybe someone will buy it… According to local traders, the market at this place began its existence even before the war. Those who need to earn money at least somehow come here - to whom for bread, to whom for vodka, to whom to sell, and to whom just to chat. The contingent is different. From homeless people to former lawyers. "Supreme squeak" - merchants selling "new" equipment brought from nowhere: - Are you from the newspaper? Please take a picture of the battery for the iPhone, I need it for the website. – the man in the sheepskin coat asks, laying out some spare part on the box, after spitting on it and rubbing it on his sleeve. - Is it new? - Otherwise, of course! - Yes... - laments the grandfather, who has been trading here for 27 years now - The market is not the same today, it is not the same at all… Soon the past will disappear completely, there are very few rarities. There are fewer and fewer customers in the afternoon. Someone is slowly starting to fold their product. Two policemen passed by, leading a guy from an old foreign car by the arms: - Take a picture, huh? - looking around, with a wistful smile on his face, he threw. After lunch, the last visitors leave the market. Only a lonely wind, turning the pages of someone's abandoned books, takes the passing day into the past…