Doubull Indemnity

15

Greg, Catastrophizing

"Sweet goatsucking hell, this is what this place looks like during the day?"

A chuckle burst from Isla's chest. She squeezed my hand tighter and continued leading the way through the bustling throng of shopping tourists and locals. No wonder the Uber refused to turn down 9th street, instead insisting on dropping us off at the intersection of it and Washington. The Market was mobbed.

Living in the Italian Market neighborhood had its perks. Mostly, the decent location. Easy for clients to find me and for me to make my way into various parts of the city. Every local knew the area.

I had never seen it the daylight before. Not like this.

The first time, the only other time, I'd been in daylight after being turned into a vampire happened not even a month ago. And light was a generous term. The weather'd been lousy. Blizzard made this sidewalk the same ghost town it always was after midnight.

Not saying the place was abandoned after dark. But the shops were all closed, the sidewalk stalls emptied, by the time I woke. Yeah, there were always restaurants that stayed open late and did steady business, but even their Saturday night summer rushes were peanuts compared to this.

9th street's sidewalks were lined, mostly, with various produce stalls. Wooden pallets piled high with squash, potatoes, peppers, onions, apples, pumpkins, the works, bled into the street, creating an obstacle course for those foolish enough to get caught in this traffic. Vendors dodged cars as they exchanged lettuce and bananas for cash with the disorganized crowd. Most of these sellers didn't have a physical shop beyond the sidewalk, but those that did allowed their wares to spill out their doors. Antique statues bumped shoulders with discounted plastic brooms while yawning bamboo plants rubbed elbows with free chocolate samples.

And everyone was yelling. Discounted avocados here, fresh salmon over there. Yeah, I'll take fifteen jalapenos and a bundle of asparagus. Step inside for a hot cocoa or warm cup of joe. Interested in learning about Philadelphia's rich history of climbing greased street poles for salted meats? Check out the information center and gift shop for their tour schedule. Even the ancient, grinding machinery inside the corner tortilleria wailed painfully as we passed.

The cold, winter air itself was no less chaotic. Amongst the distinct scents of produce—fresh and rotten—was the metallic tang of blood from the various butchers operating on the block. Brininess from the fish mongers, the garage-like doors of their shops wide open even in this weather, permeated the street. A funk from the gourmet cheese shop and deli hung heavy. Men roasted earthy nuts over trash can fires and popped sweet kettle corn in massive metal pots in the road. Fresh, hot pizza tickled my nose, and pang of hunger I hadn't felt in centuries rumbled through my belly.

And it was bright. So fanging bright. How it be so cold and yet so sunny outside? Did nothing for the headache I'd been nursing since I first peeked out the hotel window. Kept my gaze down as much as possible. Blinked so dang often Isla asked twice if there was cat hair in my eyes (which she apparently suffers from quite often). But no. It was just that I seemed to have gotten the afterimage of the Ben Franklin bridge twinkling a filthy greenish hue tattooed to the backs of my eyelids.

We pushed our way through the swarm, Isla at the helm, protected from the sun by tin awnings jutting out from the rowhomes. Fang's sake, it was February, and still so many people elected to shop at the outdoor market? Most of the shoppers mulling about didn't pay much attention to us inching forward, but having to weave our way through these mortals ground on me harder than that shrill shriek coming from the tortilleria, seriously somebody oil that thing.