CAMDEN LOCK
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Sofia pulled on the door to The Elephant’s Head and dragged her feet across the checkered floor to the bar. “Hey, Jack,” she exhaled, “make it two today.”
“That kinda day, eh?” He reached down grabbing two pint glasses from under the bar,
filling both to the brim with Guinness.
“When isn’t it?” Sofia slid her beers off the bar and strolled to her and her friends’ usual table in the back corner, right next to the jukebox, the music helping to drown out the monotony of other customers’ conversations. She had to hear it all day, while customers ate their lunch at
the tables directly in front of her stall, even if it wasn’t her food they were eating. She adjusted
her tan leather jacket to chug half her pint -- just thinking about it infuriated her. She paused,
only to text Frank to see when he was going to show up.
One couple especially had driven her mad. Though she had been the one to call them over, trying to lure them in with samples of the ground beef she made her burgers with, mixed and marinated with the same spices her grandma had used in her native Morocco, expecting them to either buy it on the spot, or carry on as everyone else does. But not this couple. They stood in front of her stall for over ten minutes, hemming and hawing over what type of burger they’d want and whether or not they’d want fries -- only to finally decide they were going to skip her stall altogether and grab a bagel sandwich from the stall next door.
After the fire last July, while she felt bad for the owners whose shops were destroyed, she was slightly pleased due to the renovations they decided to build more permanent stalls and create more seating -- dwindling her competition greatly. While she was still had to compete against a number of cuisines, vendors selling crepes, pizza, jerk chicken, and fancy sodas, there was now only one other burger-stand in her portion of the market .
In the the midst of her thoughts, the pub doors swung open. This obnoxious bastard . Pushing his way past the small but building crowd, Frank stumbled in, feigning guilt.
“Axel had been trying to sell this one bird a t-shirt for twenty fucking minutes, poor guy,” he shouted, raising his arms above his head, approaching the back table and laughing in his half-apology to an impatient Sofia.
“And what exactly,” Sofia chuckled, “does that have to do with you?” She pulled out a chair and ushered him to sit down. “Your highness. Fashionably late, as always.”
Ignoring her jab, Frank took his seat in a huff. “You order me a drink?” he asked, eyeing the two pints of Guinness on the table. But he knew the answer to that question. He ordered himself a Heineken, and they chit chatted about their days and the like.
“You’ll never believe this one couple I had to deal with today,” Sofia said, slamming her glass on the table. “I hand out free samples all day, knowing there's only a twenty percent chance they'll actually buy my burger -- it can be frustrating, but that’s the price of business. But these two, these thirty year old, wanna-be foodies, decided they were going to stand in front of my stall hemming and hawing over what toppings and whether or not they wanted fries for ten minutes -- only for the girlfriend to decide that she wanted the chicken sandwich from the bagel place next door. Hope that she knew they're not that low-fat, low-carb, gluten free bullshit -- or better yet, I hope she didn't.”
Being around Sofia made him happy, but it also made him frustrated with himself. He admired her, for everything she seemed to accomplish in the short time since she’d come to Camden. Frank felt as if he weren’t so lucky. He didn’t mean to keep his current job for as long as he did. He’d been so hopeful that things would turn out differently, that he’d be done with yelling at strangers, tourists on the street. When all he really wanted was to open a stall of his
own, and something, anything he was proud of making. It was what he wanted to sell that delayed this process. Frank’s ambition only reached as far as his ideas could take him and as of now, they didn’t take him very far.
He sat quietly, drinking his beer while Sofia rambled on about her day. He let her, eager for the stress of her day to dissuade him from the monotony of his. He spent the bulk of his days, like this, outside in the cold shouting at pretty girls and lonesome guys to buy his I LOVE LONDON sweatshirts and matching shot glasses. He wasn’t alone. For the entire strip of Camden Lock Place, right up until the borders of the market, different versions of him smoked and bartered and yelled outside their respective tourist trap, or tattoo shop, or piercing bodega -- it didn’t matter. They all lived the same way. Loud and so very, very bored.
“What’s got you so quiet, eh?” Sofia probed as she finished her second Guinness.
“I don’t know man, I’m just thinking about the future,” Frank said. She looked at him, with a sense of pity in her eyes that made his stomach turn. But she was kind, and ran her hand over his knuckles.
“You could take a job with me, you know? Make my days a little less difficult.” Sofia brought her third Guinness to her lips.
“I know, but where I am supposed to go from there?” Frank rubbed his head. Sofia laughed and swatted his shoulder. “I don’t mean nothing by it, Sof. I just want to start up something for myself. Be the largest tourist shop in all of Camden!” Frank shouted, too loud, as he often did. Sofia ducked her head, avoiding the strange looks from other customers.
“See, your job isn’t so bad after all, is it?” Sofia pointed a finger at Frank’s chest. “Don’t get me wrong, you’d love working with me. You could drive off all the wankers that loiter around, we could cook together, I could show you all my recipes!” She smirked, only the right side of her smile revealing her teeth. “But I’d rather be selling jumpers than smelling like hamburgers.”
“Hey now, don’t diss an industry you don’t understand! I’ve got to compete with all those vintage and steampunk vendors.” Now Frank leaned in, practically laying on the table.
“Hamburgers, on the other hand, will always win over a crowd.” Thinking he’d won the debate, Frank sat back again, hand automatically reaching for his drink. He froze when Sofia leaned closer, her smile wiped from her face.
“Oh, so you’re saying selling food is easy?” she asked slowly.
“Easier than selling fashion.”
“Not if it’s good fashion!” Sofia poked him on the shoulder.
Jokingly, he pushed away at her hand. “Oy, so tell me about this hellish day of yours then.”
“Me first.” A voice piped in, a small frame making her way to their little back table. Jane reached them, dropping her bags in an exaggerated fashion.
Frank, taking advantage of the attention turning off of him, pulled up a chair quickly to accommodate their late friend.
“Alright then, let’s hear it. How’s the dog treating you?”
Frank was referring to Cyberdog, the partly underground electronic festival store placed in the center of Camden market. In relation to the rest of the market, the dimly lit promiscuous shop stood out like a sore thumb in comparison to the high amount of vintage clothing and local
art. With its flashing green, blue, and pink lighting, Jane had often overheard customers cautiously walking in, expecting to find an arcade. While the store definitely had some games within the confines of our downstairs department, naive girls often found games of a different sort that instantly ruined their innocence.
“I hate it,” Jane answered after a moment, sipping from the remainder of Frank’s beer and sliding into the chair he’d offered. She smoothed down her simple black skirt. Even at 23, she preferred the Elephant’s Head, a pub housing a particularly older crowd, dart boards, and terrible service. Nice and quiet, much unlike her unfortunate work day, that not only included pounding music that reverberated in her head until the time she was able to fall into bed. Frank and Sofia knew all of this, but still, they’d question what was so miserable about it for her.
“I’m going to buy us tickets for a music festival,” Sofia said. “Very different than your Camden experience.” She swept her dark hair to the side, “You work in the best place in Camden and you don’t even realize it because you’re too busy being stubborn to listen to your customers.”
“You mean the customers that don’t use their allowance? The ones who stare in wonder at the thin materials, that somehow qualify as clothing, and turn right around?”
“If they’re not buying, you’re not selling correctly,” Frank jumped in. “You just have to shove something they’ve been longing for in their face, tell them the price, then take it down by £5. They’ll have no choice.” He paused, the right side of his mouth tilting upwards, his eyes to the ceiling, probably recalling several moments of the day where he’d accomplished this simple feat. It was how Jane had met him, wandering the many aisles of Camden to find food around the market when he seemingly came out of nowhere and pushed a dress she’d barely glanced at into her chest. “£20 and it could be yours,” he’d said, a spark in his golden eyes, “It would look lovely on you. Hell, how about £15!?”
“Honestly though,” he continued as she grabbed for her glass, holding it between her knees, trying her hardest not to roll my eyes. “Most of the people going into that store were drawn there for a reason.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “You mean like the uni girls who talk in circles about that – oh, what’s it called – EDC, in the states?” Jane sat up in her seat, making her eyes wide, grabbing for Frank’s hand on the table, and pitching her voice higher than normal, “Oh, Frank, I want to go
back to EDC so bad! The music, the lights, the drugs! Look at how cute this space bra would have looked on me -- if only I’d known about this place.” She bounced in her seat to an imaginary bass as she’d often seen. Sofia giggled at the image. “Maybe I’ll buy something for next year – no, wait, £50? Never mind.” The act completed, her expression dropped back into its casual resting bitch face, and she slumped into the booth once again.
Now Frank did roll his eyes. “Welcome to Camden, the the best tourist trap in London,” he said, spreading his hands wide.
Jane shrugged, pursing her lips in response to the true statement.
“You just don’t get it,” Sofia said, returning to the original topic. “You can’t understand unless you’ve had the experience. Even the smallest hint of that reminder, like Cyberdog, is extraordinary. The music becomes a part of your bones and the people just as much so. Afterward, you never see the world the same as it was before.”
She looked out the front window almost longingly, and for a second Jane wondered exactly what Sofia was seeing, wishing she
could experience it with her.
She was right though, Jane didn’t entirely comprehend what the interest was, why boys and girls alike loved seeing the exotic light-up shoes and dresses. She’d always been more worried someone might end up electrocuted by a misrouted wire. Jane had seen the videos of these large, crowded music festivals. She’d even tried to picture herself twirling in space buns and a bright pink one-piece to the constant beating of dinosaur speakers. In the safety of her room, she would find herself swaying to a song she’d heard continuously on Cyberdog’s sound system. She shook the thought away, tilting her head to the left, pushing her hair behind her ear to exaggerate the fact that she was focusing on the 80’s rock music of an old men’s drinking spot.
She pointed up, squinting at Sofia. “Really? Is that how you feel? There’s music in your bones, innit?”
“Fuck off.” Now Jane did laugh, a noise that sounded more like a cackle in her own ears.
Sofia finished off her pint, sliding from the booth to order herself a third. Jane watched Sofia and Frank leave, questioning -- not for the first time -- why she hadn’t quit to become a barkeep for a pub like this. Or alongside Frank, who had even offered her a position working with him, selling overpriced tourist wear. It wouldn’t be incredibly difficult either, to find another job working with one of the many permanent food vendors at Camden like Sofia, with view of the river she’d always spent a good twenty minutes on break staring into from the overhead bridge. One day, she might have to fully admit to herself what really kept her in her current job. Maybe some part of her was tired of being boring ole’ Moore.
Frank and Sofia returned to the table with an extra cider in hand, resuming small talk of their daily struggles. Maybe, in their own way, they all craved to find that something more in Camden, something that everyone else seemed to thrive off.
“That kinda day, eh?” He reached down grabbing two pint glasses from under the bar,
filling both to the brim with Guinness.
“When isn’t it?” Sofia slid her beers off the bar and strolled to her and her friends’ usual table in the back corner, right next to the jukebox, the music helping to drown out the monotony of other customers’ conversations. She had to hear it all day, while customers ate their lunch at
the tables directly in front of her stall, even if it wasn’t her food they were eating. She adjusted
her tan leather jacket to chug half her pint -- just thinking about it infuriated her. She paused,
only to text Frank to see when he was going to show up.
One couple especially had driven her mad. Though she had been the one to call them over, trying to lure them in with samples of the ground beef she made her burgers with, mixed and marinated with the same spices her grandma had used in her native Morocco, expecting them to either buy it on the spot, or carry on as everyone else does. But not this couple. They stood in front of her stall for over ten minutes, hemming and hawing over what type of burger they’d want and whether or not they’d want fries -- only to finally decide they were going to skip her stall altogether and grab a bagel sandwich from the stall next door.
After the fire last July, while she felt bad for the owners whose shops were destroyed, she was slightly pleased due to the renovations they decided to build more permanent stalls and create more seating -- dwindling her competition greatly. While she was still had to compete against a number of cuisines, vendors selling crepes, pizza, jerk chicken, and fancy sodas, there was now only one other burger-stand in her portion of the market .
In the the midst of her thoughts, the pub doors swung open. This obnoxious bastard . Pushing his way past the small but building crowd, Frank stumbled in, feigning guilt.
“Axel had been trying to sell this one bird a t-shirt for twenty fucking minutes, poor guy,” he shouted, raising his arms above his head, approaching the back table and laughing in his half-apology to an impatient Sofia.
“And what exactly,” Sofia chuckled, “does that have to do with you?” She pulled out a chair and ushered him to sit down. “Your highness. Fashionably late, as always.”
Ignoring her jab, Frank took his seat in a huff. “You order me a drink?” he asked, eyeing the two pints of Guinness on the table. But he knew the answer to that question. He ordered himself a Heineken, and they chit chatted about their days and the like.
“You’ll never believe this one couple I had to deal with today,” Sofia said, slamming her glass on the table. “I hand out free samples all day, knowing there's only a twenty percent chance they'll actually buy my burger -- it can be frustrating, but that’s the price of business. But these two, these thirty year old, wanna-be foodies, decided they were going to stand in front of my stall hemming and hawing over what toppings and whether or not they wanted fries for ten minutes -- only for the girlfriend to decide that she wanted the chicken sandwich from the bagel place next door. Hope that she knew they're not that low-fat, low-carb, gluten free bullshit -- or better yet, I hope she didn't.”
Being around Sofia made him happy, but it also made him frustrated with himself. He admired her, for everything she seemed to accomplish in the short time since she’d come to Camden. Frank felt as if he weren’t so lucky. He didn’t mean to keep his current job for as long as he did. He’d been so hopeful that things would turn out differently, that he’d be done with yelling at strangers, tourists on the street. When all he really wanted was to open a stall of his
own, and something, anything he was proud of making. It was what he wanted to sell that delayed this process. Frank’s ambition only reached as far as his ideas could take him and as of now, they didn’t take him very far.
He sat quietly, drinking his beer while Sofia rambled on about her day. He let her, eager for the stress of her day to dissuade him from the monotony of his. He spent the bulk of his days, like this, outside in the cold shouting at pretty girls and lonesome guys to buy his I LOVE LONDON sweatshirts and matching shot glasses. He wasn’t alone. For the entire strip of Camden Lock Place, right up until the borders of the market, different versions of him smoked and bartered and yelled outside their respective tourist trap, or tattoo shop, or piercing bodega -- it didn’t matter. They all lived the same way. Loud and so very, very bored.
“What’s got you so quiet, eh?” Sofia probed as she finished her second Guinness.
“I don’t know man, I’m just thinking about the future,” Frank said. She looked at him, with a sense of pity in her eyes that made his stomach turn. But she was kind, and ran her hand over his knuckles.
“You could take a job with me, you know? Make my days a little less difficult.” Sofia brought her third Guinness to her lips.
“I know, but where I am supposed to go from there?” Frank rubbed his head. Sofia laughed and swatted his shoulder. “I don’t mean nothing by it, Sof. I just want to start up something for myself. Be the largest tourist shop in all of Camden!” Frank shouted, too loud, as he often did. Sofia ducked her head, avoiding the strange looks from other customers.
“See, your job isn’t so bad after all, is it?” Sofia pointed a finger at Frank’s chest. “Don’t get me wrong, you’d love working with me. You could drive off all the wankers that loiter around, we could cook together, I could show you all my recipes!” She smirked, only the right side of her smile revealing her teeth. “But I’d rather be selling jumpers than smelling like hamburgers.”
“Hey now, don’t diss an industry you don’t understand! I’ve got to compete with all those vintage and steampunk vendors.” Now Frank leaned in, practically laying on the table.
“Hamburgers, on the other hand, will always win over a crowd.” Thinking he’d won the debate, Frank sat back again, hand automatically reaching for his drink. He froze when Sofia leaned closer, her smile wiped from her face.
“Oh, so you’re saying selling food is easy?” she asked slowly.
“Easier than selling fashion.”
“Not if it’s good fashion!” Sofia poked him on the shoulder.
Jokingly, he pushed away at her hand. “Oy, so tell me about this hellish day of yours then.”
“Me first.” A voice piped in, a small frame making her way to their little back table. Jane reached them, dropping her bags in an exaggerated fashion.
Frank, taking advantage of the attention turning off of him, pulled up a chair quickly to accommodate their late friend.
“Alright then, let’s hear it. How’s the dog treating you?”
Frank was referring to Cyberdog, the partly underground electronic festival store placed in the center of Camden market. In relation to the rest of the market, the dimly lit promiscuous shop stood out like a sore thumb in comparison to the high amount of vintage clothing and local
art. With its flashing green, blue, and pink lighting, Jane had often overheard customers cautiously walking in, expecting to find an arcade. While the store definitely had some games within the confines of our downstairs department, naive girls often found games of a different sort that instantly ruined their innocence.
“I hate it,” Jane answered after a moment, sipping from the remainder of Frank’s beer and sliding into the chair he’d offered. She smoothed down her simple black skirt. Even at 23, she preferred the Elephant’s Head, a pub housing a particularly older crowd, dart boards, and terrible service. Nice and quiet, much unlike her unfortunate work day, that not only included pounding music that reverberated in her head until the time she was able to fall into bed. Frank and Sofia knew all of this, but still, they’d question what was so miserable about it for her.
“I’m going to buy us tickets for a music festival,” Sofia said. “Very different than your Camden experience.” She swept her dark hair to the side, “You work in the best place in Camden and you don’t even realize it because you’re too busy being stubborn to listen to your customers.”
“You mean the customers that don’t use their allowance? The ones who stare in wonder at the thin materials, that somehow qualify as clothing, and turn right around?”
“If they’re not buying, you’re not selling correctly,” Frank jumped in. “You just have to shove something they’ve been longing for in their face, tell them the price, then take it down by £5. They’ll have no choice.” He paused, the right side of his mouth tilting upwards, his eyes to the ceiling, probably recalling several moments of the day where he’d accomplished this simple feat. It was how Jane had met him, wandering the many aisles of Camden to find food around the market when he seemingly came out of nowhere and pushed a dress she’d barely glanced at into her chest. “£20 and it could be yours,” he’d said, a spark in his golden eyes, “It would look lovely on you. Hell, how about £15!?”
“Honestly though,” he continued as she grabbed for her glass, holding it between her knees, trying her hardest not to roll my eyes. “Most of the people going into that store were drawn there for a reason.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “You mean like the uni girls who talk in circles about that – oh, what’s it called – EDC, in the states?” Jane sat up in her seat, making her eyes wide, grabbing for Frank’s hand on the table, and pitching her voice higher than normal, “Oh, Frank, I want to go
back to EDC so bad! The music, the lights, the drugs! Look at how cute this space bra would have looked on me -- if only I’d known about this place.” She bounced in her seat to an imaginary bass as she’d often seen. Sofia giggled at the image. “Maybe I’ll buy something for next year – no, wait, £50? Never mind.” The act completed, her expression dropped back into its casual resting bitch face, and she slumped into the booth once again.
Now Frank did roll his eyes. “Welcome to Camden, the the best tourist trap in London,” he said, spreading his hands wide.
Jane shrugged, pursing her lips in response to the true statement.
“You just don’t get it,” Sofia said, returning to the original topic. “You can’t understand unless you’ve had the experience. Even the smallest hint of that reminder, like Cyberdog, is extraordinary. The music becomes a part of your bones and the people just as much so. Afterward, you never see the world the same as it was before.”
She looked out the front window almost longingly, and for a second Jane wondered exactly what Sofia was seeing, wishing she
could experience it with her.
She was right though, Jane didn’t entirely comprehend what the interest was, why boys and girls alike loved seeing the exotic light-up shoes and dresses. She’d always been more worried someone might end up electrocuted by a misrouted wire. Jane had seen the videos of these large, crowded music festivals. She’d even tried to picture herself twirling in space buns and a bright pink one-piece to the constant beating of dinosaur speakers. In the safety of her room, she would find herself swaying to a song she’d heard continuously on Cyberdog’s sound system. She shook the thought away, tilting her head to the left, pushing her hair behind her ear to exaggerate the fact that she was focusing on the 80’s rock music of an old men’s drinking spot.
She pointed up, squinting at Sofia. “Really? Is that how you feel? There’s music in your bones, innit?”
“Fuck off.” Now Jane did laugh, a noise that sounded more like a cackle in her own ears.
Sofia finished off her pint, sliding from the booth to order herself a third. Jane watched Sofia and Frank leave, questioning -- not for the first time -- why she hadn’t quit to become a barkeep for a pub like this. Or alongside Frank, who had even offered her a position working with him, selling overpriced tourist wear. It wouldn’t be incredibly difficult either, to find another job working with one of the many permanent food vendors at Camden like Sofia, with view of the river she’d always spent a good twenty minutes on break staring into from the overhead bridge. One day, she might have to fully admit to herself what really kept her in her current job. Maybe some part of her was tired of being boring ole’ Moore.
Frank and Sofia returned to the table with an extra cider in hand, resuming small talk of their daily struggles. Maybe, in their own way, they all craved to find that something more in Camden, something that everyone else seemed to thrive off.