We dressed, him in his usual cut off jean shorts and tight black T-shirt, and me in high waisted shorts and an old, vintage T-shirt with a light beige linen cardigan over top. I was excited to go out in public with him; I realized we hadn’t been around other people together yet. We had been in the bar and on the Wharf, but we hadn’t been around regular people, living a normal life. Part of me yearned for normal. I wanted to be able to go to dinner with him whenever I wanted without worrying about a gang of Irish mobsters trying to kill us. Still, the excitement of being with him was beyond worth it.
As we walked along Market, through the midday crowds, passing men in business suits, kids in street wear, and homeless guys with signs, he talked about the history of Reading Terminal.
“In the early days of the city, there were a lot less buildings everywhere. Open air markets were really popular, and people went to them for their usual stuff.”
“Are there any left?”
“The city decided they were unhygienic, which maybe they were. To replace them, the city built closed markets, like Reading Terminal. People could rent out space, and apparently some of the guys still selling there are descended from the original stall owners.”
“Is that really true?” I couldn’t tell when he was bullshitting me sometimes.
He shrugged. “That’s what people say. I have no idea, honestly.”
“Look at you, Mister ‘Knows Everything About the City.’ Finally something you didn’t research.”
He grinned at me. “Can’t be perfect I guess.”
“What else do you know about it?”
“Well, it used to have a big refrigerated floor for the vendors to store stuff in, but they dismantled it in the 50s. Apparently, back before the suburbs became a thing, Reading Terminal was shipping food all across the country.”
“Why don’t they anymore?”
“Basically, the Terminal started to decline throughout the 60s and 70s because everyone was moving out to the suburbs, and it wasn’t until the mid-80s that they decided to revamp it. Now, it’s basically a historical landmark, but back then it was just another marketplace.”
“That’s pretty cool I guess. What’s so special about it?”
“You’ll see. Some of the best stuff is from the Pennsylvania Dutch and the Amish.”
“Seriously, there are Amish?”
He grinned. “Oh yeah. They make some awesome apple butter and pies.”
We moved through the streets, and he continued nerding out about the history. I was surprised all over again at how knowledgeable he was, especially for someone who spent much of his life outside of the school system, living with gangs and doing drugs. He was a naturally curious person, and although he was high most of the time, he said he was constantly reading, and sometimes stole history books from the public library. He felt bad about that now, but I couldn’t blame him.
We made our way across Broad Street toward 12th, where the Terminal intersected with Arch. There were groups of people all over as we walked by the city district courthouse. We entered into a large tunnel with the local railroad tracks above it, and walked into the Terminal.
It was packed. There were people milling about everywhere, and stalls covered pretty much every square inch of the floor space. The vendors were selling everything from fresh fish and meats to produce. There were spice vendors, candle makers, clothing sellers, and more. People sold old-fashioned ice cream, jars of jam and honey, and even wooden furniture. There were several restaurants, including a classic diner specializing in home-style farm cooking. I made a mental note of that place, and would try and get Rex to take us there later. It was incredible, the sheer amount of different people, all moving around the same space, buying food and whatever else.
“So what are we here for?” I asked him.
He moved closer to me and I felt his fingers slip into mine.
“We’re going to have some Dutch apple pie.
I laughed. “Seriously? How very American of you.”
“You’re laughing now, but you’ll see. It’s the best shit here.”
He led me to a stall covered in pies. There were all kinds of pies, and some I didn’t recognize. The people standing behind the counter all were dressed simply, the girls in bonnets and old dresses, and the men in white shirts with black vests and black pants. The men all had facial hair, and the boys were obviously trying to grow some as well, although they mostly looked scraggly and dirty.
“Two slices of Dutch apple pie please,” Rex said. The girl nodded and moved off. He looked back at me, and leaned in close.
“The Amish, as they live and breathe,” he said.
“They don’t look weird at all.”
He laughed hard and shook his head. “Of course not, they’re completely normal.”
“Yeah, but they don’t use electricity.”
He shrugged. “Nope, they don’t. But they’re still people.”