It was my father who introduced me to Maxwell Street. He went there to buy his socks and underwear for cheap. One of my first memories of Maxwell Street was watching the demolition of a couple of buildings on Roosevelt Road. Even back then in the sixties, the writing was on the wall for the neighborhood.
My dad took me there occasionally until as the story goes, someone pulled a knife on him. The story became legendary, upon each telling the knife became bigger, the attacker more ominous, and my father's reaction more heroic. But that incident ended our Maxwell Street days together forever.
Flash forward some twenty years and against all odds, the market at Maxwell Street still existed. My friend Scott and I went there together every once in a while. He was the person who taught me how to bargain. At Maxwell Street haggling was not optional, no one would take you seriously if you offered the asking price.
One Sunday, Scott was mildly interested in an alto saxophone.
"How much?" Scott asked the vendor.
"One hundred twenty five dollars", was the answer, not an unreasonable price.
Scott said: "I'll give you a quarter" to which the vendor replied without missing a beat:
"I'll take five dollars".
It probably would have represented a five dollar profit for him.
As the old Chicago adage goes: "if you have something stolen in Chicago, go to Maxwell Street the next Sunday and chances are, you'll be able to buy it back."