Ringing in the day at the Pike Place Market

It didn't take long to see that I should just do what I was asked, and then get the hayride out of the way.

So I gave the Pike Place Market's roll-call bell a couple of over-the-head shakes Monday morning and stepped back to watch a ritual that has been going on for some 40 years, but that I've never truly taken in.

All the names. The numbers. The rules.

The wet side and the dry side. The outside. The bridge. There's Mario's, a section named for a fruit stand that closed years ago.

And there is a certain kind of madness.

"Honeywell!"

"Seventeen on the back!"

"Brown!"

"Ten and 11 on the bridge!"

It starts every day at 9 a.m. sharp, when one of five Market masters takes a spot at the north end of the arcade. There, in front of a diagram of the stalls, he or she starts calling out the names of the merchants who have signed in on three clipboards color-coded for seniority. The merchants call back the number and location of the stall they want for the day.

The Market has been enlisting "guest ringers" over the past few years in an effort to draw locals down and show them a side of the Market they're not privy to. This marketing of the Market is the brainchild of Executive Director Ben Franz-Knight, hired in August.

He wants to remind us that while 10 million people walk through the landmark each year, it should not only be where tourists tread.

"It's a place where real businesspeople have made a career of working down there," said Teri Wheeler, a Market master.

Beneath all that local color, though, is controlled chaos: There are about 130 guaranteed spots available every morning, but 225 vendors approved by the Market Preservation & Development Authority.

Potential customers already are passing through during roll call, so when your name is called, you'd better know which spot you want and have a backup picked out. Time is of the essence.

On Monday, I watched the vendors get themselves sorted out in 17 minutes, then disperse to set up their stalls for the day.

As they did, I asked a few what they wished people knew about the Market.

"Even the locals don't understand that 95 percent of us are small-business owners, and we make what we sell," said Kristeena Sabando, a jeweler. "People come from all over the world and say there is no place else where you can see so many handcrafted items."

Carol Chen Lord, who does paper-collage art under CC Lord Studio, urged people not to wait to buy.

"We all come on a different schedule, different time, different booth," she said. "And when people come back, they may not find us."

When you do, don't try to haggle with the artist.

"It's fine," sighed Alaina Sheen, whose parents have been selling ceramics at the Market for 40 years. "But don't be an ass about it. These things weren't made in China. A lot of people who work down here are the artists."

The place also has its quirks.

"There are so many wacky things down here," said Scott Alberts, who has been selling paintings and soap here for five years. Like the area the vendors call "the dogleg."

"Why do we call it the dogleg?" he asked. "It's not even bent."

April Acevez Cameron used to sell for farmers in the early 1980s. She now makes and sells beads under the name Vida Loca.

"This is a place where I can be expressive and do things on my own terms," she said. "It's been a huge part of my life since I was a teenager. How can I not be here?"

There's that: The Market's history, and the history people have with the place. The good, the bad and the stressful. The Market masters know those better than any of us.

Wheeler offered a little advice, if I got another chance to ring the bell in front of a group of restless vendors:

"Next time, stand up on the ledge. It's safer."

Nicole Brodeur's column appears Tuesday and Friday. Reach her at 206-464-2334 or nbrodeur@seattletimes.com. Will do. But not in white pants.