My Buddy Vincent

October 16, 2013

The St Vincent/Salvation Army Thrift Store in my stomping grounds rocks! Crammed with treasures that keep me entertained for an hour and a half. The teenager, obviously graced with a disability, is assisting the stocker, bantering across the aisles, working through each “new arrival” article of clothing (what size, gender base, category and where it is stored on the rack) aloud and more often than not, hollering any of the above incorrectly several times, before placing it, more or less, where it belongs. “Helping Betty!” the girl cried after one small success. “Yes, you are a big help to Betty today.” I wish I worked here.

A smartly dressed elderly white-haired woman with a cheery pink floral raincoat and matching hat, handbag and shoes, pushes her brilliant red cart slowly up each aisle, ingesting goods from either side before moving onto the next shelf. I make the grave mistake of getting behind her, unable to back up with my long arms loaded down with essentials for the cat (Cool green ceramic water dish with a paw print on the bottom-the EXACT one I purchased for Kitimus, my sister’s neighbor’s cat that won’t leave,) daughter (various glass containers with lids for food storage, knit fingerless gloves that stretch up the arm, dishtowels and hot pads,) spare room (looking for a warm blanket but only found cat hair-attracting synthetics,) house guests (slippers, basket for the slippers, and cloth napkins,) the Seed Library will receive two forest green binders, and me (long-sleeved shirts.) Who doesn’t need another faux fur-lined vest?

Hormone-driven teen boys race through the sporting goods, shoes and hardware sections while their bedraggled father shifts through the work clothes area. He looks plain worn-out and as effective as luke warm tea in a raging storm. I am ravaging the mostly hideous curtains and various sized rods so I can winterize the living and dining room windows. I glance down at the woman’s basket next to me and realize she has gotten to the good stuff before me. Doubt I can distract her long enough to shuffle thru her items. Drat! Her nervous twitching encourages me to move on, feeling as though I avoided a confrontation with a mentally ill shopper. She probably thought the same of me.

The checker is thrilled to welcome me to the Salvation Army Store for the first time. She assures me the money I spent today goes directly to the end user. Aha. I spot a “Dogs Welcome” sign posted on the door and will remember to bring Ty to use as a diversion to obtain the best merchandise the store (or other shopper’s carts) have to offer.