The William Temple
House Thrift Store (2230 NW Glisan St., 222-3328)
will feature various sales during the last three days of each
month (sales at the warehouse location have been discontinued).
Being a freelance writer can be hellish, what with all the
deadlines, story pitching and sporadic paychecks. It does,
however, afford certain freedoms--including the freedom to
schedule the day's workload around a good sale. When I saw
a newspaper ad for a bag sale ($10 for whatever clothes, accessories
and shoes you could fit in a grocery bag) at the William Temple
House Thrift Store in Northwest last week, I cleared my schedule
for the first morning of the three-day sale in order to be
the first to comb the racks of cast-off duds.
Jacked on caffeine, I raced across town the next Friday
in the Garb Getter, my trusty Cutlass Ciera. As I drove,
I envisioned fighting my way through hordes of neighborhood
hipsters in the store for that perfect sweater or trench
coat, only to see it--and this part was in slow motion--intercepted
by a more strategic shopper moments before my fingers clutched
the hanger, inciting me to cry out an agonizing "No-o-o-o-o-o!"
Duking it out at thrift store sales can be brutal, after
all. It's a game; there are winners and there are losers.
I don't like to lose.
Imagine my surprise when I pulled up in front of the store
five minutes after it opened that day and saw nobody. A
graying, friendly lady behind the counter handed me a brown
bag as I scanned the competition; about five other shoppers
roamed the spacious store, none of them dressed like I was.
There was no evidence of adrenaline coursing through their
veins, and they were oblivious to me. This was a good sign,
but I was just a little disappointed. It would be like shooting
fish in a barrel.
Not that I had high hopes. I mean, this was no Value Village.
With the exception of a TV and futon frame I'd bought for
my first Portland apartment nearby, I hadn't found many
treasures here. The "vintage" rack consisted of ugly polyester
dresses, and most of the women's apparel was more dated
career wear than downtown chic. But, as any thrift hound
knows, you have to open a lot of oysters to find one pearl.
So I set in, repeating a mantra of restraint in my head:
"I will not buy more T-shirts. I will not buy more polyester
blouses. I will not buy things I 'might' wear."
The men's department was utterly disappointing--not a damn
thing I'd sport. My luck was better in the limited kids'
section; I tossed a burgundy and white-striped Old Navy
tank top in the empty bag, adopting a new mantra: "Tight
is good." In womenswear I scooped up a short black shift
with a beaded neckline (two beads were missing, but someday
I'd sew new ones on). Next, I found a pair of mysterious
designer jeans that were, amazingly, long enough (mantra
#3:"I will not be influenced by Charlie's Angels
mania"). I tossed a short, navy, corduroy dress in the bag.
It was nothing I'd buy normally, but I'd probably wear it
sometime.
I'd covered most of the store, but the $10 bag was half-full,
or half-empty to this pessimistic shopper. I tossed in a
rust-colored leather jacket (even if I never wore it, I
could give it to a friend or sell it at Buffalo Exchange),
a blue backpack with the printed words "Feldene (PIROXICAM)"
to add to my pharmaceutical paraphernalia collection, a
long-sleeved, black knit shirt with tiny silver stripes,
and a tacky coin purse.
It was time to go. I laid down a 10-spot, then tossed the
brimming sack in the trunk of the Cutlass, beside a pile
of garments from past thrifting adventures just waiting
to be worn. Soon, they'd have even more company--Goodwill
was just around the corner.
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 1,
2000
|
