Thrift Stories

There is a comic shop in downtown Walla Walla. I like comic books, but I don't like the comic shop. The comic shop is a beacon of my refusal of adulthood. I go to the bar to feel like a man, but I go to the comic shop to feel like a boy, and for some reason I am deeply, deeply ashamed of this. As a result, whenever I go to the comic shop I look like the video tape of the U.S. Senator slinking into a titty bar; scanning both directions in a raincoat and hat and I slide in the door. Once inside it is a haven because I have never been in that store with another customer. Only myself, sometimes a companion or two, and the owners. I like it this way. I think comic book stores are set up this way. I doubt I could buy anything with some other stranger there; I would feel that same sense of shame as I felt sneaking into the establishment in the first place. I feel like the guy who is trying to casually read the erotic coffeetable books at Barnes & Noble. I don't care if Marvel has the entire cast of X-Men signing autographs in the nude while having an orgy with each other, I still wouldn't be caught dead in the comic shop with other people, especially during an event where there might be people that I know.

To help diffuse the shame of my comic shop visits, I usually dodge across the street to the Humane Society thrift store. This is also gives me an excuse for having my car parked in front of the comic shop. I figure if I spend $3 on a comic book I could at least spend another $3 on a crappy t-shirt to help out some ugly sad-looking dog live another day. Today when I entered into the all too familiar thrift oasis, I saw the usual crowd. When I say "usual crowd" you have to think about the type of people you usually see wandering around state fairs. So, unusual for society, but usual for the Humane Society. I have a nice little flight path when I hit the thrift store that minimizes my in-store encounter while maximizing my scoping out of the wares. I slip past kitchenware and clothes pretty quickly, loop through electronics, and head upstairs to the furniture. Today when I was browsing old suitcases I saw a woman rifling around in the La-Z-Boys decorated with coffee or blood stains. For a second I thought she was testing the comfort of a chair if it were to be used as a pillow until she moved to the next chair and I realized she was checking the chairs for loose change. I was struck by a moment of clarity, a "life lesson" had happened, if you want to use phrases that are commonly found in Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I couldn't decide what was worse; that this woman had resorted to checking thrift store furniture for change, or that this woman seemed to have misinterpreted the mission statement of the Humane Society thrift store. Yes, this woman was desperate, but she was technically stealing from a charity organization. I couldn't decide which was worse, so I pushed the woman down the stairs and lit the chair on fire. Better to remove a psychological predicament than to sort it out in a store that smells like old shoes and cat urine.