“All that technology now–no one goes outside anymore,” a lady said to me as I stood in line with her at the Volunteers of America Thrift Shop.
“True, very true,” I replied, wondering how long the wait would take. I considered leaving but I had scored several items including a black lace mini dress, something I knew I’d never wear out in public. It was the last Tuesday of the month and the store offered 50% off of all items, not the usual ‘pink’ tags only or ‘green’ tags only. The crowd was unreasonably large and my thoughts were, yet another sign of the American economy, part of the great lie! and then, crap, that just sounded like my mother!
I felt, momentarily, a wave of embarrassment to be shopping in a thrift shop instead of a regular department store. I have this feeling occasionally, today most likely due to the size of the crowd. I hoped I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew—best to be incognito. My current motivation was to locate and buy the ideal jean skirt, one that fit well, didn’t flatten my ass, and sat low on my hips. I hate pants and I hate waistbands and mostly stick to skirts, and I am picky. I’d been through eleven skirts at four dollars a pop in the last two years, numerous lengths and shades of denim, all without success. I found two to try on, neither one was the IT skirt. Maybe I wasn’t jean skirt worthy?
“I grew up with black and white TV, “ I said standing behind her in the line that wasn’t moving. I immediately wondered why I said anything at all to her at all as recently a strange new personality was evolving in me which included a lot of antisocial behaviors–not talking to strangers, or, for that matter, people I knew. I used to be so friendly.
“I grew up with the radio,” she replied, “ that’s all we had. We went outside–not like today–no one goes outside.” A passing customer paused next to us. She had a certain thrift shop je ne sais quoi and was holding a tattered box–The Barbie Game.
“Do you remember when TVs had channels changers for cable stations? A plastic circle with channels 43, 63 and—oh yeah! And that round antenna that sat on top of the TV?” She said to us and then grinned.
The woman in front of me looked down at the game, “I don’t recognize that game.”
The other woman replied quickly, “I dunno–looks like from the 60s, don’t you think? Of course, my sister probably had one and I never knew because she got all the good toys and hid them.” I fought off a slight urge to play therapist. I bet she’d be open to the idea of exploring her feelings towards her sister—could be some heavy shit at Volunteers of America Thrift Store, all before 10am.
The woman in front of me weighed in “that game looks like it has been in someone’s basement for decades, probably missing pieces and parts, smells musty.”
The game woman shrugged her shoulders and tottered away, feeling slighted. I turned forward again.
“When I was eleven,” the lady in front of me said, not turning back, “I wrote a story– ‘The Blob’ –and my teacher sent it in to be published but we never heard nothing. Nothing. That was 1957. “ I nodded my head politely. Did she just say ‘the blob’? “Yes, and then you remember it was a couple of years later that movie came out. My story! I wrote that. I did” She was lanky and ordinary with long grey hair. “It’s hard getting old,” she said. I nodded in agreement, wondering why she brought that up. She continued, “I also had a dream about moving sidewalks and no one had invented those yet.” The line inched forward, closer to the cashier. “And now you see them!” she said resolutely, pointing to the air with emphasis. I smiled politely at her and at the same time considered doing a mental status examination on her without her knowledge—is she oriented to person, place, time?—maybe flight of ideas? “Airports!” she blurted a bit too loudly, then paused.
“Yes, you must be right. It is strange that you had that dream before anyone had invented them, “ I responded. “Exactly,” she whispered, “I’m telling you, I lived before this time.” I tried to scramble some logic from this declaration but gave up.
“People steal ideas,” she added, “My story about the blob, my moving sidewalks.” She held in her hand a small flashlight for purchase–75 cents. This seemed to be a long wait for a plastic flashlight but maybe it was that discount that kept her moving forward?
“I thought the blob was a very scary movie,” I offered. “Yes! How did I ever think that up?” she asked.
“You know, “ I hinted, “people have always taken creative ideas from others and claimed it as their own work. Take that Che Guevara image you see everywhere? –That was not Warhol’s work but someone else made it…”
“Who was Che Guevara?” she asked curiously.
I replied, “Oh, some revolutionary from Latin America who got shot by the government. You know, the dude in the beret with a mustache, maybe a beard? You saw his face a lot in the 60s in graffiti on buildings in cities…” I knew very little about Che or his image or the said theft of artwork so I hoped this was the end of the conversation.
She paused, looking at me as if I was nuts, and turned forward. Hurry up line, I thought. Slowly she turned back around and looked me in the eye and with an accusing tone demanded, “Are you a Communist?” I considered my answer quickly and realized none would feel appropriate. I recalled a funny cartoon I’d seen on Facebook explaining political ideologies. Communism was something about a farmer having two cows and the government taking both cows and giving the farmer milk.
“No, not a communist,” I responded. She grinned and waved her hand at me like she was holding an American flag, “I support the troops!” She then pointed to the cashier, “Look at Marlene with all those silly bows in her hair! Just ridiculous—she’s too old for that. She really is. And….” she paused to make an important point, “she’s a smoker.”
