“Your account has accumulated one hundred and twenty-four dollars and ninety cents.”
“Woohoo! I’m rich!” I joked to the lady behind the counter at Extoggery at 10 Brentcliffe Rd. She threw me a bone – an unimpressed half-smile. No doubt she’s been subjected to that line a thousand times. Still, almost a hundred and twenty-five bucks wasn’t a bad haul for some old pants and shirts I had all but forgotten about.
My rags to riches story began a few months earlier when my mother gave me a book, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. As the name implies, the idea is to get rid of all the stuff you’ve accumulated that you don’t need anymore — so no one else has to do it after you kick the bucket. They had me at “Death Cleaning.” It sounds so morbidly soul cleansing. With my mother’s not-so-subtle hint heeded, I started with my closet, which had some suits that looked like they belonged in a Huey Lewis music video. Then some “dress” shirts that smelled like my grandparents’ Encyclopedia Brittanica collection. Off to the consignment store I ran, to “make” my hundreds and hundreds of dollars. A few sobering comments into the transaction, I knew I would need to adjust my windfall expectations.
“These shirts all have yellow rings. We can’t take them.”
“Oh…it’s not mine…er it’s.…” I responded, unconvincingly.
“And there’s blood on this one.”
“There’s deodorant on this.”
“This is oil…or something.”
Apparently, my clothes would be better served as props in a CSI episode. My apparel attrition rate was alarming, with only a handful of items making it past the human blue-light scanners.
Flash-forward and my projected lottery winnings are nowhere near what I thought they would be.
“So, do you want your money now?” asks the Extoggery lady.
“No, I think I’ll look around, first.”
Two and a half hours later I’m still in the change room. Draped on me is a pink polo shirt. It’s a strange feeling wearing someone else’s clothes. If I look hard enough, they tell a story. My mind wanders.…Why is it here? Did they die in it? The waist seems to flare out like a small dress. Did he have a belly? Is this a mustard stain? From a burger? Did he die of a heart attack? Maybe he ate in the car. Was he eating a hamburger in the car, when a squirrel ran in front of him, then he swerved to avoid it, lost control, flipped the car and had a heart attack? Yeah, that’s probably what happened. It would explain the mustard, for sure.
I made my way to the cash desk with my pink polo shirt in hand, along with a lime green one, a baby blue one, and a couple others in colours that I have never worn and will likely never wear. Ever.
And as I stand in line, arms full of new old replacements for what I had already cleared out, it occurred to me that my death cleansing idea was dead before it even started.
“That’ll be one hundred and twenty-five dollars and ninety cents,” says the cashier.
“Woohoo…I’m not rich. I’m a hoarder!”