Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
It came as no surprise that the man in white socks and chunky leather sandals was also wearing cargo shorts so packed with useless crap that they slammed against his thighs as he bowlegged bobbed towards the register. A fanny pack was wrapped around his waist with even more junk strapped near his junk.
His long, slim torso bent cautiously over his basket, surveying the contents of his shopping spree with the frailty of an anorexic Joyless Green Giant. A flimsy fishing shirt was tucked firmly into his shorts. The double UV ray protection sunglasses that hung from his sunburned neck clanked against the basket as he rifled through the sheets and shoes and gardening tools he had amassed. Yellow tag days were always full of bargains.
Not only was this man dressed like a packrat Crocodile Dundee, but the way he conducted his solo conversation made him look like a drunk animal expert mental ward escapee. His self-chat continued as he randomly picked up and put back knick knacks from the shelves in front of him.
Hidden under the shadow of the tipped corner of his Sheryl Crow-style safari sun hat was the bright blue blinking of a Bluetooth earpiece. Who was on the other line, and why hadn’t this man been shot? Seriously, why had no one stopped this urban-dwelling loser from stomping around in this state of mindlessness? Not that I really wanted him dead, because he might have had children or a wife at home, it was just that his ensemble was so disagreeable that it evoked a strange sort of rage inside of me.
As the man walked out of the thrift store with his bags in hand a wave of relief came over me. He was finally out of sight, and there was always a chance that the blue bandana he had purchased would someday get him into trouble if he found himself in the wrong side of town.