At Grift & Sift, Chapter 9


Sometimes the music jars. All these Mennonite sympathizers, but the rock-and-roll oldies coming over the intercom system. The fitting-room lady sings along in her beautiful voice, a little bit under her breath. I love that.

For a while, one day, I followed Tattoos and Black Dress and Joni Mitchell Hair around. Was this their first time? Gadding about, they jabbered and joshed and teehee-ed. “If you don’t love it, walk away,” bleated one. (I wrote it down.) I have no idea what they threw into their carts and left with. Maybe, had I paid attention, I’d have had less fun trailing them. Maybe they were aiming their hilarity at stuff I’d have snapped up—the things the hicks donate, or go for. Maybe they were laughing at me.

The little boys’ booty, that day—heaven help us. Can’t somebody weed the toys better? 

 


 




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