At Grift & Sift

 

Not really. Sift, yes—at Grift & Sift, you have to pick through for the good. But nobody’s swindling. Not swindling me, anyhow. My snapping up something another shopper needs, though? Needs needs? Is this akin to trickery, even thievery? I try not to think about that—about robbing.

Let’s just say that at Grift & Sift most everything is a steal.

The place is usually aswarm. And toward the rear, beyond the swinging doors that say Do Not Enter, are lots more folks, volunteers, sorting the donations and fixing and pricing. I’m not sure I could work back there. I’d get grabby. It’d be too much of a struggle letting this or that perfect, plum thing slip through my fingers and get put out for sale.

The lady guarding the fitting rooms keeps track on her clipboard of how many items you’ve loaded up on, and when you emerge from your cubby, static haired, your sheep and your goats in separate piles, she makes sure to corroborate. The limit is 6 pieces at a time, SIX. All the inky ticks on her list, maybe her fingers get sore.

What about floorwalkers? Watching for merchandise sliding down into handbags? I don’t know. I don’t think. But there’s always a volunteer seated by the exit, halfway eyeing people’s armloads and receipts. Best not to try smuggling past her some small, lusted-after bauble.

(To be continued.)

 


 


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