“We have a winner.”
“Who would donate garbage?” she asks.
“They probably just mixed up the bags.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’ve been here for about two years, and I’ve only seen it a couple of times.”
I look over at the new girl, Millie. She has short black hair that’s shaved on the sides, a nose ring, and bright red lipstick. The thrift store has been short on volunteers lately, so it’s been nice having her around.
“Coming through,” shouts Gladys. She’s a round bundle of white hair, pointy elbows, and shrill squawks. Sometimes she reminds me of a seagull. She’s volunteered here for the past thirty years and has a bad habit of bossing me around, even though technically – as of today – I’m kind of her boss.
I’ve worked at this thrift store, One Man’s Treasure, for about two years now, and I help out at the local hospital when I can. Mostly with handing out breakfast trays and stuff. It’s okay, but I prefer working here. I started out volunteering but slowly moved up the ranks. Today is my first day as manager.
To be honest, I’m a bit nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I can do the job. I’ve just never been “in charge” before. I know there was some talk about whether the quiet one would be a good leader. I almost feel like I have to prove myself or something. Here’s hoping today goes well, with no surprises.
Gladys barges between Millie and me and plonks a few boxes on the sorting table. Stabbing a finger toward the mountain of clothes and toys in front of me, she says, “You’re falling behind.”
“Gladys, have you met Millie?”
Gladys waves an impatient, veiny hand in front of her face and yanks a box toward her. She starts randomly chucking items but doesn’t seem to actually see what she’s handling.
Save for the occasional strange surprise, like dead mice in old work boots, it’s like Christmas every time I go to work. Or treasure hunting. If you dig long enough, you usually find something worth keeping. And I should know – I was thrifting way before Macklemore made it cool.
As soon as Millie and I are done with one pile, another load of boxes and lumpy plastic bags is dumped in front of us. An ocean of unwanted things.
My eyes land on a dusty, warped cardboard box that was set on the far end of the table by one of our newer volunteers.
“Just throw it out,” Gladys says. “It’s probably old junk.”
I nod, placating her. As soon as her back is turned, I dive into it anyway. My fingers glide over some sort of silky material. I lift it out of the box and hold it up to the light.
“Oh my god…”
Millie cranes her neck. “What?”
I pull and pull until the dress is finally out, the fabric draping artfully as I hold it above me. It’s navy blue, with a halter neck, a full skirt, and about twenty off-white buttons down the back. It reminds me of smiling pin-up girls with wide red lips and black garters. Pure 1950s glamor.
Hands down, it’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. This is so going home with me.
Millie smiles and returns to her pile, and I carefully set the dress aside and return to the cardboard box. A wrinkled photo album and a couple of hand-written letters rest at the bottom.
“Who would throw away pictures?” Millie asks.
I shrug. “This is nothing. I’ve seen people sell their photo albums on eBay.”
Millie’s eyes widen comically. “It’s who’s buying them that worries me.”
I leisurely flip through the album, but stop cold a couple of pages in.
It looks like a picture of me, playing dress up.
What? That can’t be right.
I bring the album closer, my eyes squinting.
It’s a black and white portrait of a young woman with cat-eye glasses and a 1950s-style blouse. I’d guess that she’s probably in her early twenties. Her dark hair hangs in loose waves over her shoulders.
She has my nose. The same long, hook-type nose that I was teased for in school. The one I’ve learned to cover up and reshape with contouring makeup. The one no one else in my family has.
At first glance, my family and I kind of blend together. But if you look a bit closer, you’ll see that my hair is a little bit darker and my skin is more olive-toned. That my nose is definitely different from everyone else’s.
I often wonder if outsiders think my mom nailed the mailman or something. But for all I know, the mailman could be my dad. When you’re adopted, you wonder about the stranger at the restaurant who has your laugh or the cashier who has your smile. The world becomes one giant question mark.
I run my finger over the portrait of the young woman. We have the same nose. I wonder…
Millie playfully bumps her hip into me. “You all right?”
“What? Oh, I’m fine,” I say. I close the album and set it aside. “I wish I knew who it belonged to.”
There aren’t any names written in the photo album. No captions, either. Just a few scattered dates confirming my guess that they were taken in the fifties and sixties.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s from my oldest brother, Matthew.
Tell Mom I can’t make it to dinner tonight. Something’s come up.
I bash a quick reply: Tell her yourself, you arse.
My brothers and I try to go home at least once a month for a big family dinner. Recently, Matthew has developed the habit of flaking out at the last minute. He’s also developed the bad habit of getting me to do his dirty work.
Matthew: I’ll try to make it next month.
I sigh and return my phone to my pocket. I chew on my thumbnail, and my eyes flick back to the cardboard box. What else is in there?
I pick up the pile of letters that was wedged under the photo album. They’re tied neatly with string. I turn them over in my hands, noting the address on the tattered envelopes. They’re addressed to someone named Nancy Carlyle.
Nancy.
Does that ring any bells? I pause for a moment, ready to be struck by lightning or something.
I wait.
Nothing.
My eyes scan the envelope. The address is only a few blocks from here. My heart pounds out an excited, hopeful rhythm. Wouldn’t it be amazing if some blood relatives of mine lived close by? And they had donated this box by accident, and, by some miracle, I intercepted it?
Gladys flies into the back room and slams the door behind her. I look up from the sorting table, as do Millie and Cheryl, another lady who’s been volunteering here for years.
“Disgusting,” Gladys spits.
Millie frowns. “What?”
“There’s a guy out there,” Gladys says, pointing toward the main shopping area of the store. “He’s got a snake wrapped around his neck.”
So much for no surprises on my first day in my new role.
Cheryl laughs. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Gladys says. “A big, disgusting snake. It’s got to be at least five feet long.” She gives our table a focused stare. “He’s creepy. We’ve gotta get this guy out of here.”
Cheryl peeks out the door. After about two seconds, she ducks back in. “Oh hell no. I’m not talking to that guy.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“He looks scary,” Cheryl says. She sweeps an expectant gaze over to Millie. “You go.”
Millie scrunches up her nose. “I’m scared of snakes.”
“I’ll go,” I say.
Gladys lifts her wispy white eyebrows, her eyes scanning me head to toe. At last, she smirks. “Okay, missy. Have fun.”
I suppress an eye roll and walk out of the back room. It doesn’t take me long to locate snake guy. And he isn’t the three-hundred-pound bristling biker I expected.
He’s young. Late teens, I’d guess. Greasy hair. Tattoos on his neck. A grubby coat with split seams.
He doesn’t scare me. I know his type. And besides, the snake he has around his neck is maybe eighteen inches l
ong, probably a baby corn snake. In other words, harmless.
“Hello,” I say. “Can I help you find something?”
He shifts from side to side, never quite looking me in the eye.
“You got any cages around here?” he asks.
“What kind of cages?”
The sweet, stale smell of alcohol oozes from his pores. “Dunno. A fish tank would probably work.”
I reach out a tentative hand and hover over the shiny scales. “May I?”
He briefly makes eye contact, but then looks away. “Suit yourself.”
“He’s nice,” I say. Looking down, I see a dirty white sock poking through a hole in his left shoe.
“I had a cage, but someone stole it,” he says.
“That sucks,” I sympathize.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I had a cardboard box for him for a while, but someone took that too.”
“Who would steal a cardboard box?” I ask.
A tiny grin peeks through his lips. “An asshole.”
“We have an old fish tank in the storage room. Should I bring it out for you? Let you take a look?”
He runs a hand over the snake coiling over his shoulders. “Sure.”
A little while later, the snake is slithering around his new tank. Snake Guy is beaming.
“Thanks,” he says quietly while digging in his pockets. He brings out two dollars. “I don’t have much…”
I discreetly rip off the price sticker and smile. “Would you believe it? We’re having a pet sale. Two dollars for cat trees, fish bowls, you name it.”
He smiles and hands me his money.
I spot a pair of men’s running shoes on the rack nearby. They’re about the right size. “Take these too,” I say, making a mental note to pay for them later.
Snake Guy gives me a look, the kind of look that means he actually sees me and isn’t looking through me, like most people. “Thanks.”
I ask him to come back if he needs anything else. We often give quilts and winter jackets to people in need.
A few minutes later, Cheryl quietly sidles up to me. “You handled that well,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. “You never know what a person might be going through.”
She nods. “Indeed.”
A few hours later, I finish my shift and hand over the keys to Cheryl so she can lock up later. She’s my favorite person to work with here. Mid-sixties, wide smile, wears lots of chunky wood necklaces, and always smells of cinnamon. Being around her feels like being in a warm hug all day. She used to be manager, but after ten years she decided to take on a lesser role and passed the baton onto me.
Usually we’re chatty during shift change. But today, I’m feeling distracted. My mind is still buzzing from that box. I really want to get out of here and process what I’ve found.
“You were really good with that guy today,” she says.
“Hmm?” I say, thoughts elsewhere.
“The snake guy.”
“No big deal.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I never would’ve thought someone like you could relate to someone like him.”
I feel myself bristling. I hate it when people reduce humans to an “us versus them” mentality. We’re all people.
“He was a nice guy,” I say.
“But you just seemed so…comfortable. Do you volunteer at homeless shelters? Or did you have a snake when you were a kid, or something?”
I feel my stomach clench. “Something like that.” I pick up my coat and purse and head out the door. “See you tomorrow, Cheryl.”
I walk out to my car, a dusty cardboard box and its contents tucked under my arm. On my way, I say a little prayer for Snake Guy. I wonder if he has anywhere warm to sleep tonight. I know what it’s like to walk in his shoes.
I take out the envelopes, although I don’t really need to. I’ve memorized the address already. I’m tempted to sit in my car and read the letters before I do anything else, but I’m feeling too jittery. I need to move.
I map out a route in my head and start driving.
Where does she go? What does this have to do with a gorgeous firefighting guitarist? Or a gorgeous guitar-playing firefighter, for that matter? Did we mention he has an Irish accent? Not for real; he is a literary character, after all, so you do have to supply the Irish accent yourself. But still – hawt. Often literally.
We’d love to tell you more about All Shook Up and Chelsey Krause. Just come by TrystBooks.com/all-shook-up.
Lessons in Pure Life Page 28