Consignment
fashions are hot stuff these days, especially when the mercury outside tops 100
degrees (F). But do folks really have to be so steamed about a few choice
items?
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After
weeks of nagging from a certain someone (who happens to share my closet), I
finally mustered the motivation to weed out several stale items. I gathered up
the shoes that hurt my feet, the blouses that don’t button, and the shorts that
are simply too short for a woman of my vintage.
Who wouldn’t be lucky to pick up such treasures? I mused.
.
.
I phoned a friend, who
tackled the same project in her own closet.
We
loaded our seasoned fashion gems into the trunk of her car and cruised to a
consignment shop in a tourist town nearby. We counted ourselves savvy
consignors, as we circled the block in traffic. The high season is
clearly underway, if the sidewalk shuffle is any indicator. The Fourth of July Weekend is just around the corner.
Surely our closet rejects (er, lovely fashion items) would sell in a flash.
Surely our closet rejects (er, lovely fashion items) would sell in a flash.
Finally
finding a parking spot, we huffed and puffed and loaded ourselves up with
armfuls of neatly washed, ironed, and hangered items.
We
trudged along the sidewalk, jostling past Skinny Minnies in teeny bikinis,
red-faced matrons in tropical print muumuus, and sweaty seniors in plaid Bermuda
shorts.
I
nearly tripped over a grey poodle on a leash, as I juggled an oversized
shopping bag to open the door to the shop. Three sundresses and a pair of
cropped chinos fell to the ground. I gathered the goodies and went into the
consignment store.
.
.
Then the storm began.
“Oh,
no!” the saleslady behind the counter groaned, before the jingling bells on the
door stopped ringing. “You’re not bringing us stuff to sell, are you?”
My
friend and I stashed our stuff on the garment rack labeled “Incoming Items” and
stopped to catch a breath.
“We
are simply too busy to look through consignment items today,” announced the
pinch-faced consignment lady. (Actually, her name is Fran. We’ve dealt with her
before.) “I’m here alone today, and I can’t stop to check in your things.”
As
if on cue, a younger woman stepped behind the counter, pulled a key from her
pocket and unlocked the jewelry case to show a customer a silver necklace.
“If you’d like to donate, that’s fine," she said with a second-hand smile. "Or you can leave them on the rack in back,and we'll get to them when we get to them. But we can’t count consignments until next week. We’ve changed our policy on incoming goods, and we only take things on Mondays through Wednesdays.”
Gee, we must not have seen the memo-that-never-was, I thought. This was
Thursday. I wondered whether Fran had ever been a kindergarten teacher, as she
seemed to be scolding us like a couple of naughty five year olds.
Just
then, a real five year old approached the counter, holding a red lace tank top.
“Do you have this in a smaller size?” she chirped. Fran stopped pecking at the
keys on the cash register and bent across the glass display, nearly knocking
down an easeled tray of enameled brooches.
“Sorry,
sweetie,” she purred. “Everything we have is one-of-a-kind.”
How right she is, I decided, grimacing at my cohort in crime. She's one-of-a-kind for sure.
Here
we were, bringing in free merchandise for the shop to sell. Sure, they’d pay us
a small percentage of sales, but they’d make a handy profit as well. But,
instead of greeting us, as we schlepped our still-stylish duds into the store,
the snippy staffer essentially alienated us instead.
OK, maybe Fran was having a rough day, as we all do. Perhaps she faced an inordinate amount of stress at home. Possibly, her gerbil had the flu. Who knows? Still, we found ourselves sorry we'd stopped in her store.
OK, maybe Fran was having a rough day, as we all do. Perhaps she faced an inordinate amount of stress at home. Possibly, her gerbil had the flu. Who knows? Still, we found ourselves sorry we'd stopped in her store.
We
went to leave, and the passive-aggressive saleslady called out to us.
“Did
you want to look around a bit before you go?” By then, we were on the sidewalk.
“You
bet we wanna look around,” chimed my quick-comeback comrade, as we approached the
car. “We want to look around for a new consignment shop.”
But that’s not the end of
the story.
Remember
Fran, the passive-aggressive saleslady, who said they wouldn’t even check in
consignment items on a Thursday? She called me less than an hour later.
Apparently, she’d already sorted our wares.
In
her “You’ve been naughty” tone, Fran explained how she would only accept four
of the 34 items I had offered and just a few of my friend’s fashion finds as
well. She went on to reiterate that anything we didn’t collect within one week
would become the store’s own property.
Did she, or did she not,
want our chic cast-offs?
But
we’d already cast off. And the next time we clean out our closets, we’re
hauling our best wares elsewhere.
.
.
Image/s:
Sorting Out Garments for
Consignment
Photo by Linda Ann
Nickerson – Nickers and Ink Creative Communications
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