What people do with the things they buy from us is beyond our control, and we don’t usually get the chance to see that future, but why pass up the opportunity? At least that’s what I tried to explain to my wife as we slowly passed the gentlemen’s club. “I don’t think so,” Alex said in her usual honest and to the point manner.
It all started at one of our garage sales. We had sweated to set this thing up the day before the sale, and sweated even more the day of. Alex had the garage looking like a pop-up boutique: Art was in one area, kitchen goods in another, clothes hung on rolling racks, and price tags adorned each item.
Around noon Alex went in to make us some lunch. A white Mercedes, circa 1990’s, pulled up the driveway, even though everyone else was parked on the street. An older man in overalls, beard, and baseball cap got out of the passenger side, a slightly younger woman with even younger breasts got out of the back seat; the driver stayed put. The old man walked over to the clothes racks and started to browse. I was finishing up with another customer, but heard him say to the woman “these’d be perfect for my girls.” A few minutes later, the old guy asks me “how much for all these clothes?” “Uh, I’d have to ask my wife,” I said, slightly unsure what to make of the whole thing.
I went inside. “Alex, somebody wants to buy all your clothes for his girls.” “Huh?” she asked. “I don’t know, it’s for his girls he said… maybe granddaughters, but he wants the whole rack.” “There’s probably a thousand dollars’ worth of clothes there,” Alex said as she walked out to the garage shaking her head in disbelief.
Alex was right, these were basically brand new, once-worn, clothes she had acquired when she was a young model in Miami: designer stuff, and unique items like a see-through raincoat with hood and matching umbrella. Not exactly what grandpa would by for grandchild, but hey, who’s to judge.
While Alex calculated, I tried to get more info from the guy and his female companion. “So you must have a lot of girls?” I asked. “A revolving door,” said his perky-breasted companion. The old man laughed, “I own a strip club.” And pointing to his companion, “this one used to be my headliner.” She made me blush with her response: “Now I’m his head-giver.”
Alex had to have heard all of this as she quickly chimed in with a total price. The old man didn’t flinch, and pulled out of his overall pockets a wad of cash that still reeked of perfumed strippers from the night prior. He then snapped his fingers and his driver got out of the Mercedes. “Grab all these clothes for me Clive,” said the old man. Clive, the henchman, grabbed not only the clothes but the hangars, which I could tell Alex wasn’t too happy about.
The minute they’d left our driveway, we looked at each other in silent astonishment. I broke the silence: “Can you imagine, there’s gonna’ be a Cinnamon, or Cayenne or some kind of spice wearing your clothes at the local strip club tonight?” “Taking off my clothes you mean,” Alex answered.
A few months later we found ourselves driving past the new home of all of Alex’s old modeling attire. “Aren’t you curious?” I asked as I gently applied the brake. “No,” Alex said. And that was that. I released the brake and we rolled on. Maybe it’s better not to know what things people do with the things that were once ours.