Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

You park your car, surveying the surrounding parking lot. Although the thrift store boasts a clearance sale, the crowds are sparse in the early morning light.

Excellent.

You have readied yourself for the hunt. You have cash. You have cleared out the trunk of your car.  You pause outside of the store’s perfunctory cinderblock exterior, spreading your legs wide, dropping first one knee and then the other, your arms extended in a classic lunge-and-snatch maneuver that is the trademark of those who truly understand the hunt.

You gather your energies and sharpen your mind. You are ready.

You push against the glass door. It swings open, enveloping you in the smell of other people’s attics.  The old air conditioner strains fitfully against the summer heat.

Quietly now, you take in your surroundings, eyes scanning the horizon for obvious prey.

A herd of wicker baskets grazes nearby, the males showing off their colors: white snowmen or peeling yellow sunflowers. Assorted kitchen canisters have taken refuge on a top shelf where they peek out from a shady canopy of old collectible beer steins. But you are not deterred. It is too early to make your move. You must wait to see what will reveal itself. Only then will you fulfill the purpose of this moment.

There! Among the crowded racks of children’s clothing, you see it! The dress is shy, its pale colors partially hidden by a garish leopard print monstrosity. You edge closer, quietly, slowly, your eyes drinking in the detail. Trim body. Nice lines. And . . . Yes! A designer tag. Big game!

You begin your approach slowly from across the store, easing your way through the crates of naked Barbies with bad home haircuts (kitchen shears? Nail clippers?), past the mismatched dishes and the romance novels. Navigating the new-but-untouched exercise equipment. 

Drat! Another hunter has spotted you. You try to avert your eyes to a vinyl pocketbook, but it is too late. Throwing off your façade of nonchalance, you hurdle a pile of mismatched Tupperware. She curses silently and begins to scramble over an old sofa with sagging cushions, her dark pants picking up stray dog hairs. (Retriever? Probably.) 

 “My granddaughter would love that dress!” she calls out, the thrift shopper’s equivalent of calling “shotgun.” But it won’t work today. Today the victory is yours and yours alone. You grab the hanger and bring the beast down. You are victorious. Later you will cut off some stray strings hanging from a hem and hold them aloft, an offering to the gods of discount shopping. But for now you savor a smile. 

Wait. What’s that? The tag says size 2. Your knees start to sag at the weight of sudden understanding—this dress has been separated from its own kind in the Juniors’ department. Oh, fickle fate!

The other shopper senses your weary disappointment. There is nothing to do but admit defeat. You turn to her. “This won’t fit my daughter. Can your grandchild wear a Junior’s size 2?”

The other woman shakes her head sadly, and now you are joined together in sadness. You hug the other woman, this grandmother who has weathered so many victories and defeats for her clan. Together you shed bitter tears, a welcome release from all that has befallen you both.

Suddenly she tenses. The Grandmother has sensed new prey.

“Well, that’s just the way it goes,” she says airily, wandering off toward sporting goods. Ah, she is wily, this one. You decide to leave her to her noble pursuits.

The day is not yet finished. You have your own game to pursue. You turn, your will buoyed, and head back toward the canisters . . . and the possibility of victory.