Today I’m excited to begin a series documenting some of the most embarrassing moments in my life. We’ll go in reverse chronological order, starting here with an event from late September, 2011.
It seemed like a great idea. Months ago I’d completed a culling session of my dresser and come out with two things that absolutely had to go: a pair of brown Gap corduroys that puffed out too much at the bottom, and a blue wool half-zip sweater I’d bought at Macy’s for $25 and had begun to pill after just one wash. Discovering that the Goodwill on Castro and Market had already closed, I decided to try offloading the clothes at Crossroads Trading Company. I’d get some store credit to boot, I thought, and maybe walk out with a chill pair of pants.
If you’re unfamiliar with Crossroads, it’s a consignment store that sells trendy threads for less. They get their clothes primarily from drop-in sellers—buying on the cheap and selling back to the public for profit. It’s like a thrift store, but more expensive and without the creepy housewares section. I’ve made some nice finds at Crossroads, including my favorite blue blazer and a soft, fuzzy wool vest, but this was to be my first time selling clothes.
I strode into the store in the sunny center of a weekday. I was all smiles, freshly unemployed and happy to be out and about in the quiet time between rush hours. I proudly announced my intention to sell some clothes to the two girls working the counter, and was instructed to head around the corner and sign in. I checked my backpack, stuck the tag in my pocket, and rounded the counter to the middle of the store, signing my name on a list behind a couple of other clothes-sellers and starting to peruse the pants. After a few minutes my brother called, and as I scooted out the door to speak with him the alarm went off, blaring loudly but fortunately stopping as I jumped back inside and handed the tag to one of the girls behind the counter.
Outside I had a nice chat with the bro and enjoyed a lovely view of Market St.
Back inside, I sheepishly retrieved my tag and went back to browsing, waiting as the clothes inspector worked her way through the mound of blouses a lady was trying to sell. I shopped happily at first, trying on a number of shoes and compiling four pairs of promising pants. But back at the dressing room I couldn’t find an employee to check me in, and I worried that once inside the buyer might call my name, so I put the pants back and half-heartedly paged through the jackets, getting a bit impatient and a little tired.
Finally she called my name, and I stepped up to the counter and looked down at the little lady with blond curls, who placed her hand on my little parcel of clothes and asked “are these yours?”
“yes”, I said.
“have you ever sold with us before?” she asked as she neatly plucked the garments from the bag and laid out the corduroys on the counter.
“no, I haven’t”. The corduroys looked alot frumpier than I remembered as she pulled laterally on them and flipped them over.
“well what I do is examine the clothes and see if there’s something I think I can sell, then I put a market price on it and you can take 15% in cash or 25% store credit”.
“ok” I replied, noticing how much lighter the worn section of the pants showed in the bright light of the store.
“corduroys are our hardest fabric to sell, and what we look for is pants that are still nice and tight”.
“uh-huh”.
“and these are just a little too stretched out, so I’m going to pass on these”.
“ok” I replied, watching as she neatly folded the cords and shook out the blue wool sweater.
There was a tense thirty second period as she zipped and un-zipped the sweater, smoothed it out on the counter with both hands, then flipped it over and examined the back.
“and this is just a little bit conservative, so I’m going to pass on this one as well”.
“ok” I replied, trying to sound upbeat.
“but thanks for coming by!” She put the clothes back in the bag. “Do you want these back now or are you going to keep shopping?”.
Not wishing to show my disappointment, I assured her that I would of course be continuing shopping and could she please just put the clothes in my cubby up front.
“what number are you?”
I checked the tag in the pocket of my somewhat-stained blue shorts. “five”, I replied.
Back in the pant racks I felt the wind had gone completely out of my sails, and after checking the dressing rooms again and not finding anybody there to check me in, I began to feel a bit upset at the whole experience and decided that Crossroads wouldn’t be getting a single dollar from me today, damnit. I strode back to the front counter to retrieve my bag and hoped that the girls up front wouldn’t piece together what had just happened.
But as the girl grabbed my backpack she spotted the bag of unsold clothes beside it and—as if she didn’t know for sure already—asked “is this yours too?”.
“yes that too” I replied, doing my best to smile back at her, stuffing the clothes in my bag and hurriedly stepping out onto the street.
I looked down at my high-socked feet planted in a pair of well-worn aesics running shoes, my afore-mentioned subtly-stained khaki blue shorts, my bright-yellow Australia T-shirt, and adding to the picture my paint-stained Buffalo Bills baseball cap, I thought for the first time that perhaps I wasn’t pulling off “too cool to care” as well as I’d hoped.
I walked on with a slightly damaged ego and one little lesson: if the clothes aren’t cool enough for you to want to wear, chances are Crossroads will have the same opinion.
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