Brilliant … But Bouncy

Wait, Did He Say Goodwill?

After a couple of days at my new job, having exhausted my supply of khaki pants (one pair) and skirts (one), I showed up at work in jeans.

My supervisor frowned. “We would appreciate it if you would dress more professionally at the office,” he said.

But I never see anyone! I wanted to wail. I sat alone in that dark room with no windows every day – and now I had to dress “more professionally”…? It didn’t seem fair.

“I don’t have a lot of clothes,” I said, always making excuses. “But I’ll try.” I spent the rest of the day behind my desk, imagining that I would wash my khakis and skirt every other day.

But the laundromat cost money, and it took a whole day to go there and wash clothes. And laundromats interfered with my drinking time. Sometimes I left my clothes and walked to the bar, but that usually didn’t end well.

While washing my khakis in the sink, I whined to Larry about the injustice of it all. “Everybody else gets to wear jeans!”

Everyone else worked in a warehouse driving trucks.

“It’s okay,” Larry said, cigarette dangling. “We’ll just go to the Goodwill and get you some dresses.”

Dresses? I thought. I was thinking slacks!

Then: Wait, did he say Goodwill?

Goodwill was the place where, growing up, we donated all of our functional garbage. I thought Goodwill was a place to donate things. I didn’t know there was a Goodwill store.

Why would I shop at Goodwill?

I thought about the giant donation bins, the piles of junk onto which we piled our junk. I thought about someone actually wearing the clothes we’d outgrown. I thought about someone else’s garbage being my “more professional” attire.

Tears sprung to my eyes. I choked them down with a swallow of beer and said nothing.

The next day at work, wearing my air-dried-in-the-yard khakis, I called my mom; the tears returned instantly.

“He wants to buy me dresses at Goodwill!” I sobbed. “I can’t shop at Goodwill!”

In fact, Larry and I were the perfect Goodwill clientele. All our money went for beer and smokes, so I could no longer afford to shop at Limited Express, which I much preferred.

I cried on the phone as though the world were ending.

My mom is a fashionista. She understands and appreciates clothes. I appreciate clever t-shirts, and that’s where my fashion sense ends.

But my mom wholly empathized with my angst.

“We’ll get you some clothes,” she said, probably having no idea how she would make that happen.

“But Larry wants to go to Goodwill tonight!” I cried. The tears were uncontrollable.

“We will get you some clothes,” she assured me from a thousand miles away. “It will be all right. Just wear the clothes you have for now and call me tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”

I could feel her hug through the phone, warming my heart.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother hung up and called her sisters.

Within minutes, the troops were rallying to gather all the stylish, professional clothes they could find, some brilliantly handmade. They boxed up the lot and sent them to me, like care packages for a war hero, though I was certainly no hero.

A few days later, clothes – real, beautiful, my-style clothes – arrived at Larry’s doorstep.

I immediately wore some of my new clothes to work, where I called Mom again on her toll-free number. “Everything is great!” I nearly screamed. “I look beautiful!”

“I’m sure you do,” said Mom.

I don’t know if I ever said thank you.