Dusted Off, by Angela Townsend
Photo by Eric Prouzet
When we all get to heaven and nobody is missing, we will remember the thrift store. If we were lucky in the pre-season, we had a place to go that smelled like other places and other people. We said it smelled like “dust,” because the holy scrawls in shorthand.
Every thrift store has more Santa Clauses than necessary. They have retired from sifting the naughty from the nice. They are made of fine bone porcelain from Dusseldorf and fine plastic from Wal-Mart. Their beards have frizzed. They are tall enough to hug or small enough to steal, which some people have done, bogarting Father Christmas in the pocket where the lint lives.
The thrift store goes from picked over to plush overnight, and nobody knows how. Yesterday you could see its ribs, empty hangers jangling. Today it is jelly-bellied with curiosities and potholders. The shelves cannot accommodate all the iridescent angels. Salt and pepper shakers moved in two by two. They arrived so quickly, they landed all mismatched, a rabbit leaning in to kiss Elvis, or Homer Simpson sidling up to a swan. The thrift store was empty, and now it is full.
Earth hypothesizes how this happens. Perhaps someone died, and the next of kin donated the dozen Mickey Mice dressed for all major holidays. Divorce is a working theory when a thrift store swells. Someone had good reason to give up mugs that harbored mouths. All we know is, last night, the Romance section was bare, and today, people cease to be alone one hundred fifty times. Over and over, they gave up on love until a man with heroic hair and sandy pectorals said, “buongiorno.” The psalter spans four shelves. You can buy the whole thing for twenty dollars, if you ask.
If you come to the thrift store for something specific, you will find a substitute that is better. The thrift store does not have a pink sweater with hearts for your Valentine’s Day party. The thrift store has a headband with heart antennae.
The thrift store has people from other places. They have different manners. They jam things in your hands while your fists are still balled. A woman whose bangs exceed five inches in vertical height may press a crystal cat into your palm. “Look at this. This is cute. You should buy this.” She has never seen you before. She is correct. You came to the thrift store in search of a stewpot you will not find today.
The thrift store accepts credit cards, but they prefer cash. If you have been carrying around a two-dollar bill for good luck, they will take it but let you keep the fairy dust.
Men who volunteer at thrift stores have names like Smiddy and Mr. Frisby. You will know them by their rainbow suspenders or Miraculous Medals. The cash in their register is as soft as suede. Some Smiddys wear five saints at a time, hedging their bets, jangling like jazz. Some Mr. Frisbys can improvise the best joke you’ve heard since your dad was here.
They say that scent is the strongest ferryman for memory. When we all get to heaven and nobody is missing, we will not call it “dust” anymore.
Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary. She is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee, twenty-one time Best of the Net nominee, and the winner of West Trade Review's 704 Prize for Flash Fiction. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Blackbird, The Iowa Review, JMWW, The Offing, SmokeLong Quarterly, trampset, and Witness. She graduated from Princeton Theological Seminary and Vassar College.