The shop didn’t look like much from the outside. There was a rack of denim long-sleeve tops, all looking identical, but somehow it made you want to look for something that was different. The shop owner (I assume, since he was the only person standing outside) stood out among all the dark denim outside. He was wearing khaki pants with green patches, a white graphic T-shirt layered with a light wash denim long sleeve, and a white sailor hat. Another man walked up to the shop but did not go in, he just casually started a conversation with the owner. The owner made big hand gestures and occasionally tipped his head back with laughter, showing that both men were exchanging funny stories.
The denim outside all had different kinds of textures, the soft feel of the shirts against my fingertips showed that a piece was worn out, while the rougher texture showed that it was newer. As I began to look through the denim, trying to find something different in shirts that looked identical, a boy walked up and began to do the same. He went through every single piece of clothing before grabbing one shirt and observing it for a while. He decided to keep the shirt and it made me wonder if there was something special about these shirts that I was just not seeing. It all looked the same to me.
I followed the boy into the shop and a familiar smell wafted through the air. It smelt like dust and old clothes, the smell that exists in thrift shops. Despite the smell of dust, the clothes seemed clean and did not have any dust in sight. New York, New York by Frank Sinatra played loudly through the old speaker in the shop, which surprised me since I couldn’t hear the song when I was outside. Inside the shop was the difference I was searching for while I was looking through the denim. There were furs, wicker baskets, and camouflage/earthy toned jackets inside. On one side of the shop was a red, black, and white feather headpiece. There was a hammock that drew attention to the center of the shop, where there was a table with two signs, a pair of shoes, some files, and a duffel bag. I also spotted a flag in the far-left corner of the shop. A flag that I hadn’t seen since I left the Rick Husband airport in Amarillo, Texas. The place made me think of hunting or camping clothes. The black sign on the table said, “Place des bon garcons,” which translates to “place of good boys.” In that second, it all made sense to me. It’s not just clothes, it’s uniforms. It’s belonging.
As I kept wandering around the shop, I finally came across two small purses. One was black and the other was maroon. They were hidden in plain sight among the clothes for the good boys.
Kessly Salinas is a rising senior at St. Edward’s University. She is majoring in Global Studies and minoring in Journalism and Digital Media.
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