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I saw a second-hand shop for the first time in my life when I came to America five years ago. This small shop--overloaded with used clothes, used small household goods of every kind, and "used" and useful shop-assistants--made me think. I had never seen one in Yugoslavia. A friend once remarked to me, "We Americans are rich because we know how to save." This philosophy sounds so simple and great, yet if I were rich no one could make me stick to it.
In Fairfield, a second-hand shop known as the Bargain Box sits on the south side of the square. It is not hidden away on a small side street, but takes its "equal opportunity" next to Seifert's, Fairfield Real Estate, Central Valley Bank, and India Cafe. Wealth and poverty existing shoulder to shoulder.
On the door, a sign printed in big blue letters announces, "Jefferson County Hospital Auxiliary Bargain Box." When I first entered, I didn't quite understand the connection between the hospital and this Bargain Box. However, when I spoke with the shop manager, she explained to me with quiet pride, "We furnished all the beds in the hospital from this money, and we have a goal to build a new porch at the hospital this year."
One Saturday I find myself hanging around the Bargain Box for a few hours. In spite of a relatively busy day, I experience an unusual silence, a sort of subdued liveliness. The particular smell of an old attic or an old unventilated house awakens my curiosity. Who knows what I can discover among these worn-out things? My curiosity prevails.
I start understanding why my friend Joyce gets so excited when she buys her third pair of stretch pants or her fifth purse from the Bargain Box. In the fulfilled tone of a hunter or fisherman who has just returned with a good catch, she says, "Look at the purse I bought. It's almost new--leather. And it has so many compartments for everything. Only $1.50!"
I always take part in her excitement about "a good catch." And I completely believe from her first to her fifth purse that this is her only chance, as her voice suggests--nothing but that. If I see her walking out of the Bargain Box, she'll give an explanation like, "You remember the purse I bought last time? It's little too small for me, but I can always give it to my mother, or to someone as a birthday present. Only $1.50."
I know this explanation means she couldn't resist passing up another "good catch" at the Bargain Box, for only $1.50, maybe even $1.00.
This afternoon in the Bargain Box two ladies at the front desk assume the role of shop assistants. One of them is Dorothy. If I didn't learn from the manager that all employees are between 60 and 90, I would say Dorothy was in her 50s. She is floating around the Bargain Box in a pair of black pants, black blouse, and brightly colored folk vest, revealing not only elegance but a distinguished personality. Dorothy shares her kindness in a humble yet royal way. A former math and science teacher, she communicates with ease.
"I retired too early," she says. "But I am still active in several organizations, for women at the University of Iowa, our church, a local charity, and here at the Bargain Box."
While talking, she moves around, either serving someone, or folding clothes, or choosing where to hang matching pieces to decorate a front window. One can tell she is the teacher.
"I love to be with people," she says with passion and self-confidence. "Where are you from with such a sweet accent?" she naturally starts chirping questions to me.
I feel drawn to talk to her. However, at one point our conversation is interrupted as she notices another customer needs her help. A large-eyed boy about the age of three is already circling the front of the shop on a bike.
Dorothy gently sails towards the boy, "Who got a new bike?" she smiles in a motherly way. His father has already taken out $3, obviously satisfied with a good deal. After Dorothy takes the money for the tricycle, she hospitably follows the boy and his father to the door and waves to them.
Even after the father and son leave, the surrounding air still clearly holds the defined fullness of the moment: the tricycle, the father, the boy, and Dorothy connected in a tight current of giving and receiving happiness.
"It is a great help for this town to have a shop like this. Many mornings before opening we have lines in front of the door. A $3.00 bike!" Dorothy proceeds naturally talking to me in her altruistic manner. "We also helped the town hospital a lot," she says in her trained voice, as if she is talking to her students about an undisputed law of science.
I am introduced to Wilma, the manager, sitting in her office behind the curtains at the back of the shop. There are piles of boxes, neatly folded or messed up clothes, hundreds of pieces of household items, unusual sticks, toys, old records, and books, things whose purpose I would never know, a trash box, and who knows what else.
Dean is one of the youngest in the shop, at just over 60. With utmost patience, Dean is sorting out donated items. He is trashing broken, dirty, or torn goods and preparing good ones for Wilma to price. "People bring all kinds of things," he says, while pointing towards two computers. "Everything we sell works. We don't want to sell irons or hot plates that don't work." Dean's duty is also to check all electrical goods.
"Unusable items we send to Disabled American Veterans. They pay one penny per pound." Dean explains in detail this wonderful idea of "a penny per day makes one rich." Involuntarily, every once in awhile he turns towards a dark yellow Macintosh computer and a slightly newer gray computer of another brand that obviously challenge him as something he wished he knew how to check.
Wilma is sitting at the table with a desk lamp on it. My attention falls on a delicate china tea set in front of her. With professional attention and an expert eye and touch, she shifts cups, teapot, and lid through her hands. Her movements are simple but confident. A little bent towards the light, she looks like an art historian who has spent all her life assessing valuable and rare artifacts. "No cracks, no chips, it can cost $10.00," she says.
How does she price them? I ask. Wilma says, "I just know. We have someone who visits other bargain boxes, flea markets. She is the best one to price things. I've learned from her. I also try to make the job easier for the people at the front desk. So the prices are $1.00, $1.25, $1.50, $2,00, etc. No nickels! They don't need to think about change."
All shop assistants who work for the Bargain Box are volunteers; they are all retired. Wilma has been working for the Bargain Box for 13 years after retiring as a cook. For the last four years she has gotten paid, the only one in the shop who has a monthly income. Wilma is a vital woman, and it is hard for me to guess her age.
As if reading my thoughts, she asks, "How old do you think I am?"
I am sure she is testing me. She probably looks younger than she is. She likes to hear it, just as everyone else does. I know someone who would always give himself ten years more than his actual age. He says he enjoys it when people say, "I'm impressed--you look very good for your age, you look much younger."
Better say less than more, I am thinking. "Sixty-nine," I say, at the same time afraid I've said too much.
"Seventy-nine," she corrects me proudly.
This is the life. These people make themselves useful, and that extends their lives. Each of them works two-and-a-half hours a day, once a week. There are always two people in a shift.
I wander around the Bargain Box long enough to witness a shift change. I see a small crowd at the front desk. I hardly hear their whispering. Discreetly, two assistants replace those whose hours have expired. Like throwing two fish into almost immovable water, there is a gentle splash, water stirs a bit, and soon everything sinks into a silent flow. In the same way, the old group clears out and a new, fresh shift consisting of an elderly gentleman with a hearing aid and an even older but vigilant lady remains to serve customers in a silent, somehow slow, but diligent way.
The Bargain Box is open all day, as are the other shops on the square. Wilma, the manager, has trouble counting the total number of her "employees." She even has people on call. "They like to work here," she says simply.
"Why do you like to work here?" I am asking, expecting a spicy answer for my article. "It's interesting," Wilma answers.
This is a simple afternoon in the life of simple people who have mastered their life purpose. It feels so easy.
.
