Help! I'm trapped in a thrift store!
By Burton W. Cole
EDITOR’S NOTE: This column originally was published June 21, 2015, in another publication. Cole lovingly read snippets of this particular column in his eulogy to his wife, Terry, during her funeral five weeks ago. Terry Cole died unexpectedly June 18. Burt requested to run one more tribute to his late wife. He also notes that she gleefully co-wrote this column.
Help! I’m being held captive in a thrift store! By my wife.
We pulled into the lot an hour or two ago. I thought we were going out for burgers and fries. I distinctly remember the words “burgers” and “fries.” This tiny building clearly wasn’t serving burgers and fries.
“I just need to pick up something real quick,” she said.
I should have turned and ran as soon as we stepped through the door. How could a store that looked so small on the outside stretch sooooo far back on the inside? The building must be built like an accordion — it unfolds to a great and terrible size.
“Burgers and fries, right?” I said.
“Look at these plates. They are almost exactly like Grandpa’s. See if you can find any more,” she answered.
I couldn’t. Of course, I kept my eyes closed. But she didn’t need to know that.
Eventually, Terry settled into her primary mission, which, as far as I could tell, was to inspect Every. Single. Item. Of clothing. In her size. Personally.
Somewhere in the purples — thrift store clothes are sorted by colors — I wandered off to study antique computer equipment. Old CDs. Worn books. Toys with most of the parts. The wallpaper. Not wallpaper for sale. Just the paper on the walls.
By the time I drifted Terry’s way again, she was in the yellows.
“I sure could use a burger,” I said.
“I’m almost done.” Which is the universal code for, “I’m just warming up.”
I meandered toward the back 40 acres to puzzle over doodads and gadgets. A couple aisles over, two young guys gushed over their finds: “Dude, you have to get that shirt. That is so you.”
“What about this tie? Perfect?”
“You’ve got to, man. It’s so awesome with those pants.”
I practically ran to the reds, where I found Terry pacing through every hanger. “Can we go yet? I might get too sick to eat burgers.”
“What, you and your college buddies never went shopping together?”
“Oh, sure, Brian, Brent, the two Patricks and I scoured boutiques all the time for the trendiest of fashions.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. Blech.”
“Just a couple more minutes.”
I shuffled around LPs, bicycle helmets and mostly empty golf bags. A baby boy in a passing stroller reached up and cooed for me to pick him up and make a break for it. I considered it. We could trade gripes over milkshakes while his mom and my wife shopped.
Then a wafting scent whapped me in the nostrils. I eyed the baby suspiciously. “Sorry, buddy. I don’t have enough tools for this jailbreak.”
By now, Terry was in the greens. “How’s this look?” she said.
“Compared to what?”
She sighed. “Did you find anything you like yet?”
“I was supposed to be shopping, too?”
“Of course. Why did you think we’re here?”
“I’m wondering that myself.”
So I found the tracts of men’s clothing. That killed 10 minutes. I handed Terry my three new shirts.
“How did they fit?” she asked.
“I gotta try them on, too?” I sighed. Heavily.
“I’m almost done,” she said. “Give me two more minutes.”
She was still in the greens. There were whites, blacks, browns and a few other Crayola selections to go.
So here I sit. In a creaky chair beside the appliances. Where I’ll probably still be by the time you read this. With three untried-on shirts rolled into a pillow.
Please, do me a favor. Send a takeout order of a burger and fries. Because I’m being held captive. In a thrift store. By my wife.
Send shopping advice to Cole at burtseyevu@gmail.com or to the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.