Goodwill Hunting

Saturday, 6:30 a.m.: I awaken, shower, dress, and brew and pack a thermos of strong coffee before heading across the Bay to Berkeley to visit my friend Joanne.

“You need to talk to my mother. I’m worried about her.” In the message she left for me two nights ago, Jan sounded distressed. “She’s a woman obsessed. Call her and ask her to tell you what she’s been up to.”

I dialed Joanne, who picked up on the second ring. “Heh-loooooo. Where have you been, you bitch?” Her characteristic greeting for me gave no indication anything was amiss.

“Around. Busy. Work. You know. But we need to catch up,” I said casually. “Can I come for a visit?”

“Sure. Saturday. But dress low-key. Nothing flashy. We’ve got work to do. You’ll ride along with me.”

Saturday, 8:00: a.m.: I swing the car into the driveway of Joanne and Nathan’s Spanish-style house, within walking distance of the campus where Nathan teaches. I cross the garden to the front door, and Joanne greets me with a hug and a kiss. Jan calls a sleepy hello from upstairs.

Joanne brews me a perfect cappuccino (strong, hot, light foam) and plies me with fresh-baked muffins and jam. I catch her up on news of Harrison, work, and my love life and then gently guide the conversation around to the purpose of my visit.

“Look,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I think Jan’s worried about you. Really worried.”

“Why? There’s nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing. You’ll see.” Joanne looks at her watch. “Shit! C’mon, get your things. It’s time to roll.”

Saturday, 8:50 a.m.: We are in Joanne’s car. She drives like a maniac, pulling into the huge parking lot of a Goodwill store downtown. “Stay put a moment,” she says, scanning the line of people filing into the store.

“Joanne?” I ask. “What are we doing here?”

“We are Goodwill hunting,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 9:01 a.m.: We enter the front door of the Goodwill store. There’s a lot of stuff. Rounders of clothing, grouped by color, populate the main floor. To the right are wall-to-wall shelves of dishware, crockware, cookware, and glass as well as racks of electronics and small kitchen appliances. To the left, more shelves of books, records, and CDs; stands of shoes and handbags and bins of toys and even bicycles. I am overwhelmed.

Joanne steers us purposefully to the far left side of the store, back toward two swinging double doors. “Stand near the bookshelves,” she hisses at me, and then flattens herself against the wall near the doors. I pretend to browse the titles (Berkeley fare: The Physics of God, A Gradual Awakening, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) and watch out of the corner of my eye as Joanne sidles over to the doors and pushes one open about four inches, peering inside. She’s back at my side in a flash.

“They’re almost ready to bring out the first cart,” she whispers.

Saturday, 9:27 a.m.: We’re on stakeout near the doors through which the goods will come. We’re still pretending to peruse the book and video titles when we hear the rumbling of the cart. Joanne is on it as it comes through the swinging doors, and almost before the Goodwill employee has set the brake on the cart, she’s picked off a pair of shoes and a retro-looking lemon squeezer.

She hands me the lemon squeezer. “Here. This will look great in your kitchen.”

She’s right. “How do you do that?” I ask.

“What do you mean? I told you – I’ve been doing this for years. I know what your place looks like, and Ruthie’s place and Susan’s place. I know what the kids need. I keep all of this in mind, so when I see things that might work, I get them,” she says. It’s true, I think, recalling the ergonomic sofa (obtained from a closing chiropractor’s office) she’d given me a year ago saying, “This will look great in your little living room and should work for your back too.”

“Ah. Is that why you’re getting the shoes? Shopping for someone?” I ask, looking at her diminutive size 6 feet. “Those are at least an 8.”

“Do you know what these are?” she asks. “These are good shoes. Do you understand? Cole-Haans.”

“But. . . “

“No. They’re not for anybody specifically,” she says. “You’ll see. Come.”

I follow Joanne over to the handbag section and then over to the main counter, where there are more leather goods. She takes a quick inventory.

“Nothing more here,” she says. “We’ll be back later.”

Saturday, 10: 15 a.m.: Joanne drives us to two more Goodwill locations in town and nearby. When we enter the third store, I spot a woman who seems familiar. I place the face.

“Didn’t we see her at the first store?” I ask.

Joanne looks pleased. “You’re catching on,” she nods. “She’s one of the regulars. And that bitch is good. She has the hand when it comes to glassware.”

“ ‘The hand’? Do you mean ‘the eye’?” I ask.

“The hand. The eye. Whatever,” says Joanne. “The point is, she knows her glass. From piles of crap, she will always reach in and pull out the one beautiful thing there.

“That’s how it is,” she continues. “The regulars, most of us, have specialties. For her it’s glass and ceramics. Others go for bicycles. Others electronics.”

“And you?” I ask.

“I’m into leather.”

Saturday, 11:00 a.m.: We’ve returned to the first Goodwill location. Joanne is back at her station, hovering near the double doors. She peeks her head in, and engages in a brief conversation with an employee.

“The next cart will be out soon,” she says. “Follow me. I want to show you something else.”

She leads me to a rack of sleeping bags, on hangers, and feels the bottom of first a mustard yellow one, and then a green and brown plaid model, clucking to herself.

“Ahhhh. Here we are!” She reaches into the sleeping bag, up to her shoulder. “Here’s my stash,” she says, pulling out a chartreuse sweater and a pair of shoes. “Do you see what I’m showing you?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow, afraid to commit either way. “I find things and then I tuck them away,” she explains.

“But why?”

“That should be obvious! For the sale days.”

“Ohhhhh.” I say.

“Other people try the same thing, but they’re not so smart. One time I hid two pairs of shoes here, and when I came back to pick them up, one pair was missing. I felt around, and two sleeping bags over, I found the other pair of shoes. Pitiful!”

I realize it can be dog-eat-dog on these floors. In this environment, weaker minds such as my own might become corrupted with avariciousness and grasping – and the thrill of beating out others in the race for the goods.

Saturday, 11:30 a.m.: I’m hungry, and I can’t pretend to scan the same book, movie, and (vinyl!) record titles over and over again. I pull out the Stephen Levine book on meditation and try to center myself while standing near the swinging double doors. It’s busier than it was earlier, and in addition to the woman with the “hand for glass,” I see three or four faces I recognize from other Goodwill locations. One has a shopping cart full of small appliances and electronics. The other is eying a bicycle propped along a wall. The third, a macho biker type, slouches nearby, waiting, a huge pile of used designer jeans slung over his shoulder.

Suddenly the cart is pushed through the doors. The crowd surges around it, engulfing Joanne, and within minutes, glass, ceramics, three handbags and four pairs of shoes have been claimed, as has a large industrial-strength blender and three lamps missing shades and with various busted parts. I raise a quizzical eyebrow at Joanne when she emerges, unscathed, clutching a handbag.

“Yes, there’s a lighting person too,” she nods.

Saturday, 12 noon: I am starving now, and I don’t think I can continue with the Goodwill stakeout. I start whining like a baby, and Joanne capitulates; we go to lunch. Over dim sum, I ask her how often she visits the Goodwill stores.

“Often. A few times,” she says.

“A few times a month? A week?”

She shrugs. “A few times a day.”

“A day? Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Joanne -” I start to say.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she cuts me off. “I’m not crazy. You still don’t understand, do you? I’m building a business!”

“A business?”

“Yes. I’m building a nearly-new handbag and shoe retail business on eBay. I go Goodwill hunting – and hunting in other places too – for leather goods in decent condition. Then I clean them, repair them, and resell them on eBay. And I donate some of those profits back to places like Goodwill.”

Wow – and whew! My dear friend is not stricken with OCD. At least it’s not hoarding on the pathological end of the spectrum; there’s a method to her madness. My fear for her sanity somewhat allayed, I’m now curious about her entrepreneurial chutzpah.

“And . . ?”

“I’m doing great,” she says. “The biggest problem is I can’t get the merch up fast enough. Last week I sold 12 items, which cost me only $38 plus my time, and I made $647 in profit.”

A look of satisfaction crosses Joanne’s face when my jaw drops.

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.: As we’re leaving the restaurant, a call comes through on Joanne’s cell. It is her son, Ari. “There’s a problem with eBay,” she says to me tersely, cupping her hand over the phone.

A vigorous conversation ensues. Joanne encapsulates when she hangs up. “Someone accused us of fraud. Said we were selling fake goods. Ari researched the bags online and found a site that features this particular Louis Vuitton epi leather bag. He figured out that the problem was how we described the color of the bag. We had labeled it ‘yellow’ – but it turns out that all ‘yellow’ epi leather bags come with a fuschia suede lining. He found another bag described as ‘vanilla.’ That’s the correct name for it. He’s trying to resolve the issue with eBay now.”

I had no idea that selling required such precision.

“Hell yes,” she nods emphatically. “Our reputation is at stake.”

Ari calls back a little later to tell us that everything’s cool and the merch is back on the block.

Saturday, 4:00 p.m.: After repeating the Goodwill circuit – twice – we are back at Joanne’s house, and she’s showing me the goods.

It’s not what I expected.

In the stores, these things are dusty, sometimes dirty; banged up, used. They are the things people have outgrown, tired of, or cast off because of upsizing, downsizing, tastes, trends, death. But here, in Joanne’s “stockroom,” as she calls it, they are a collection of objets d’art, restored to their original, formerly prized condition. They are, in a word, beautiful. I survey the handbags: Rich brown, deep blacks, unusual combinations of green and blue leathers. There is a smooth, burnished red leather purse with classic lines. And there are shoes. Pair upon pair of elegant, clever shoes.

“I had no idea, Joanne,” I say. “These things are absolutely stunning!”

“There may be a scratch or two, here or there,” she says, modestly. “But I’ve figured out ways to restore these pieces.”

We speak of “these pieces” as if they were part of a museum collection. I handle each one carefully as Joanne points out details on the purses, details that indicate that the item is the real deal. “See, this is stitched on, not glued on,” she says, showing me the Dooney & Bourke logo on a caramel leather bag. She holds up the vanilla epi leather Louis Vuitton purse, which surprises me with its delicate folds of thin leather. It is a work of art.

“Wow,” I say. “Wow.”

“Now you understand,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 5:00 p.m.: Jan calls me as I’m on the highway back to Paly.

“So? What do you think?”

“Well,” I say. “Your mother has the hand. The eye, I mean. The hand and the eye. She knows how to find the treasure.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Jan. “Do you think she needs help? Therapy or something?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “She’s passionate about what she’s doing, she’s learning about her passion, and she’s channeling that passion in a productive way. I mean, as long as she’s not doing harm to herself or to others . . . or selling your personal handbag and shoes on eBay without your permission . . . “

“Not so far,” says Jan.

“Good,” I say. “But you call if she should ever try to, okay? Now, put your mom on the phone.”

Joanne picks up. “Yeeeees?”

“Um,” I say. “About that red leather handbag . . . “

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Tags: goodwill, humor, Personal, slice of life, thrifting, urban recreation