Down the Rabbit Hole of Addiction / The Goodwill Bins
I go to the Bins furtively, on my day off. I wear nondescript clothing, sturdy shoes, a face mask and protective gloves. I bow my head as I enter the gray and dank Goodwill outlet store, located in an industrial part of the city. My eyes dart around as I look for my fix. I alight upon the first bin in my path. Within the cavernous warehouse, there are at least twelve huge troughs of clothes, bags, shoes, bedding, toys, jangles of broken electronics and other culled items lined up in rows. I spot a piece of scarlet fabric poking out from underneath a pile of men’s pants. That might be a fashion treasure. I’m a sucker for color.
The Bins are an experience not for the faint of heart. It’s where all the stuff that doesn’t sell at the Seattle retail store is deposited; one final opportunity to be purchased by bargain hunters. Leftover clothes are bound in wire and compressed into what look like huge colorful cotton bales. They then can be sold to many places, from those who want to recycle the fabric to those who want to sell the clothes in other countries. Some of it just has to be thrown away and will wind up in landfills.
In Seattle, the Bin price is around $1.79 a pound for textiles. Shoes are priced a little more per pair. Toys, furniture, pots and pans, holiday decor, bedding, purses, scrap, sometimes art — everything is by weight. I have never spent more than $15. When you’re done with your haul, you line up and the cashiers weigh your stuff on a scale. That’s it.
The customer base is eclectic to say the least. The most noticeable and perhaps largest group that patronizes the Bins — all day every day — includes the professionals, or merchandise dealers, the sellers, the people who freshen up clothes and then post them on eBay or other sites.
There are the men, usually from countries in Africa, who are vying for the suitcases and shoes. The goods will then be shipped back to their homeland for markets there; these men are not to be confronted as it is serious business. They issue orders in their native tongue to women who usually do the actual bin diving, and then they sort through the collection. They assemble huge towers of sneakers, handbags and suitcases and load them onto dollies, which are then stuffed into their vehicles after they weigh and pay.
There are also a number of people who are unhoused and/or struggling with substance use disorders, often with an overlay of mental illness. Haggling, muttering to themselves, jumpy, pockmarked, usually dressed in layers, tattooed, sometimes in pairs, nodding off in the clothes. They rifle through the piles looking for money or valuables (small items such as jewelry and coins have sifted to the bottom) — anything that can help them make it through another day. Durable shoes are coveted, as well as coats, blankets, outdoor gear.
Some customers are jittery (meth), some are mournful (opiates). Some bring their pets, often small dogs, and once I encountered a huge squawking parrot. Others arrive on Lime bikes, some camp nearby, some have cars and vans that serve as their homes. Many are regulars — I see them every time I‘m there. I guess I am a regular, then. I talk with those who talk to me, but I don’t want to jump in on a delusion or paranoia. I had a lovely conversation with a guy two weeks ago, who just found out he was moving into a subsidized apartment — he had been in a shelter for years — and he was over the moon. He was looking for stuff for his new place.
There are old people, and families of all sizes and ethnicities, the small children riding broken bicycles around the hangar. There are women of a certain age, like myself, somewhat unkempt and needy and just having a cheap shopping fix. There are retired professor types, senior ladies in pairs. There are mothers and daughters having a fun afternoon thrifting together. There are gorgeous young people who can wear anything and look great. They look for ’70s, 80’s and 90’s jeans, jackets and T-shirts and nab them, sometimes roaming in clusters and tossing clothes to one another, then comparing the goods on their smart phones.
Another competitive subgroup is the hipster buyers. They mostly sell online and at vintage flea markets. The one guy who leads this circus is there every day, the ringmaster. He has multiple piercings; his long hair and beard vary in cut and color from week to week. He knows the cache of everything and young people gather around him — as if he were a deity — to get his appraisal on the items they have exhumed from the rubble. There are a few others in his posse, but he is unrivaled. He presides over an area in the back where his pile accumulates; he loiters near it and consults with other hipster buyers. I have no idea how much money he makes or whether this is his sole form of support. I saw him once at a rally against gun violence after yet more school shootings; he was holding the hand of a little urchin, presumably his daughter.
The fashionista types (online higher end sellers) usually go for the stuff I would want: Barneys, Anthropologie, vintage designer, linen, funky prints, color, black, trendy yoga wear. But it’s not worth competing with them. I am just a shadow person; I prefer to be anonymous in my addiction.
Recently I discovered a pair of Bruno Magli shoes, too small for me but so pretty, as delicate as a hummingbird. I pointed them out to a beautiful young woman who was wearing false eyelashes and pink headphones — she seemed to be a buyer. I thought someone should take them. She said they were cute. I commented they were Bruno Magli, made in Italy, and she said, “Oh, I don’t know who that is.” Ah, youth, wasted on the young.
Periodically, the weary Goodwill employees appear and wheel out six or eight of the picked-over bins into a huge back warehouse. After a few minutes, much like the changing of the guard, the employees return, pushing “fresh” carts of merchandise out onto the floor. All of the sub-groups start to converge before the new bins are even in place. People line up as if in a refugee camp. No one is allowed to touch the wares until the command is given by the Goodwill employee: sometimes with a whistle, sometimes a shout. In a second there is absolute mayhem, as if it were a shark feeding. You cannot see people’s hands; they are moving so quickly, items flying into the air, shopping carts filled to overflowing within five minutes. There is a rushing noise as this takes place; sometimes people bark at one another as they jostle for space at the trough. I keep myself occupied elsewhere — I do not have the kind of grit and ballsiness to enter that fray.
But as disparate as the groups of people may be, as needy and motivated for the bargains, as much as some rely on this as their source of income, I have seldom seen a serious meltdown or assault. Sometimes I’ll hear a reproach or someone shouts at another person, but rarely. The unwritten rule is you do not touch what is in another person’s cart. There is a kind of camaraderie. I don’t think this could work in an East Coast city, or maybe anywhere else. There is plenty for all. Everyone simply accepts one another, and accepts one another’s space and items. There is no judgment.
Last week I got my biggest score yet. I was perusing the shoes; most of the decent ones were gone, leaving lone slippers and sneakers strewn here and there. A black boot was among the refuse, knee-high and steampunk style, with little buttons going up the side. I grabbed it to take a closer look. Real leather, my size, quirky and with a stamp on the inside that said MADE IN THE USA. I knew it was special, so I held on tight as I made my way around the other containers. Fifty feet away in another bin, beneath a ripped-up moccasin was buried the match. Then the rush. Both boots were in perfect condition, the heels like new. No dirt, scuffs, stains. I plucked the mate discreetly and threw it into my bag. I knew it would be a fashion treasure, and I wasn’t letting it go. I didn’t need anything else; that was the score of the day.
Once home, I inspected the boots more closely and tried them on. Perfect. The total cost had been less than two dollars. I googled the brand. Cydwoq, an artisan company located in San Francisco. Sells anywhere from $200 to $500. I wore my new (used) boots with ripped-up black tights and a Ramones T-shirt and felt revitalized. Maybe this is what aging rockers wear. For the price of less than a latte. There is no 12-step group for the Bins.
(During the height of the pandemic, the Bins closed. When they reopened the regulars were in full force, the majority of whom were masked and gloved and toting sanitizer. I wash everything I purchase there, of course.)
© Margaret Kramer 2023