Vintage stores have been my safe space ever since I was a little girl. You could compare it to the comfort Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City felt when she lived at her apartment on 66 Perry Street.

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Each visit taught me something, whether it was rekindling that sense of magic, the importance of feeling one-of-a-kind, or how everyone and everything deserves a second hand.

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When I was offered a position to work at a local thrift store, I couldn’t wait to usher in my rendition of work from home.

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The community-oriented nature was what I looked forward to the most.

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As a staffer, you’re not just building relationships through the evolution of us being former curious children-turned-adult treasure hunters, but also highlighting true treasure.

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You’re bringing a genuine sense of adolescent innocence into helping our planet flourish — the home we often forget to take care of.

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However, after starting up at the shop, it only took a matter of minutes for me to hear the classic record scratch in a film.

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Yup, that’s me looking at reality being hung on a rack.

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The day would start out with rolling clothes onto the floor that came from the back of the house and donations. We were understaffed after many shift cuts, and I was often doing it by myself.

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The amount of clothing that needed to be carried at once was around 10 pounds, and sometimes heavier appliances were left to be put back as well. We weren’t provided carts to push the product for the sake of having cleared aisles for customers, and to look more professional.

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The store was quite large, and at times, the rack would be refilled when you returned from stocking the floor. We had less than 20 minutes to clear the mass amounts of clothing. From observing my fellow senior coworkers, it also seemed that the longer you worked there, the expectation to become faster grew.

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The building was old, large and didn’t have proper air circulation. I found myself red in the face, dizzy at times, coughing from dirt and must, and drenched in sweat before lunch time. It took numerous customers to complain about the heat in the store for the employer to finally provide a more comfortable working environment.

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During rush hour, I would be paged to the front to either assist with check out or help open up the casing that contained our most prized possessions.

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At first, customers trying to bargain cheered me up — until it was deal-or-no-deal gone wrong.

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Continued below

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Continued from above

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When some customers had concerns, I’d typically ask my superior to step in to negotiate. But once pricing was locked in and the backs of my managers were turned, those same customers would make derogatory and threatening remarks against my gender as they walked away.

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Once the influx of people was manageable by the two cashiers, I’d be rerouted to reorganize the clothing by their size and colour code, a system used to keep track of how long a product has been out on the floor.

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I have a background in showroom styling and window dressing, so there was a sense of pride that came with my presentation each time I completed an aisle.

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I assumed customers, especially those that saw me do it, would appreciate the organization just as much. I was wrong.

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They’d take the piece off the hanger to view it, but then discard it on the floor if it was not satisfactory instead of putting it back where it belongs.

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There was a circumstance in which a customer almost covered an entire section of the floor with discarded items.

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I politely provided a solution, saying she could place what she didn't want to hang back up into a cart instead of the dirty ground. She told me that it was “my job” to clean up after her and that she didn’t need to do anything I say.

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My manager would check in on the organizing progress I’d made, and because of the mess that had been unnecessarily created, I had to start all over again as if it was my fault. I felt a lot of pressure, and it was not just due to the developing migraine at the start of my shift.

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My personal goal throughout the day was to be as proactive as possible by getting these certain duties done or at least have built a steady foundation for closing.

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Shopper behaviour, however, prevented that — it felt like they thought we were little elves in Santa’s workshop who lived in the happiest place on earth.

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We made the standard announcements ahead of our closing time to prepare stragglers to fill their carts.

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But our security left approximately 10 minutes before, and it gave customers even more of a reason to refuse to leave. This irritability frequently resulted in people attempting to tarnish items and steal them.

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And just like that … I realized working thrift was not the bargain I was looking for.

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Sadie Kromm is a writer and poet currently residing in Toronto. Her words have found a home at Writer's Digest, Fashion Revolution Canada, Our Culture, ECO Club, Unsustainable, and more.

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