The Fire, the Water, and Maudie McGinn by Sally J. Pla

Author:Sally J. Pla
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

33

Goodwill

“I’m tired of washing the same three shirts,” says Dad. “Let’s drive over to that Goodwill by the highway and pick up a few more things.”

HALLELUJAH!

FINALLY!

I’m out the door and into the truck before he’s finished his sentence.

On the way there, I think about what’s on my shopping list. I lost a summer’s-worth of stuff in the cabin. But how much of it do I really need to replace? Back in Texas, my closet’s still full of even more clothes and stuff that Mom’s bought me since she married Ron and money got easier.

But I don’t miss any of those things.

There is this one old lady I’ve noticed around the campground. She sleeps on the other side of the chain-link fence, tucked under some big bushes that hide her from public view. But you can still see her from the campground side. Her white hair is all matted and dirty, and she wears a filthy down jacket that’s been mended with tape. She wears it even when it’s really hot out. She limps around in a pair of men’s hiking boots with no laces. If she’s there when I pass by, on my way to the beach, she’ll smile gently and say, “Hello, tootsie,” while patting all her plastic shopping bags full of stuff. Her army of plastic shopping bags full of stuff, that surround her all the time. You can tell they are very important to her.

How much stuff does a human need?

What kind of stuff does a human need?

The Goodwill ends up being a giant concrete box store in the middle of a busy parking lot. Inside, it’s a giant warehouse of . . . you name it. Selfie sticks, CDs, strollers, bed frames, plastic flowers, dusty baskets, high chairs, chipped dishes, old shoes, T-shirts, bedsheets, just oceans and oceans of stuff.

Thank goodness there are places like this to take all the old stuff, so people can make room in their closets and their attics and their garages and their storage units to buy even more stuff.

Say the word stuff enough to yourself, and even the word starts to sound like it doesn’t make sense. Stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff.

Dad hands me thirty dollars. “Wish it could be more,” he says with a small smile. “Think about what you really need.”

At the “Juniors” section, which is arranged like its own little fashion shop, a red-haired saleslady is pricing things in a bin. She has lots of makeup on. She notices me flipping through a rack of brightly colored shirts and comes over to hover. “Can I help you?”

Where are the plain, soft clothes? I am too scared to say it aloud. I shake my head and look away, my heart rabbit thumping.

“Don’t be shy, now! I bet I can find you something cute!” The lady beams her red-lipstick smile at me. Panicked, I slide hangers back and forth, hunting for soft and comfortable. But everything’s too bright or artificial feeling, or has frills or ties or ribbons or yucky lace.

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