Fargo, N.D. -- The store smells like used
clothes and dust, an appropriate combination for a store selling used
clothes and dusty items, but it's a smell that's only there once you
notice it, like a hidden face in a picture that you don't see. Until
you do.
It is 7 o'clock on a weeknight, and the Fargo Savers has
three customers. One woman looks at blouses, maybe searching for a
work shirt or just something nice to wear. Another woman is farther
back in the store, almost to the dresses but still in jeans, and the
third is wandering up and down the rows of shoes.
The economic downturn hurt
the thrift store like any other store, assistant manager Don Cornell
says, but it has also encouraged a shift in the predominant
clientele.
“We get all types of
people: doctors, lawyers, teachers... it used to be all blue-collar
workers like road construction,” he says.
We're close to the West
Acres mall, and that's bad for business. But more white-collar
workers are buying professional clothes at Savers, Cornell says, and
the proximity to the mall has to help too.
The regular customers still
shop as they always have. The wool ladies from Detroit Lakes and Park
Rapids buy all of the wool in the store to make mittens and blankets,
says Doug Klettke, a red-shirted, red-vested employee who volunteered
at Savers for eight years before being hired in 2008. Some customers
come weekly or daily at a specific time to see what's new, Cornell
says.
“They like the treasure
hunt,” he says.
A woman steps up to the
cashier, ready to purchase a shirt.
“That's cute. I like
that!” the brown-haired cashier says to the woman. “I was there
the day it came out, but it wouldn't fit me. I'm glad someone bought
it.”
Cornell stands at the front
of the store—past the register but before the shopping carts lined
perpendicular to the wall with clothes and hangers ready for
employees to return to the floor. He is next to Joey Zawicki, a
teenage employee with aqua streaks in his long hair, talking to
Zawicki about “the cougar outfit [that's] still there,” hanging
on the wall.
A few more customers enter
the store and wander around the clothes, the toys and the
kitchenware.
“Wanna play Jeopardy?”
Klettke says.
There's not a whole lot to
do. The extra hangers are already neatly hooked on the bright red
hanger racks, and it seems like a good night to just talk to
customers.
College-aged boys set a
Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey on the counter by the register.
The cashier scans the tag, the boys make small talk—“this is a
cool jersey”—and they purchase the jersey with a “thanks.”
Immediately after them, a blonde woman with curled hair, a Chanel
purse and a red pea coat steps up to the register holding a tan
trench coat. She looks like she stepped out of a Macy's
advertisement, like she should be trying on a new coat at Christopher
& Banks or New York & Co.
Something's changing. Maybe
it's the decade-old Savers policy of “don't fill the landfill, fill
the recycling” that's finally catching on, Cornell thinks.
Maybe it's the friendly
employees who enjoy their jobs, the ones with a “sense of humor,
they last here,” Klettke says.
Maybe it's Savers' focus on
“Good deeds. Great deals,” the generosity of Savers to local
flood and fire victims, Cornell says.
Maybe it's the economy. But
something is bringing people together at Savers.
“Beep beep!” says
Zawicki, carrying a pile of clothes to add to the return cart. He
sets the clothes down, and a cashier wanders over to an 8 o'clock
regular, a middle-aged man with a big smile and a big black coat.
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