I was in Urban Outfitters on State Street. A college girl looks me up and down, and apparently unimpressed with the clothes on the rack, but approving of my outfit, says, "Will you trade clothes with me for $90?"
I was wearing my $10 army surplus jacket over my beige fleece hooded sweatshirt and a pair of DKNY black nylon jeans that I haven't worn in years.
She was wearing low-riding, flare-legged vinyl royal blue Rainbow Brite pants and a red denim jacket over a midriff-baring gray ribbed tank-top.
I was reluctant to trade at first. Although my clothes were old and worn and not valuable, I had developed a certain sentimental attachment to them. I realized it was ridiculous to be so attached to articles of clothing, so I said, "Sure, let's trade."
We started changing right there in the store. I realized that under my sweatshirt I had on a WCBN t-shirt, and then I felt like I should've said no, but I was already committed. I also wondered, as the girl took off her tank-top and and revealed her black bra, if she also expected us to exchange underwear?
Fortunately, the undressing did not go that far.
I managed to squeeze into the vinyl pants, although the legs ended a good six inches above my ankles. The tank-top was tight and looked a little silly, what with my pale belly hanging out, but less so after I put on her jacket, though it was rather tight in the shoulders.
She gave me three twenty-dollar bills and a ten, only $70, but I didn't complain. I was clearly getting a good deal for my old junk, once I finally decided to let it go.