#58 - Relief

Rachel

Everybody's got a different way of blowing off steam.

Some people do yoga five times a week. A lucky few get paid to do what brings them relief, like my mom; she gets her kicks by putting together a case and then slamming someone mercilessly in the courtroom. Some people look forward to the weekly bowling league; some ride four-wheelers on the weekend; some spend their downtime in bars or in crackhouses. The activity doesn't matter. Everybody has something that they do to get themselves off. I guess you could say that everyone has an addiction.

Mine is shopping.

You might think that this whole interstellar invasion would have put my love of shopping into perspective, and maybe it has. Shopping shouldn't be something that both excites me and calms me down all at once. The thrill of finding a good sale probably shouldn't compare to the rush of getting shot at by Dracon fire or dodging an explosion so narrowly that your fur actually singes off. Somehow, though…somehow, it does. Somehow, shopping still puts me in that happy place where I am the Alpha and the Omega.

My dad is cool. He doesn't put some arbitrary limit that I can spend on my credit card, no magic number where enough is enough. I think he knows that shopping within a budget is lame, and it somehow cheapens the experience. I'm careful not to take my spending into the land of ridiculousness, but I could if I wanted to. My dad feels guilty about my sisters and I; he feels like opening his bank account to me somehow levels the field. In a way, it does. I wouldn't need a platinum Visa to know that my dad loves me, but it is a nice reminder.

Express. The Limited. Gap. American Eagle. Abercrombie and Fitch. Buckle. These are my hunting grounds. Sales are the prey. Just because I have a basically unrestricted budget doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good sale.

Finding the perfect sale item is hit or miss. Sometimes you find a store that's got all of their jeans 20% off, and that's cool. Fairly satisfactory. But hitting the clearance racks that are shoved in the back of the store is where the real action is.

Take my jaunt through A&F, for instance. They had four big clearance racks in the back. Sorting through each item individually is a pain in the ass, but it pays to be thorough. Halfway through the third rack, in between dozens of XXL blouses nobody but someone with a thyroid problem could wear, I found a gem.

A ladies polo in this year's style and cut. Perfect color, a dark red the color of merlot. After a close inspection, I couldn't find anything wrong with it; no holes, tears, frays, or double stitching. Exactly my size. I had passed a rack of shirts exactly like this one when I walked in, and they were priced at sixty bucks. For some reason I could not fathom, the shirt I was holding was marked down from sixty to thirty. Then, for another reason I could not fathom, it was further reduced to $9.99. She shoots, she scores.

I always saved the most fun of the day for last. There was a little import store by the mall exit I always used, and they always had some awesome trinket or treasure that I just had to have. The best part was that, unlike all of the other corporate stores in the mall, this one was independently owned. The little Asian lady who owned it was always up for a little negotiating.

I played it cool as I spotted what I wanted hanging on the wall; a wooden mask. It was covered with intricate carvings and fringed with what looked to be coconut fuzz, with two slits for the eyes. The mask was neat, but the little sign beside it was what locked me in. It read – Zulu Battle Mask, worn as armor in tribal battles.

I obeyed my own First Rule of Dickering – I waited to be approached by the saleswoman. Seeming too eager was a great way to set the price high from the start. I saw that the mask had an eighty dollar price tag on it, but I knew from experience that that didn't mean much in this store. I imagined who might have worn a thing like this and what it would look like on my bedroom wall while I waited, and before long the proprietress arrived.

"Ooh, you have good taste," she said admiringly. "That is a very nice piece."

"It's not bad," I allowed, letting a lot of apathy into my voice. This is the Second Rule of Dickering – always act like you don't care if you leave with an item, one way or another. I moved directly on to Rule Three – do your best to devalue the item without completely closing off the seller to you. "It's not authentic, though; it has to be a reproduction." I knew that from the relatively low price; had it been a battle-worn piece, it would be in the hundreds of dollars.

"Oh no, no reproduction," the lady countered, smiling. "Handmade by a Zulu craftsman, direct from Africa. Eighty dollars is a very fair price."

Rule Four – never directly disagree with the seller, but make them back up their claims. "That is a fair price," I agreed. "Do you have any paperwork to show that it's made by the Zulu?"

The corners of her mouth twitched downward, and I could see that she'd been hoping that would be a question not asked. They don't send authentication when you buy it from Taiwan, lady; you know it and I know it, I thought. Still, real or not, it was a cool piece that I wanted. Couldn't let her see that, though.

"Unfortunately, I haven't gotten it authenticated, yet. But that's good for you! If I had already paid an expert to come in and do it, the price tag would be eight hundred, not eighty!"

I took two small steps away from her and the item, as if I'd completely lost interest. "It's neat, but I can't see spending eighty bucks on something with no proof of authenticity. Sorry for taking up your time." I turned and walked toward the door, waiting for it. One step, two steps, three…here it comes…four…

"Wait!" the lady called, and I smiled internally. I turned, keeping my face politely disinterested. She had a pained look on her own, like she was about to do something she really didn't want to do. "I would be willing to let it go for sixty-five, if you wanted to take it home."

I pretended to consider it. "Still too much for something I can't be sure about, I'm afraid." I didn't even get turned all the way around to leave again before she offered it for fifty.

I countered with twenty. She acted offended and counter-offered forty. A little more back and forth, and I walked out with it for $27.50.

Life is good.