Smoky Smell

When I'm in the city, I have my hot spots. The places I need to visit to feel like I have had a complete visit to the city.
One of the places is the Value Village. It's located in rather shady area. Violent graffiti covers the walls. Redundant posters cling every available surface, advertising a club here or a band there. The VV is right between an alleyway and a bicycle shop. I've never been in either.
When you come in, you're right away assaulted by this weirdly medicinal smoke smell. It's not pleasant, but for some reason I don't mind it. It's familiar I suppose, so I like it. The ground level is where the clothes are. The basement is for furniture and linens, and the top floor is devoted to books and housewares. I spend most of my time on the ground floor. Go figure.
There's a lot less hunting there, than in most of the thrift stores I visit. It seems like every third thing I pick up has some pattern that I like, or a shape I've been looking for or a color I desperately need. I always hate the dressing rooms. I don't know if it's a more accurate mirror or the lighting is bad, but I always, always look awful. It's depressing. But I spend like two hours in there, dealing with weirdly placed armholes, and unlocking locks, modeling clothes periodically for my mother. She sometimes drapes clothing she thinks I'll like over the door.
Most of those items end up among our final purchases. I'm a sucker for my Mum's taste, which is almost identical to mine, if a little more refined.
Once I left a note in an encyclopedia there. You had to hold it up to the light in order to understand what it said. I left it on page 56; Pipe. When I went back, a few weeks later, the book was gone, and my note was too. I always wondered who had gotten it. I had various scenarios in my head.
I've grown up being dressed in secondhand clothing all my life. I'm a fish out of water going into name brand stores. I miss the thrill of finding something truly lovely among racks of castoff ugliness. I don't like the uniformity. I don't like the way I look in those kinds of clothes. They're uncomfortable. And I'm not going to deny it, I look at the price tag, and shake my head. Once you start buying your shirts for two dollars, there's no going back to twenty dollar tank tops. Though I never liked those, so what do I know?