The Bins
Photography by Natalia Oprzadek
When threatened, cows gather their belongings, some hay and dandelions, find their companions, and circle around one another. It’s harder to catch a fly in movement and it’s the same with bovines. It’s called Cow Sense. It’s innate, no communication and no mooing. They show up and they set into action.
“Duuuuuude,” I texted my best friend, Clara. For the past 10 days, Maine had gotten nothing but rain. No one was going out; the air was so still. It’s almost like our forecast had been punishing us for our sandy clam chowder and shitty senators. “Wanna go to the bins tomorrow?”
Pulling into the lot, the shadow of the massive warehouse towered over Clara’s pickup truck. Near their car, a mother and her young daughter were rolling up their sleeves and putting on plastic gloves. At another car, a group of 20-somethings had the trunk down and laid out their finds. Antsy, they picked at their pants, coats, and shoes. Each eyed the other. Suddenly, one reached for their pocket when a friend grabbed a pair of pants. They may have been reaching for their phone, but for all I know, it was a knife. For all I know, Riff and Bernardo were about to go berserk over some vintage green corduroy pants at 10am.
I held the door open for someone with an empty shopping cart and a bewildered look in their eye; Clara followed and I let the door close behind us. Pulling on the plastic gloves I had snatched from my mom’s spackling kit, I looked up to survey the room. The white lights hanging from the ceiling were the kind of lighting you cry in while you’re in a dressing room with your mom. Lining the walls were big blue vats the size of small swimming pools, filled with worn clothes instead of chlorine. The shoe bins were in the back and furniture was in the front of the store, cluttered in the corner. Rows of bins lined the center of the large concrete floor, dividing the shoppers like the pasture fences on a farm.
Dozens from all over—cows, horses, pigs, goats—shuffled around the space with dinky blue grocery carts. Mothers and children speaking French argued near the door. Men in baseball hats sniffed high heels clasped together by a plastic band. Old women hunched over their finds like gray wolves protecting their fresh kill. I recognized faces from the bakery I work at, Portland Pride, and my mom’s students. People were lapping the room, arms full, wired in anticipation.
Clara and I looked at each other, shrugged and went to work. The gloves came in handy. Among children’s L.L.Bean fleeces and men’s Carhartt overalls were used bandaids, miscellaneous paperwork and a used maxi pad. My wrist was exposed between the black gloves and the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Fabrics grazed my wrist as I threw things aside and later I’d see the irritated skin, red and rashing over with little bumps.
Clara held up a purple mumu, gesturing to me, you want? “Yeah, baby!” I laughed. After 10 minutes of digging, men came out of a door in the corner which peered into a massive room with over seven tiers of shelves, moving belts and what must’ve been thousands of boxes. The vested men ushered people out of the way and hauled the bins out of the room. Everyone in the barnyard was still. The old women clutched their possessions, the high schoolers looked over their shoulders and Clara and I stepped back.
“What’s happening?” Clara whispered. The men wheeled in new bins, teeming with new clothing. Sleeves fell out of the sides like limbs and the piles shifted with the dips in the cement floor. I looked around at the crowd and could see their nostrils flare like horses before a track race, feverish. Collectively, we inhaled the scent of fresh thrifts, fresh meat. As the four new bins were set into place, the line of restless shoppers shuffled their feet, muffling growls.
“Go ahead,” they said and the pack closed in. Shoulder to shoulder, people pushed each other aside, devouring finely stitched dresses and glossy dress pants, gnashing their teeth into fine leather jackets and tenderly stretched denim. I watched in horror as people shoved each other aside and elbowed their way through the crowd to get a hand or even a few fingers into the bins.
“Let’s stay back,” I said and we waited until the pack had dissolved. I could be mistaken but it looked like I saw a man with a Patagonia vest, navy Dickies and some Reeboks wipe blood from the corner of his lip. For all I know, it could have been sweat.
The clothing had diminished by half in the span of 30 seconds. Shoppers walked away with cargo pants, blouses and turtlenecks. As space opened up, I dug in. I found a pair of work pants, the fabric so worn in that it was soft, paint splattered at the cuffs and pockets. I also got two shirts, a maroon leather jacket and a pair of tennis shoes. Clara found a polka-dotted dress and some blouses. Finding the line, we peered back at the ruddy faces. They resembled faces after a Thanksgiving meal: full, rosy and shiny with perspiration.
At the bins, you pay per the pound. I ended up paying $14.57, and Clara paid $8.50. We stumbled back to the car, dumping our clothes in the trunk. Sweat was dripping down my back and my hands were clammy under my gloves before I stripped them off, drenching them in hand sanitizer. My eyes felt dried up like they do after going to the beach and my head throbbed. I popped a few Advil and leaned back in my seat. “We don’t have to do this again for a while,” Clara said as she turned on the car. I looked over at her. “Agreed.”
As we pulled out of the lot, it began to downpour. Shoppers ran inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Despite their best efforts, the droplets splotched their clothes, the pattern reminiscent of spots on a cow.