Dear Kurl,
My wardrobe is mostly composed of thrift shop garbage, in case it’s not obvious. I shoulder right in there beside the old ladies at the Goodwill, looking for bargains. However, I do attempt to bolster the overall quality and style of my outfits with a few one-of-a-kind vintage pieces procured for me by Mr. Ragman.
Do you know his store, way out on Lake Street? It’s probably never been on your radar. The owner actually goes by the surname Ragman; I’ve seen him sign an invoice. His first name is Mischa or perhaps Michel, but I’ve always called him Mr. Ragman. He has slicked-back hair and a fat belly, and he wears a black shirt with a vest and gold rings on every finger like a movie mobster. He’s in his late sixties now, and I am terrified that he’ll decide to retire before I’m old enough to drive to auctions and estate sales, or wealthy enough to buy antique clothing at market prices.
I can’t afford much of what Mr. Ragman sells. Most of his stock is women’s designer clothes, labels like Gucci and Prada. But Mr. Ragman has my measurements on file and will put things aside for me whenever they have a moth hole or two, or frayed cuffs, or anything else that will slow a sale. Shabby, some of it. But even the shabbiest of these items will still outshine the quality of anything you can buy in a store at the mall.
Yours truly,
Jonathan Hopkirk