Motorhead at 11am and the freedom to decorate the store as we please. There are only 5 of us, including Serbian refugee-turned Thrasher pin-up girl Rada; polish hipster performance artist and 80 phenomenon Piotr; beehived and baubled minidress maven Renee; Mexico City expat and 90s goth enthusiast Aldonza; and me.
The store is dusty and the flourescent lights rattle alarmingly whenever the person upstairs dons their heels. The clientele spans the gauntlet from yuppies, hipsters, and yupsters, to the old neighborhood families, addicts, and crust kids. We do vintage by the pound; there’s a big red scale with little Kim stickers all over it, with which we can more or less set prices. We sell the same Pendletons to gallery owners and the homeless. Over-charge the rich and substantial discounts to the poor: I’ve become the Robinhood of vintage.