Sunday, May 13, 2012


Letting go of the shop was the best thing she ever did. It was a long damn run over on Dix. You know its been long when some of your clients are beginning to drop off like flies. Honestly though, with all the drugs and alcohol that roamed through Detroit in the eighties, who's to wonder. For some reason she remembers the strangest things about all of her customers, she has tiny vignettes of her moments with them. She remembers a tranny begging her over the counter to find bigger party gowns, her desperation clinging to her words. She particularly remembers her large yet delicate hands as she wrung them together. Maybe coming down off a long night, with all the drama about the dresses. It seemed a bit much to be so worried after dresses. The young Canadian girl with unmatched eyes standing and pining for the old lucite box purses that were just a bit beyond her budget. She came most weeks as if on a mecca. The wiry dealer with twisted fingers, arthritic, clearing away the cobwebs of pain with every breath, gingerly fingering old swimsuits, silk slips, thirties dresses out of her shopping bag. The treasures she unearthed over the last week from the closets of brittle ladies in Grosse Point, the grubby thrifts up Woodward, the garages sales in Dearborn. And of course there was the junkie that broke into the old buildings in the city, obsessively photographing everything he took out with a beat up old Polariod, like a detective. It was as if he couldn't truly let go of his artifacts. He needed a simulacra to hold onto. And now her house is decorated with a story in everything. A visual mapping of her life, the stories of lives before al wound into each and every object lining the rooms. She kept promising Gezel that she would let go of some of the haunted things. The things that creeped her out more than the others. The memento mori, the weird voodoo doll left behind by a jerk of an ex-boyfriend. Time to let go. Oddly, she kept dreaming of Hong Kong, Dubai. Clean steel.

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