Gifts From the Cosmos: A Good Day in the City

Saturday in the city, a rarity for me these days. I'm here to help staff a giant sidewalk book sale, produced by and benefiting a charity org, for which I work part-time.

It's a perfect fall day, crisp and sunny. The sale is taking place on a cobblestone street in SoHo, a long city block, and it's packed. People lined up a good hour before the cash registers opened, and (amusingly) at the stroke of ten a.m., it was like an Olympic track & field relay: on your mark, get set, go! The crowds descended upon hundreds of boxes-full of used books & CDs in a graceful, synchronized swarm.

Urbanites, cultural materials, dirt-cheap bargains (everything for a dollah). This event epitomizes the adage, One man's garbage is another man's treasure. I am reminded today, here in the affluent and/or educated sector of the urban jungle, of a different kind of commerce: the commerce of old things, rare things - high-culture recycled junk. The event was in fact conceived as a way to get rid of the dregs, the books that do not sell in the store, nor on the Internet - the books that, literally, are stored in the sub-basement. Now in its third year, the event has developed a reputation as a place to discover gems. People mark it on their calendars, arrive early, psyche themselves up - this is not shopping in the passive, mind-numbing, guilty-pleasure sense. This is renegade urban exploration, a Saturday journey to nether-worlds - and an opportunity to be surprised and blessed by the cosmos. One does not arrive with a particular item in mind; rather, this is where the book you didn't even know you were looking for finds you.

And indeed, I was amazed by the seriousness of the endeavor, particularly with the morning crowd, before the food vendors started grilling and the jazz-blasting speakers came out. The tent areas were crowded with bodies, but there was no pushing or shoving; all were civilized, and focused. It was church-like - no kidding - a kind of religious hush prevailing. In planning meetings, the staff had talked about categorizing and labeling the book bins more specifically; but observing the scene this morning, I thought, No, let the people search, let them peruse and explore. This is what they came for.

I found some early editions of Rilke's letters, Edith Wharton's The Custom of the Country, and Evelyn Waugh's Black Mischief (I hovered mostly around the classic hard covers). Ultimately I left them for other pilgrims, remembering the teetering tower of books-on-the-night-table (in both PA and the Bronx); but I did snag Gombrich's The Story of Art, which has been on my list for a couple years now.

And, at the end of the street, the bookstore's sister business, a popular thrift store, set up giant bins of second-hand clothing and shoes, filled with fashionable discards from the wealthy (oh fashion, I cannot escape thee!). It works like this: buy a paper shopping bag for $20, fill it with all you can stuff, and off you go. Holy moly! This is Extreme Street-Shopping at its most intense. I found a bin filled with things around my size, waited and watched as a tiny woman picked through (nearly dove in, full body, I swear) every last item, then stepped up and stuffed away. The booty: an Italian-made stretchy black cocktail dress, 5 sweaters, a CK silk blazer, a leather purse, 3 pairs of pants, two tank tops, and a fun stretchy-red blouse (I have no idea if any of this will fit me, so some of you gals out there may receive a care package). Likely $500+ worth of apparel for twenty freaking bucks.

It's a rather bizarre carousel of exhanges, but somehow it works: rich people giving their things away so that people from all walks can buy them cheaply and benefit - materially, intellectually, spiritually - so that a charity organization which serves homeless people can raise income, so that the poor can receive the ultimate benefits. It's win-win-win, trickle-down and entrepreneurialism in action; it's how the city, with its vastly rich and abjectly poor, makes peace with itself - at least for a day.