When I was a little girl, a trip to San Francisco’s Thrift Town was like a day at a country club. Not that I’d ever been to a country club. But the feeling I got inside that secondhand store? Exponential extravagance — like lobster doused in caviar.
Everything felt possible at my local thrift shop because everything was for sale. Rack upon rack of oversized T-shirts, cutoff jeans, wedding dresses that puffed out like cotton candy, rusted egg beaters, cracked reading glasses, Buster Brown saddle shoes, and bedding that yellowed slightly at the edges.
My mom was made for thrift-store shopping. In the early ’90s, she schlepped my sisters and me to Thrift Town all the time. We’d saunter toward the shop, guided by the Mission district’s unofficial North Star, a large metal sign on Thrift Town’s roof that read “17 Reasons Why!” (a vestige of the building’s prior owner, Redlick-Newman Furniture).
Once inside, my mother would scurry around like a preschooler on an Easter egg hunt. And she always managed to find the brand names. Once she scored me a pair of bona fide LA Gear high tops with pink and white laces (so what if they were a little tight at the toes). Another time she found actual Gap jeans. They were stonewashed and sickeningly suburban, but boy, did they fit me perfectly. (The irony wasn’t lost on Mom. Gap didn’t always symbolize the aspirational middle class. It actually started as a jeans source for California’s broke hippies.)
The poorer we got, the longer Mom hunted. She made it her motherly duty to conceal our poverty, to feed into this fantasy of wealth. She was a hippie, sure. But this hippie had a hard limit. “Damn the man,” she’d say as she saged the house. But, like hell she’d ever send her three daughters to school looking trashy.
I, meanwhile, had my own fantasy world to feed and lots of time to feed it. As my mom hunted, my younger sisters were dispatched to the toy section. Thrift Town had shelves of these sealed treasure bags, a random collection of discarded items from the rich kids of Marin County. My sisters played with the toys through the plastic.
Thrift Town embodied the core values of the city: it was a safe place in which society’s refugees could create and thrive.
Being the oldest, I took more geographic liberties. I’d spend hours of my childhood traipsing the thrift-store aisles, just losing myself in the transience of it all.
For 45 years Thrift Town was the nerve center of San Francisco’s Mission district before closing for good in March 2017. More than two years later, the warehouse is still vacant, a ghostly hulk of the city’s past self.
Thrift Town embodied the core values of the city: it was a safe place in which society’s refugees could create and thrive. The Norquist-family business created more than 9,000 jobs, many offered to locals with developmental disabilities. And the store outfitted the Bay Area’s unique populace—the ravers and Burners, the drag queens and tech transplants, and, of course, countless low-income children like me.
At Thrift Town, I was surrounded by society’s rejects, a two-story warehouse’s worth. But to me, these items were invaluable props, my passport to the exotic. I’d step into a lace wedding gown. Then strap on some oversize ski goggles to complete the look.
“Hey, Mom. I’m a snow princess,” I’d say, waddling up the aisle.
“Take that off right now before I have to pay for it,” she’d reply, repressing a laugh.
I’d put a tie around my neck and take calls on a used rotary telephone, much like a big-city businessman. Never mind that the receiver smelled like cigarettes and my New York accent sucked.
Panties were an exclusive item at Thrift Town. Supplies were extremely limited. There was only ever a handful in the girls’ section, each one delicately strung on a hanger.
I’d pick some used books up from a pile and plop down to read them next to the men’s suits. I remember how strongly those suits smelled—a celestial mix of mothballs, dust, and unmet expectations. It was there, next to the dangling pant legs, that I got my sex education thanks to a hearty collection of trashy romance novels.
“Mom, what’s a cock?” I yelled through an opening of clothes.
Mom gasped and steadied herself on the nearest rack.
“A delicious chicken,” she retorted. The other shoppers laughed (united by some joke I didn’t quite comprehend).
“Oh,” I replied and read on. (In case you’re concerned, I know what a cock is now. And, indeed, it is delicious.)
But the most fascinating thing in that two-story wonderland was the secondhand underpants. Panties were an exclusive item at Thrift Town. Supplies were extremely limited. There was only ever a handful in the girls’ section, each one delicately strung on a hanger. Tiny heart undies swayed next to cotton granny panties.
One day Mom leveled the hanger to my stomach and measured the panties against my pelvis.
“That’s gross,” I said, shooing them away.
“Chill out, Linda. They’re perfectly fine after a good wash,” Mom replied.
And so it began. But there was something about used undies that always irked me. To me, washed or not, wearing another kid’s discarded undies was right up there with receiving an organ transplant. Ethically fraught. Did the panties still contain the soul, the essence of their previous owner?
In case you’re wondering, the going rate back then for used panties was about 20 US cents a pair. A great deal, and one Mom often took advantage of. I’ve worn so many donated panties throughout my childhood that I’ve lost count. But there’s one particular pair of undies that I’ll never forget: the Thursdays.
When I was young, days-of-the-week underwear was a hot-ticket item—colorful pairs of underwear with the days of the week written on the front of them. All the rich girls bought them at this store called Limited Too. And they giggled about them at lunch, like members of some secret sorority I had no birthright to. I longed for these crotch calendars. But I knew better than to ask my parents. Dad barely made enough money as a taxi driver. Having enough food to eat was way more important than those silly panties anyway.
But one day, when I was 10, Mom saw them hanging on a thrift-store rack. Well, one of them: Thursday. I screamed, pulled them to my chest and hugged them tightly. In what possible universe could someone give these away? Had some rich girl actually gotten tired of them? No way. Not possible.
Maybe the prior owner just hated Thursday and wanted the panties out? I mean, I get it. Thursday really is the ugly stepsister of days. It lacks the go-getter appeal of Monday, the party spirit of Friday. What kind of day is Thursday anyway?
Anyway, I loved those panties. They were sky blue (such a happy color) with “Thursday” emblazoned on them in neon-green lettering. At the seam was a tiny green bow made of fine ribbon.
I, Linda Catherine Blake, had arrived. Thursday was my new favorite day. For one day a week, and one day only, I belonged to the skivvies sisterhood.
One Monday morning I opened my underwear drawer. It was totally empty.
“Mom, where’s my underwear?” I shouted through my open door.
“Hell if I know,” she said. “The dirty pile maybe?”
The clock was ticking. I had to make a choice.
“Fine, I’m wearing a dirty pair,” I told Mom.
“Great,” Mom said, distracted by my sisters.
I muscled through the clothing pile and dug out my Thursdays. If I was going to wear a used pair, they might as well be my favorites. On the bus ride to school, I got a tickle in my stomach. Holy moly, I’m a secret underwear rebel, I thought. And boy, it felt good.
I sat in class that day holding my secret close. I smiled so tightly my cheeks burned. While all the other kids were doing math worksheets, I began to fantasize about my grand confession. I’d climb atop my desk and shout, “I’m wearing Thursday underpants on a Monday. And I don’t care!”
I never actually did that. But I really wish I had.
Eventually, I started to wear my Thursdays whenever I pleased. Damn the man, indeed. I was free, and it was glorious.
I started to feel bad for the Brendas and Samanthas of the world, felt bad for those rich kids who had everything all the days of the week. Because in reality, they were stuck with every day of the week, and every choice was dictated for them.
I, on the other hand, with my single pair of Thursdays? I had unlimited opportunity. These undies became my gateway to a life of invention.
So thank you, Mom, for the secondhand panties. Because you were right: they were perfectly fine, with and even without a good washing.
