A Community Treasure

Another hot Pasadena afternoon was upon us. Our first set of classes had just ended and we had a two hour break before the next one. Peter was bored, looking to do something, anything, to get out of the quad.

“Have you ever been to the Hope Chest?” Peter asked. 

I shook my head in the negative. 

“It's a thrift store. It’s fantastic. Let’s go.”

We got in Peter’s Celica and drove up Hill to Washington. The sun was overwhelming, and even during the short drive, with the windows open, the air and heat were oppressive. 

Peter made an U-turn and parked. Our spot was right in front of the Hope Chest Thrift Store. The sign was worn down, the paint cracking, and the interior was dark, as though the store was closed. But the door was open, so we walked in. 

There was something odd afoot within the store, but I had yet to identify it. The store was quiet, with employees in various corners organizing and shelving items. There was a man in a raised booth, presumably the manager, sitting there, with a giant fan aimed at his face. 

The rest of the store was in calefaction; no air conditioning, no additional fans, just the hot air from outside intermingling with the human activity inside, combining to make a kind of moist, humid, and odorous heat that was visible on employee and customer alike in the form of sweat streaming from head to shirt.

Peter came up next to me “Did you figure it out yet?”

I had not.

“All the employees have Down syndrome.” 

A closer look proved that this was true. There were four or five workers, each clearly having Down syndrome, shuffling about in unbearable heat doing their jobs.

Peter went to go look at used and broken sound equipment while I perused one of the many bookshelves. There was no rhyme or reason to their order, no sections, no organization, just books placed together because they were books. 

As I looked through a random medical journal I heard a young man talking to himself nearby. He was one of the employees, muttering under his breath angrily, his voice oscillating from incomprehensible to uncontrollable, a streak of sweat in the form of a triangle covering the back of his shirt. 

He came closer, cart in hand, randomly, violently, shoving books onto the shelves. He had paper cuts on his fingertips, his eyes were narrow and fierce. He moved right behind me, looking over the shelves on the wall, straightening angled and disheveled books. 

Then, without warning, an outburst. 

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” he yelled, “MEXICO ISN’T A COUNTRY, IT’S A DISEASE!”

He then took the medical journal from my hand, placed it back exactly where I had gotten it from, retrieved his cart, and walked away.