Philanthropy meets greed meets escape

Rid me of my clothes.

I have one closet in my place and it’s way over-loaded with thousands of dollars worth of clothes. I have one armoire which is equally busting-at-the brim with shirts, suits, jeans, and hoodies.

I came to realize about a year ago that I wear only about half the stuff. Pleated chinos are just not me. And the suits I’ve accumulated either don’t fit or, like I said, just aren’t me. So I decided to start stripping down my wardrobe to the finer elements. To make it more about me.

I planned on donating most of the clothes that hadn’t left a hanger in a year to goodwill. How altruistic of me.

I waited until what ultimately became the literal last minute. I found myself in the torn up town of Atlantic City on the cusp of the New Year and knew the place I wanted to donate everything had sketchy hours. I fled the temptingly decrepit boardwalk town at checkout and before anyone else was awake to draw me in for another day. I called the thrift shop from the Garden State Parkway as I was heading home and asked about their hours. I was a half-an-hour away and they were open for 45 more minutes. I had whiskey on my breath, bed head, and a lead foot lilt that could only be blamed on things that begin with the sound of X.

I made it.

So, just before the end of the year I donated a bunch of suits (Brooks Brothers, Perry Ellis, Joseph Aboud, tailor-made), 20-or-so really cool shirts (Brooks Brothers, Lucky, English Laundry, Banana Republic, some tailor made), a few pairs of jeans, some curtains, and a never-opened coffee machine to the ARC Thrift Shop a block from my house.

I had to make five trips back and forth from my car--they were amazed at the volume of cool stuff I was giving away.

The dude running the store was teasing me because I rushed back from Atlantic City to get there in time to donate before 12/31, so I could take the tax deduction. He told me I looked, smelled, acted, and twitched like it. He asked me where I lived. I told him I was a block away and he blessed me. Then he asked me how much I made in A.C. I sidestepped the question by telling him I always do much better in Vegas.

I suddenly felt out of place, but promised to come back early in 2010 to donate more. As I was leaving, I saw an old woman buying an ancient, torn and taped Monopoly game, which, as we all know, is based upon the old real estate of Atlantic City.

Everything dies, baby that’s a fact, and maybe everything that dies some day comes back – Bruce, Atlantic City. From the album Nebraska.