One May Morning in Chicago
The hotel clock reads 7:05AM central time. The dull spring Chicago light starts to fill our interior facing room. My body aches from yesterday’s flight and the Caipirinha. Only 9 hours left in the Second City. I rose from bed, body heavy like concrete. Molly and I have arrived with two missions to undertake, first, seeing my artwork displayed in its premier Midwest gallery show. The second, to make it to Knee Deep Vintage by the time their archive sale begins at 8AM. Coffeeless we proceed down the isolated streets of the Pilsen neighborhood.
We aren’t even the first patrons inside to be greeted by Carlos, Trent and their shop dog. The archive sale is in the basement, everything is 50% off the tag price and anything unlabelled is open for negotiation. Time and reality stop as we enter the basement (in fact we miss our crime tour later that morning and each lose $10 dollars rescheduling) and we stretch like we are about to go for a solid run. I pick the left side of the room, Molly picks the right and we begin to sift through every item until we meet in the middle. The racks are filled with band t-shirts from the 70s, crinoline dresses from the 50s, and little black dresses from every era. Even if I think a piece won’t fit me I still add it to the pile, defending it like a dragon guarding its gold only until the moment I’m ready to part with it. I’m even pulling options for Molly to either power clash or compliment her red hair.
After about 35 minutes in the closed universe of thrift, I found her. Emerald green & velvet before me, chest laden with pearls, is the dress I survived on four and a half-hours of sleep to find. The Gunne Sax by Jessica McClintock has no price tag on it, and is the only one from the brand I’ve come across in my size or any other. Molly has long gone upstairs to scope out the ground floor. Mission complete, I grab the pile that dwarfs my 4’11” frame and go to join her. Upstairs Carlos has fitted her with Roberto Cavalli tiger print jeans; he takes one look at me and goes back to the aisles to find pieces he’s certain will fit me also. Safe to say after decades in the business every piece he chooses for me does fit.
When lastly it comes time to try on the dress of my dreams my face runs white to Molly’s touch tugging on the zipper. Destiny in limbo Carlos strides over and slips the zipper to the top with a tailor's ease. If I could’ve I would’ve worn it the rest of the day, but floor length velvet would have been sweltering even with the Lake Michigan breeze. At the counter, Carlos is feeling generous, “How about $40 bucks?” I am immediately sold knowing back home in Boston or online the same dress could easily run me $150 or more. I’ve only been able to wear the dress one other time but when I walk through the streets of Western Mass I feel like a character ripped from an Edith Wharton novel.
Chicago is always a good idea and you never know all the glories await in the basement.
