Return to Grift
The dolly was piled higher than my height; its contents weighed more than myself. It was an absurd amount of printers, and I knew that, but I need you to know I exercised restraint when purchasing them. Because, well, I wanted to buy even more.
Looking over the invoice, the warehouse worker’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do with all these printers?” he asked. “Sell them,” I replied. “I ain’t printing shit.” His co-worker laughed, leaned in. “Nah — you’re printing money,” he said. Exactly.
When I took the movie job, I told myself I wouldn’t have to sell used Spanx to women in the midwest for a year afterward, but this was untrue. It wasn’t because taxes ultimately took approximately half of the money I made, which was scale anyway and thus no bounty, but because I can’t turn it off. And by “it,” I mean, the will to mold detritus into diamonds, to take what others deem worthless and transform those items into life-sustaining income. “I’ve spent 38 years of my life not being in a fuckin’ movie,” I yelled at the director in anxious, exhausted delirium midway through filming said movie. “I don’t need to be in yours.” This was true, I didn’t — unlike other actors, I am not an actor. I am, instead, a trashwoman. One who is so back on her bullshit, she just procured two free dressers in a two-day period.
I did not go to college immediately after high school and, in retrospect, I regret going at all, as the degree I finally obtained in my mid-20s resulted in nothing but my having to pay ten thousand dollars in student loans off for the next ten thousand years. Instead, I spent a solid decade of my life committing return fraud for a living, an act that was more time consuming and tedious than having a “real” job but provided autonomy. Fraud was easier then, as computers were stupider; that being said, I knew the end was nigh so I hustled hard, like a spree killer getting their final kicks in right before DNA testing became industry standard. I’d estimate I cleared over a hundred grand in ten years. Not keeping exact track is another regret of mine.
My primary targets were chain bookstores, which I had zero qualms against fucking over as they had, at the time, recently destroyed the livelihood of independent booksellers. Even now, a lifetime later, I can scan a used bookshelf and instantly ascertain what is sellable. The eye is still honed; it cannot unsee what it perceives. I use it now for less illegal pursuits. I can’t not use it. Nor would I ever want to. ‘Cause autonomy.
A quick guide to sellable garbage, for the uninitiated:
Discontinued Merchandise. I just made a crisp two hundo in one day on some packages of long underwear manufactured by a now-defunct silk company. If capitalism is our God, brand loyalty is our faith. Did you know New Coke came about as a direct result of the Pepsi Challenge? When presented with a blind taste test, the average, corn syrup-fed American preferred the egregiously sweet flavor notes of Pepsi; Coke learned this and, in a fear-propelled fervor, altered the formula of their beverage accordingly. In response, people lost their goddamned minds. Because it turned out, while they actually prefer the taste of Pepsi, their lifelong, ad-driven pleasant connotations with Coca-Cola’s Original Formula is what made them ride or die.
Name-Brand VCRs. You buy one of those fuckers at a thrift store, you’ll flip it for at least three times what you paid for it within 24 hours. VCRs are not sexy, nor are they particularly photogenic, but neither is American currency.
Expired Athlete’s Foot Spray. Again, by no means is it sexy, but neither is a foot riddled with fungus. I am not ashamed to admit I have made rent selling these for ten times what I paid, nor should you pity me for reading my admittance.
Vintage Magazines. Designed to be destroyed, paper ephemera persists in sellability due to its rarity. Just because Terry Richardson is (rightly) cancelled doesn't mean some pud in Brooklyn with $30 of disposable income doesn’t still want to waste it on a fifteen-year old French magazine insert that is basically pornography. Trust the process.
And, because I care, some warnings for those who may be considering joining me in the exciting growth industry that is selling garbage to people who don’t know it’s garbage, who endlessly consume in an impotent attempt to fill an unfillable void:
Do not waste your time with Depop, as it is an app utilized exclusively by children who will private message you in order to grammatically incorrectly ask if the $30 pants you have listed can be sold for $20 because it’s “their birthday.”
Stifle the urge to people please. eBay will act as though you will be placed on their shit list plus one for not offering returns, but in reality if you do you may find yourself, as I recently did, having to fully refund a woman who didn’t like how the Spanx she purchased looked on her (“you can see the stitching under my clothes!!!!”).
Don’t let the fact that you once picked up a free washing machine and, only upon taking it home, realized it was filled with piss detract from your duty. Not all free washing machines are full of piss. Usually they’re filled with liquid gold. Rinse and repeat.