The Commodities Broker

I’m one of those people who very strange, one-of-a-type-kinds-of-things happen to quite frequently. I don’t know what it is about the way I conduct my life; but I’m a magnet for the scratch-your-head oddities in life. Where I am, strange things follow. I tribute most of this to luck, a little bit to actively seeking it out, and a smidgey portion to the cosmos aligning to give me the material to tell or write good stories. The story that follows is a perfect example of “She-Who-Must-Be-Lucky.”

A few years ago, I randomly stopped into the Old Navy on University Parkway in Orem, UT. I don’t frequent Old Navy regularly, in fact I’d consider myself a rather infrequent user. However it worked out, I ended up at Old Navy on a Tuesday night. I skimmed the current lines of Old Navy classics as I sunk deeper and further into the cavernous warehouse in search of the clearance racks. For those who don’t know me well (or at all), this is where the majority of my purchases originate (not at Old Navy as stated earlier, but from sale and clearance racks.)

I found the racks. And racks. And racks.

Without a doubt, I knew I’d be leaving with some cute things.

My eyes were drawn to the signs wedged between the racks and rows.

“Surely this must be a joke,” I thought in my head. (Because I always think in full, complete, punctuated sentences.)

The signs strategically placed between the jean skirts, shirts, and sundresses read $0.07. Wouldn’t you disbelieve it too?

Holy Old Navy Clearancpalooza.

The articles of clothing were, quite literally 7 cents. Seven. Se7en. 7 pennies. SEVEN. Not even enough to be taxed by the State of Utah.

The wheels in my head didn’t begin just turning, they came off their rocker completely. You can’t buy anything for 7 cents. Nothing! (Or am I wrong? Have you bought something useful for 7 cents or less?)

Some of the clothing articles were wearable; but for the most part they were XXL or XXXL (as they usually are on the ON clearance racks) sizes. Never the one to pass up a steal of a deal, I decided to become a commodities broker. A clothing commodities broker.

Across the street from the Old Navy is a consignment store that buys new or gently used name-brand clothing with cash money. There, standing in a “we’re practically giving it away” graveyard of last season’s rejects, I hatched a plot. I would purchase the Old Navy clothing at 7 cents a piece and resell it across the street.

And that’s what I did. From the gut of the Old Navy clearance graveyard I extracted eight huge bags of clothing—shirts, dresses, skirts, tank tops, shoes, accessories for a grand total of $32. I took it home, sorted it, removed tags, and prepared to resell. Here I am with a portion of the booty:

Long story short: they bought 95% of the stuff I gave them (including duplicates) for $1.75-3.25 a piece… the rest I gave to DI. I came out about $100 richer. A win-win-win scenario. I won money, Old Navy rid themselves of merchandise, and the consignment store increased its inventory. Would that all shopping experiences could prove as fruitful, right?

In the case of “She-Who-Must-Be-Lucky,” I am truly, undoubtedly, unequivocally, guilty as charged.