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By Root 474 0

the No. 10 bus was becoming my greatest ally. It picked us up right there in front of the shelter and then ran from downtown all the way up Rivers Avenue, right through the middle of Charleston. Anything we needed was along the way at some point: medical care, all types of shopping centers and malls, the county’s community college, and even the Department of Social Services, where I would go two weeks later to get food stamps. And best of all, a No. 10 bus came every half hour, so we would never have to wait long at the stop.

I don’t care who you are, the Goodwill is for you. Rich, poor, fat, skinny, ugly, pretty—everybody can find something at the Goodwill. Everybody. It’s like a huge, year-round White Elephant exchange. Donate what you don’t want, receive a slip for a tax refund, and then go in to buy something that you do want for only about $3. It seems like everything is $3 or less. Shirts—polo or button down? $3. Shorts? Pants? $3. Shoes? $3.50, but still. And most of it is name-brand stuff that has been passed on by people who have grown out of the style or the sizes. They even have furniture and lamps and weight sets and negligees and hardcover books for a buck, and the list goes on and on.

I was spoiled on my first trip to the Goodwill. Not only did I have my free voucher—good for two pairs of pants and two shirts—but I also happened upon the grand opening of a new Goodwill Outlet Store on Rivers, which was decked out with a wide selection of apparel from other area stores to go along with the recent donations they had received from the generous citizens of Charleston.

It didn’t take me long to pick out my clothes. I even thought about splurging for a couple extra pairs of pants and shirts, but the timing didn’t seem right. Who did I have to impress? As long as my pants could remain free from stains and odors, I didn’t care if I got caught wearing the same outfit every other day. That’s what all of my new friends were doing.

In any event, I knew that I would be returning to the Goodwill many times throughout my time in South Carolina and probably even after that. The money I would be saving at the Goodwill would mean more money to put toward a car or a place to live or furnishings. (Indeed, I would shop at the Goodwill for the duration of my time in Charleston and beyond. Five months later, I went out with a beautiful radio DJ in Charleston, and I looked good. Really good. GQ level style. Khaki slacks, button-down dress shirt, blue blazer, and loafers. I’m talking name brand stuff. Total cost of the entire outfit? $14.96. She stopped returning my calls—all of them—but I can assure you it had nothing to do with my attire.)

Perhaps out of laziness, but more out of my desire to save money, I rode the bus back down Rivers Avenue to the shelter for lunch at the soup kitchen. While filling up on greasy pork chops and gristly chicken legs, I had the opportunity to speak with a fellow named John, who ate at the soup kitchen every day but didn’t reside at the shelter.

“They hirin’ at Fast Company,” he said, opening the conversation.

“Pardon?”

What? Pardon? Who says that?

Really, who? Words like “pardon” could diminish anyone’s credibility in any social setting, let alone a homeless shelter.

“You the one tryin’ to get a job, right?”

I nodded.

“Fast Company. It’s a moving company up there by the airport. They hirin’. You can prolly get a job no problem.”

Ah, moving. Why hadn’t I thought about that before!

I knew that challenging labor would be rewarded with higher pay, and I had never been one to shy away from a challenge. Shoveling shit excluded, how much more challenging could it get than hauling chairs and dressers and boxes around all day?

“They start you out at eight dollars an hour, but you can get a raise real quick if you know what you’re doing. You know how to move furniture?” Every time he spoke, he had a mouthful of a medley of mashed potatoes and green beans stuffed in his mouth, so I would miss a word or two every now and then.

“Oh boy, do I,” I retorted. My brother and I had completely destroyed