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keep ‘em guessing … is she naughty or is she nice? (aren’t we both?); (3), put on clothes that you like, then leave and
don’t look back
—the more time you have to preen and primp in front of a mirror, the more your confidence will erode and lead to a fashion faux pas; (4), don’t wear the same style of clothes or designer (like Peggy Sue) day after day—just like an actor who plays the same role over and over, you’ll get typecast. Sometimes I feel like being Sporty Spice … other times, Posh Spice. Get it? (They were a fab group, by the way, the Girls, no matter what anybody says.)
    Changed and freshened up, I went out to my car.
    A beautiful sunny morning awaited me—in the seventies, low humidity—and soon I was taking in the shops along Main Street, which were bustling already, townspeople and tourists alike, looking for the indispensable item(s) they couldn’t live without. I parked in one of the side lots (free) and walked along, looking in the windows.
    Which reminds me.
    Have you ever been at a mall, waiting for a tardy girlfriend, say, and watching the people walk by? (Perhaps the only thing men and women truly have in common is that in such situations, both are checking out the females.) When was the last time you said, “Wow! There goes a really great outfit"? Almost never!
So where do all the cute clothes in the stores go?
What, are they in closets, with the tags still on them? It’s a mystery even Agatha Christie couldn’t solve.
    At the end of Main Street—that is, where the shops trailed off—was an old four-story building that hadn’t been restored to the grandeur of its neighbors. A sign read: CARSON’S ANTIQUES—BUY AND SELL.
    I had hoped Clint Carson might still be on the garagesale circuit so I could snoop around his shop, maybe spot something of ours, to size up the prices.
    The building (front facing Main Street; side, Pine Street) had a unique corner front entrance with an elaborate facade, and a heavy door with its original etched glass and Victorian hardware. A bell hanging from thin, scrolled metal tinkled as I passed through.
    The scarred wooden floor hadn’t been refinished (or cleaned) since the building first opened its doors, the old tin ceiling retained, giving the place a rustic (not to say musty) atmosphere. Among all the gentrified antique shops of the downtown’s Pearl City Plaza, this one retained a certain junk-shop aura—not necessarily a bad thing, making customers feel bargains were to be found.
    As I prowled the place, however, that proved not to be the case: item after dusty item seemed ridiculously overpriced.
    I had to wonder how Carson expected to stay in business. Granted, some people could be fooled—not everyone was an expert on antiques—but most shoppers had a rudimentary knowledge of what things were worth, and if not, at least some common sense.
    In the middle of the elongated room a raised circular checkout island was overseen by a woman with flaming short red hair. Ginger (well, with that fiery hair, she sure wasn’t Mary Ann) was talking on the phone, her voice kind of hushed, so I guessed it was a personal call. She paid no attention to me as I passed.
    I couldn’t say I was enamored of Carson’s taste in antiques, which had a southwestern bordello look (and if that’s what you’re into, go for it … I’ll pass); so he must have brought a lot of it with him from Colorado. Peppered in, though, were some midwestern antiques, such as a maple Colonial sideboard, and the occasional fifties modern piece, like a pair of really cool Hayward Wakefield end tables (but at a thousand dollars apiece, gimme a break!).
    At the end of the room a vintage pointing-finger sign directed me to the second floor, so I climbed the rickety stairs to another long chamber of more of the same … and nothing with the family familiarity that I’d hoped to find.
    Disheartened, I returned to the first floor and approached the red-haired clerk. She was about my age