Look, we all know that relationships are a give and take. It’s just that sometimes that might mean it’s a given to take your ex’s possessions and then sell them on campus for profit.
At the start of first semester I buried my teenage romance of two years, and I thought I’d made my peace with it. Eventful events followed soon after. It turns out peace, like student loan forgiveness, was never an option, so I did what any sane person would do: booked a stall for OUSA’s Re-Ori market day with the intention of making a buck while crying in public. I called my very professional entrepreneurial small business start-up “Vintage, Handmade & My Ex’s Old Crap” but definitely did not tell OUSA that.
I took the bus to my ex’s with a suitcase and shamelessly started raiding his wardrobe for things I had given him, lent him, or simply just wanted, offering to sell them back to him if he really, really needed them. I then bused right back to my bachelor pad and got to it. Justice never sleeps, so neither did I – I was full of pills and left everything to the last minute, so I stayed up all night pricing clothes and making shitty cardboard signs, among which were ones saying “Fuck it dude, just make me an offer” and “All prices are very subject to my fickle little whims, and I answer to no one”.
It was pissing down on the Wednesday of market day. The organisers had kindly said that people could arrive early with their cars, but I am far too gay to drive, so I had to take two trips, lugging my suitcases and racks through the downpour to campus. I arrived late and damp, as I often do. My crude setup attracted a lot of attention, which I was quick to pounce on with my wild disregard for the price tags I’d spent so long making. After all, I did have a sign saying, “Prices ARE negotiable – I am VERY easily manipulated”. For example, the Auckland Zoo polar fleece imbued with two years of volunteer guide knowledge went for the fair price of $4.50 and a 20c euro coin from someone’s pocket. Capitalism always wins, amirite?
Trades were more than welcome, too. Customers short on change for even my aggressively liberal prices were encouraged to hand over random shit on their person, or otherwise indulge a deep dark secret, or perhaps give a little song and dance. One customer paid in a combination of cash and a spirited rendition of ‘Strip that Down’ by the topical Liam Payne. Another customer was forced to pay us in genuine compliments. I sold a plague mask (my ex’s costume from a past Halloween together) for $4 and the promise to fetch me some cutlery, so I could eat my meal-for-one without leaving the hustle. I also gave a pair of his shorts away for free, because they’d been in the bottom of my laundry basket for so long and I was sick of them. I consider that a win-win.
I made a decent amount of shmoney, but the overall gain wasn’t financial – it was emotional, nay, spiritual. My online banking is now flooded with transactions saying “Fuck Matt*”, which earned each customer a discount. Ironically, the sheer, euphoric mild high I acquired from watching my ex’s favourite leather jackets sell for less than $20 is a feeling that cannot be bought. I made friends. I made foes. But most importantly, I was able to make a real difference: blurring the line between normal breakup behaviour and genuine moral/ethical misdemeanour.
*Name changed so I can keep joint custody of my cat.