My great-aunt has had a loft in SoHo since the 1960s, when SoHo was basically Bushwick, and she recently asked me to move in with her. In exchange for rent-free life in the sweetest location ever, I have to live with an old lady. So I didn't want to bring this guy I'd just drunkenly met in a pizzeria inside with me. We "hung out" in the hallway and then journeyed to the fifth floor, where this one richie vintage shop is moving from. By the door was a huge box with all sorts of overpriced and questionably tasteful garments. We did what anyone with a belly full of booze and pepperoni would do in this situation: we took as much as we physically could. This was a study in poor timing. Instead of immediately fleeing, we lingered. Just as we got to the stairwell, we heard that classic, "HEY!" ring from the opening elevator door, the same "HEY!" heard each time a kid swipes a banana or gets caught sneaking out of a window. It's the auditory personification of being caught, and it sucks.
We stupidly ran. Confrontation with old lady while acting slutty beats confrontation with angry owner after stealing, so we ducked into my apartment. The guy left pretty quickly, and I tried on clothes. Other than one buttery silken jumper, everything looked like it was from Forever21 except with a $600 price tag attached. Then the banging on the door began. I did what anyone in that situation would do, and pretended not to hear—but just like in
the knock sped up to an angry staccato.
I answered in an inside-out shirt three sizes too big and rolled up boxer shorts. Ten cops greeted me, plus the freaked-out looking dude I was just making out with (he got a ticket for trespassing), plus the red-eyed rightful owner of the clothes. He looked like he came back from a night of fun with substances, announcing that he was the "nicest guy in the world." I handed over the merchandise. We told the police we thought the clothes were "trash," which was the truth on several levels.