Friday flight to Twin Cities:

“$1500 is how much I paid for a shirt when I was your age. Maybe a little older. Beautiful shirts, embroidery and cuffs…”

He looked down onto his stack of plates, two shirts, and knickknacks. His eyes connected with his wife. She nodded, proud but matter of fact. “That was 1974 and I rode bulls. That’s the life I lived.” He traded a five dollar bill for a white plastic bag of his goods and pushed through the doors into the parking lot.

He must’ve noticed the plaid buckaroo shirt I grabbed from the dollar rack on my way to the counter to pay for my desk chair. I paid six and stepped into the parking lot of worn cars, dirty tires and bubbling window tint. I slid into my seat and powered the windows down to let out the heat, turned up the radio and went on with my life.

That was over six months ago an adventure into ghetto thrift stores just to see what I’d find. The nifty 70’s office chair sits proud and orange in my living room. But I can’t stop thinking about that quick conversation with the retired cowboy.