True story: Mr. A and Doc and the Missus and I were all in an antique store not too far from our house, and Missus and I were about to FUCK. UP. the vintage clothing in this place. The prices were crazy cheap and everything was in great condition. I had three suits on a pile and was considering some dresses when the guys, who’d wandered into the back of the store, came back and pulled us away.
“We’re leaving.” They looked like they’d seen ghosts.
“But it’s all so awesome, and we’re practically stealing, look, it’s like 20 bucks, come on.”
“Put it down. We’re getting out of here right now. We need to go. NOW.”
Turns out they’d taken a turn into a small back room in the store and found an entire collection, almost a shrine, of Nazi memorabilia. And this wasn’t like Granddad brought back a flag he took off some German soldier after the war was over. This was like, “Look at all our shiny Third Reich treasures aren’t they neat-o!” Some of it was for sale. All of it made their skin crawl.
I am not generally superstitious. I don’t actually believe had I bought a dress in that closeted Nazi shop it would have burned my skin. But I don’t understand wanting to keep actual Nazi artifacts around. It’s not that I think they’d whisper to me in the dark, it’s more … I don’t know, my place is small. The things I have around are things I like to look at.
And if you like to look at that, if you like to think about who it belonged to, that sounds like a pretty dark damn life.