[ WP ] You have an unique ability . When wearing someone else 's clothes , you change into this person . You collect `` appearances '' by buying clothes in second hand shops , but up to now it was just a game for you . Then you find something very special ...

I bet a question that Salvation Army and Goodwill employees never pose is `` who farted?'' Because it always smells like farts. There's something about the musty odor of some thrift shops that just reminds of a really old, ancient, decrepit fart. Like one that had been sealed up in a box, hidden away into the corner of an attic and undiscovered until old Aunt Sally finally kicks the bucket and her money grubbing children scour the house for valuables. 
 
 One of her kids begins to slowly open a corner of the box to peer in when a remnant of Aunt Sally's famous meatloaf slaps them in the face. They seal the box back up and haul it off to the local donation dumpster. Soon, it will find a home amongst old out of style clothes, board games based on long-cancelled TV shows, and random computer wires for peripherals that no one even remembers. 
 
 And me. Despite the odor, I ca n't stay away from thrift shops. I'm not a hoarder, which is what a hoarder would say, but truly I'm not. I first began to hit the local Salvation Army when I got a job at a certain retailer that requires brown pants and navy blue shirts ( hint: it rhymes with Wal-Mart ). This was a time in my life when I lived solely on rice, ramen, watered-down milk, and the most basic of cable packages. Funds devoted to brand-new clothing was out of the question, especially before my first pay check ( which if I recall ended up being a pretty sweet $ 318 before taxes, for two whole weeks of work ). 
 
 So the day before my first official day of employment, I headed off to the local Salvation Army. I wear size 32x30 pants, so naturally I grabbed a pair of 40x26. Typically I wear a medium sized polo; I snagged an XXL. I headed off to the fitting room. The only one available had a broken mirror, no hooks, and a sign reading `` Please throw all unwanted items on the floor. Thx -- Management.'' 
 
 I put on the polo first, it felt like I was swimming in daddy's shirt. It'll shrink. I then pull up the pants to my waist, I glance down and see my wiggling toes and a good six inches of my shin. I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of not just these stupid pants, but my life. 
 
 `` How is this funny, Harold?'' 
 
 I look up. An overweight man in a light blue button-down whose threads are being put to the test by the beer belly enclosed in it. 
 
 I feel lightheaded. Like when you drive home from work and after you park in the driveway and think `` Holy shit, how did I get here? Did I sleep drive?'' 
 
 The menacing figure shakes his sweaty fleshy face and asks again `` Huh? What's so funny?'' 
 
 I start to stutter and barely get out `` Heh... oh... these p-pants. So big.'' 
 
 `` Jesus Christ, Harold. Get your shit together, finish this cart or I swear to god this is it, this is your last chance!'' He swivels around, pretty light for such a large pear-shaped man, and waddles off with quick little steps past the rows of milk. 
 
 Rows of milk? Why is their milk in Salvation Army? I fully look around, taking in all 360 degrees. I'm surrounded by milk and cheese and yogurt and more milk. It's cold. I look down. My polo is tighter, and the ends of my pant legs lead to black square shoes that look like something my Uncle Fred would wear when his bunion was acting up. 
 
 I see a glimmer to my left and turn towards it; a large metal door showing my reflection. I look like I'm 5 feet tall and if someone were to describe me as a furry bowling ball, I probably would n't argue too much. I take a couple of steps closer to the door. I see an old man, maybe mid-late 60s, head shaped like a charcoal artist's rendition of a lumpy cantaloupe, a plumpy little torso with short stubby arms and legs. 
 
 I take on step closer to the door, noticing a name tag hanging from my left breast. I try to read it. Oh, it's backwards. Duh. I look down and flip it around. HAROLD - SALES ASSOCIATE. WAL-MART. 
 
 I look back up at the door and stammer, `` Oh boy...'' 
 
 `` Oh boy is right! Get that cart out there and work like your life depends on it. Cause it does!'' The slender figure of an older woman guides me towards a stocking cart containing a mess of cardboard boxes. She opens the glimmering metal door and shoos me out. I head down a long dark corridor, passing by pallets with towering, precariously leaning box upon box. I see a light up ahead, coming from two giant double doors. 
 
 When I get out I'm blinded by artificial light, screaming children, and that familiar sense of dread. I struggle to maintain the cart, barely getting it to go straight. It makes a loud squeaking noise which is abruptly interrupted when I ram into something. I peer around the side of the cart because I ca n't see over it. It's the giant pear man. This time I take in his name badge. RONALD - ASST. MGR. WAL-MART. 
 
 `` Pull the cart! Do n't push! Never push! You know this! Strike two!'' The pear barely manages to keep from foaming. 
 
 `` Sorry... Ronald.'' I slowly reply, making eye contact with my head tipped down in shame. He just glares at me. 
 
 I notice one of the boxes says `` KRFT AMRCN CHEESE SNGL,'' so I head toward the cheese section I see clearly ahead of me. Pulling the cart. Wow, this is easier. Pear had a good point. I stop by the Kraft cheese slices. There's about 5 different varieties in an unfathomable selection of sizes. I go to lift the box from the cart and almost drop it. Man, I'm weak. Or, maybe Harold is weak? I remind myself of the strange dream-like world I'm actually inhabiting, but I push on. 
 
 I ca n't figure out how to open the box. I claw at what appears to be an opening, but my fingernails just dig into the cardboard. I feel someone watching me. I glance over and it's Ronald the pear, with the same exact glare. 
 
 I turn my back toward him so he does n't see me struggle with the box. `` C'mon box, fucking open. Open sesame.'' I try to claw at the box again. A small hole appears! I dig my finger into the tiny opening and try to rip across, placing my weight on one side of the box. I push harder. The box tears open and out flies 20 packages of Kraft American Cheese, spilling a good 5 feet in every direction. 
 
 `` That's it!'' The pear is rushing toward me. 
 
 I panic. What the hell am I even doing here? I bolt off toward the produce section. My body is not moving fast. My body? Not my body. Harold's body! That's how I got here! I tried on those old fart clothes! 
 
 Can I be thinking clearly? Am I really going to have to disrobe to be me again? As I run by the deli case, I catch another glimpse of `` me.'' It's that short little weird body again. I look like a walking bomb-omb but without the grace. 
 
 It's now or never. I throw off the polo. 
 
 `` Harold! Your shirt! Holy shit what are you doing?!'' The pear shouts behind me. 
 
 No turning back now. I veer off and head for the checkout. I try to take my pants off while running and begin to lose my balance hopping along on one foot. I get one pant leg off when I completely lose balance. Just as I begin to pull the other leg off I fall to my back. I feel like an upside down turtle. Looking up while pulling the khaki pant leg left over my heel, the pear appears above me. `` YOU'RE FIR...'' 
 
 I'm in the fitting room again. I'm covered in sweat, but in the reflection of the busted mirror I can see that I'm me again. I quickly put my clothes back on and throw the over-sized polo and khakis into the corner of the fitting room. 
 
 I do n't tell anyone what happened. I just decide to push forward. Work this job, get a steady paycheck, go back to school, get my life in order. 
 
 For my first day at Wal-Mart, I break dress code and show up in a black polo and black pants. I look like an ugly male version of Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face. 
 
 `` You know you're supposed to wear navy blue and brown, right?'' The trainer at orientation asks/informs me. 
 
 They guide me to the backroom, through a long walkway, overfilled with stock. We reach a large sliding door, which when the trainer opens, reveals a cold, gray, cubed room, filled with dairy products. 
 
 The trainer points ahead. `` This is Sue, she'll show you around.'' From behind a wall of milk crates appears the slender figure of an older woman. 
 
 She offers her hand to shake and gently asks `` Oh, you must be Harold's replacement?''
