For the protagonist of this story, a young woman working at a chain clothing outlet in Los Angeles, opening a box of clothes: “all stuffed and flattened together in a cube without tags or prices, made their real worth suddenly clear – this was junk, all of it.” But although she sees through the illusion, that does not free her from the work of maintaining it. “Before they put the clothes on the racks, they had to steam them, trying to reanimate the sheen of value.” Everything in the world of this story is reducible to its exchange value: beauty can be used to entice customers, the aspirations of young actors pay the bills of their jaded older teachers, and the story leaps into motion when the protagonist discovers that even her used underwear can be sold: a younger, savvier colleague regularly sells hers to men on the internet and the perverts who come into the shop, so the protagonist decides – though decides is hardly a word that belongs in the world of this story – to try it too.
In the final scene, the protagonist climbs into a car with a man to whom she is selling her underwear and during their uncomfortable interaction, she remembers a previous, unpleasant incident that she endured by imagining it as a story: “something condensed and communicable.” Even the story form itself is subjected to the same economic logic as the clothes that arrive, flattened into a cube and ready for sale. In its terrifying final moment, she realises that he has locked the car and she can’t get out. Then the ironic, affectless screen behind which this sad life plays out is torn away, and its awful violence is laid bare.
First published in Granta in 2017 and collected in Daddy, Chatto & Windus, 2020. Available for Granta subscribers to read here