I took one of my roommates to the airport this morning, and when I dropped him at the curb, he said, “You know, Last Chance is having a truckload sale today. I think they open at 9 instead of 9:30.”

Dammit. Just enough time to get there.

Now, I know a lot of people hate Last Chance, which is the clearance center for Nordstrom merchandise from across the country. And for good reason: You’ve got to separate the wheat from the chaff, which is a lot of work. Some things are ripped, missing buttons, stained, visibly (or olfactoraly, to make up a word) worn. … Kind of like a thrift store – only here, the other shoppers are frenzied.They try to minimize that: Before the gates roll up, the manager comes out and warns the masses: No running or pushing when the gates open – she even demonstrates a “safe and reasonable” pace. (Or you’ll be asked to leave.) No “aggressive shopping,” which means when they’re restocking the rounders, nobody can touch until the sales associate is done with the rack. (Or you’ll be asked to leave.) They have heavies standing up front to try to intimidate you into good behavior.

This morning the crowd was extra-giddy: There were specials on Ugg boots and designer handbags! (I’m not sure how word of mouth gets around on such things.) That meant more rules: You’re only allowed to buy two, and in fact can only have two pairs of boots or handbags in your hands at any time – no grabbing 40 to sort through later on down the road. (Or you’ll be asked to leave.)

The couple behind me were planning their strategy so she could get a pair of Uggs: He’d take the 9½s, and she’d go for the 9s. They discussed color and size, until finally he said, “It’s not like it’s the running of the bulls, honey.”

“You have no idea,” she replied.

Actually, it is: The crowd does not mill in – it hustles, and despite the manager’s warnings as soon as they’re past the register, the serious shoppers break into a trot at the minimum, or an alarming speed-walk.

I think that’s what frightens me the most about that place: When other people around you are acting frantic, it puts your nerves on edge. I walk up to a rack and look at item by item – style? color? brand? overall look? – but other guys are moving at 10 times the speed – FLICK! They’re shoving handfuls of shirts to the side at a time. FLICK! Looking for only certain things, like Polo shirts – FLICK! You can’t even – FLICK! – concentrate, beca – FLICK! – use they’re – FLICK! FLICK! FLICK! FLICK! – moving around so fast, trying to get to the next rack to FLICK! their way through and be the first to get whatever it is they’re looking for.

And that’s just the men’s section. I’ve never been in the women’s – I don’t want to be near those ladies jonesing for designer handbags, and I never did work up the nerve to ask a lady clutching a Burberry tote what it took to get her hands on it. She’s back over with her husband, who wisely is carrying their infant in a tote far away from the madding crowd.

But instead I’m back to browsing, with a little more urgency this time. Those FLICK!ers have me nervous. I totally understand how crowds can get out of control; the adrenaline is ratcheted up here. “It’s only clothing,” I keep telling myself. “It’s not urgent.” But it’s hard to remember that when you’re surrounded by jittery hands ready to pick up what you put down.

Oh, look – there’s that long-sleeved Marc Jacobs shirt I liked so much last weekend. It was hot pink, so it was kind of intimidating, but it was only $15. But now I know that the shoulders have fade marks – displayed on a hanger in sunlight left fade marks not visible until you take it off the hanger. Last week I considered buying it and trying to dye it, but realized that was too much work. (Plus, I’d dye the tag, and except for the tag, it’s just pretty much a long-sleeved cotton shirt like any other.)

Jeans. Trousers. Suits. Sport coats. Shoes (white tags 30% off today!). Belts. Dress shirts. Casual shirts. Jackets and coats. A lot of stuff I think is geared toward middle-age men (so ladies with middle-age husbands, rejoice!) and larger/smaller sizes (ditto).

And then it’s off to the dressing rooms, to thoroughly examine what I’ve picked up. A pair of off-white button-fly Diesel jeans – I fit into a 31! Yes! – look great … until I take them off and realize the back of one of the calves has a giant red stain like someone spilled Kool-Aid on it. That’s not gonna wash out. …

This Burberry T-shirt … do I like it, or do I just like the fact it’s Burberry and it’s $15? Do I need another white T-shirt? This long-sleeved surf-print tee is only $9 … but when am I going to wear one? I don’t surf. I am focusing on clothes for work. … These silky brown cords would need hemming – not an issue – but are too small in the waist. They go on the “reject” rack with the others. All pants first, then on to shirts.

Once I’ve made the rotation, it’s back through for another thorough inspection. Last week I got a great dress shirt – only to realize when I got it home that the placket was mangled near the bottom. Everything at Last Chance is nonreturnable, so if you can’t fix it, that’s your fault. (I am hoping that once that shirt is tucked in, the ripping is not visible.)

All in all, it took two hours. The place isn’t glamorous, it kind of smells (since it’s in a basement of a strip mall), you have to wait in lines to check out where they actually wave little flags to say “next in line” …

BUT.

I’ve noticed they play good music. “Veronica” by Elvis Costello. “The Boy From Ipanema” by Crystal Waters, which I recognize from the “Red Hot + Rio” fund-raiser album. “The Killing Moon” by Nouveau Vague. If I focus on the music, the crowd doesn’t bother me as much.

And the booty:

Two long-sleeved dress shirts by Hugo Boss. One long-sleeved cotton henley by Hugo Boss Orange Label. A knit pullover and pair of lightweight cotton trousers by Penguin. A long-sleeved madras shirt by Ben Sherman. A pair of off-white jeans by Seven For All Mankind. A pair of sneakers by Skechers. A pair of suede chukka boots by RJ Cole. And, because I have to get dressed for more than just work, a screenprint T-shirt.

Total: $200. And I won’t have to go back for like half a year.

Because here’s the thing: Even though it’s a pain, there’s a reward.

ammit

sammit

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