At REI's Garage Sale, the too-blue sky's the limit

If you want to brush shoulders with members of Seattle's notable numbers of poets, novelists, producers of nonfiction and other creative writers, just hang out at a local coffee shop or bookstore. Or drop by the Richard Hugo House and see what's on tap there.

Some are less so.

Like, "Garage Sale" day at REI.

Many of you have been there. Garage Sales are a couple-times-a-year event. They're basically a gigantic throat-clearing for every REI store's returns and exchanges department, and they've become something of a tradition.

The sales usually are on Saturday. People line up far in advance — sometimes overnight — to be first through the doors to paw through giant bins of returned outdoor gear, which is sold at bargain-basement prices. At the big flagship store, they now issue tickets in advance to avoid people camping outside the store overnight.

Once inside, you belly up to a bin and make yourself as wide as possible to ward off clawing maniacs behind you. You start grabbing intriguing items and asking yourself questions, in this order: A) "I need this, right?" B) "What in the world is it?" Fortunately, a manila-colored return tag usually provides some answers.

Enter the creative-writer portion of our program. Some of the explanations given for returns are far enough off all known charts of logic that they clearly qualify as creative fiction.

"Customer says sleeve completely coming apart," reads one tag on a parka, which, on close examination, has three tiny, pinprick-sized punctures on one sleeve.

"Customer says it makes his neck itch," says a tag on another garment. Or: "Yellow color was too yellow" on a yellow rainfly.

Moral of this story: Clearly, some of you young Jonathan Raban protégés out there are staying up late at night conjuring excuses to take advantage of the local outdoor purveyor's uncommonly generous return policy.

It's all too easy to do. As an inducement to join the 3 million or so existing members of the very successful co-op, REI assures customers they'll always have a "100% Satisfaction Guarantee."

"You can count on everything we offer to be highly functional and 100% satisfaction guaranteed," the company's membership literature states. "If you're ever dissatisfied with an item, you may return or exchange it."

And they really back it up. As someone who oft takes advantage of this policy — with new, undamaged items that just don't fit right, or don't prove to be in person what they looked like online — this customer is one who truly appreciates it. The absence of an argument — or worse, restocking fee — at the returns counter keeps some of us coming back to REI, time and time again, for the outdoor stuff we need. Or just think we do.

But if the most-recent Garage Sale at our local REI store is any indication, some of you folks are simply getting greedy — and abandoning any semblance of shame.

"Used three years — back buckle broke off," reads an actual tag on a pair of Teva sandals, so worn out that they appear for all the world to have been worn by someone walking from Ballard to Costa Rica — and back.

"Wore 8 seasons — zipper broke," reads another note on an expensive North Face parka.

"Used one ski season — too short," says the tag on a pair of $800 downhill skis.

And my favorite, a note on a down jacket: "Wore two years; customer says he is allergic to down."

Nothing wrong with that; some people are just a bit slow on the uptake.

Of course, a thrifty shopper will find, among the racks of clothing too worn out to get through the back door at Goodwill, plenty of perfectly new, never-used equipment. That's where the true deals are to be had, and it's what keeps people coming back and waiting in line just for this rare opportunity.

But still: Some people seem to think the local gear store is little more than a Gore-Tex pawnshop.

A handful of customers clearly have become masters at the art of return; the product tags they leave in their wake contain return excuses that, when you think about it, are simply inarguable:

"Not waterproof enough."

That's a beauty. Foolproof, thanks to its wonderful subjectivity. What's "waterproof enough"? All in the eye of the purchaser. Ingenious.

Or this one: "Didn't meet customer's needs."

Ah, the high art of vagueness! An unassailable return excuse, in stunningly clear, give-me-my-money-back, four-word simplicity. Truly inspired.

Keep it up, folks. Let those creative juices flow. Next time your mortgage is due and you suddenly realize that $325 carbon-fiber kayak paddle you bought four years ago creates an untenable color clash with your PFD, go ahead — bring it on back. One of us can use it — and will be happy to snap it up for 50 bucks.

Just know this: If you push your luck too far and wreck the return policy for the rest of us, we're going to come looking for you.

Ron Judd's column appears here every Thursday. To contact him: 206-464-8280 or rjudd@seattletimes.com.