He is there every day, rattling a hollow sounding cup of coins. There may be two or three in there. He does not have a talent, or a nice face. Not many people want to give him their money, because he has three teeth and mumbles things in Spanglish. He was the man who was kicked away from the white and blue lettered, neat mannequin-ed storefront of Goodwill, which is just three or four storefronts down; now, he sits in front of Boomerangs most days on a black milk crate, dixie cup and a few dirty pennies in his grasp.

The store hangs unassumingly off of the end of Center Street in Jamaica Plain. It flashes nothing at you, much unlike the cow’s head boring its eyes into you from its perch on JP Licks a few blocks away. It does not demand your attention, with its faded yellow lettering; you can almost smell a stuffy interior as you walk by the flat, glass front. If you do not mind standing next to the man with three teeth, it’s certainly worth peering inside. The decision they’ve made in presenting themselves is oddly bold, once you start observing. It is cluttered and eclectic, more so than most thrift stores, with a green scarf draped over a dial television here, a harmonica over there in the fake daisies. This scene changes most weeks, but never makes much sense. It looks like some teenager lived in the storefront for a few months, then felt the walls of filth crushing them in, and moved on. Once you really look at Boomerangs, it’s hard to imagine how you’d ever missed it.

On occasion, they invite the homeless man inside of the store, usually on those bitter days that make you grind your teeth together, hunch your shoulders, just to get underneath a warmer ceiling. He sits on the couches. They are ever changing because the nice ones they put on display get snatched up by some hopeful youngster for their first apartment, or by a bargain seeking elderly couple. These couches are never ideal. They are weathered, usually made of some material, in some pattern, that went out of style just a decade or two ago. The one he likes, it is velour, its two cushions studded with red diamonds on a Cheeto orange background. He just sits there and closes his eyes, content, and the employees do not bother him and he does not bother them.

An old woman ambles in, her steps short but determined. Like most peoples’, however, they mellow, until they are but a shuffle through molasses, with each step deeper into the store. Really, everything seems to have slowed down at Boomerangs. It’s a place caught in time, from the James Brown soundtrack, to the carpet, which cancels sharp sounds, to the growing wall of videotapes. When you step inside, its as if someone pours sand in your ears and stuffs you in grandma’s closet, wrapping you lovingly in a mothballed quilt, to take a nap. It is in a perpetual state of not quite in style, not quite fun, even if the young girl in Doc Martens tries to be interested. She ultimately gives up, likely departing for Urban Outfitters.

The old woman passes the little couch conference, and steps towards the clothing. She passes mannequins, armless and legless, painted in paisley by a smiling cashier with snakebites. She runs her hand over the outer edges of the shirts she passes in the aisle, each one fanning out the smell of some different owner, out and behind her. It’s strange to think, or try to imagine, why the shirts, furniture, books, and mittens in here were given up. Most will try to forget that each item has a story. They are scared it will not be a happy one. Sure, a baby mitten, lost without its partner, is shoved in the giveaway bag; it is less nice to imagine why the pair of baby mittens, or the book titled “Foods to Cure Cancer” were given up. It could be some reasonable explanation, as failed diets occur and babies grow at incredible rates, but those things could also very well be here for reasons that lurk, like wolves with scarlet eyes, in the back of people’s minds. Everything smells like a different family, a different age, a different month, and not all were triumphs. Obviously, most don’t like to think that they might be buying something with a dead owner. It’s not surprising that there is simply a veil, mutually utilized by thrift shoppers, that shoves these stories deep underground.

She is probably not thinking about these things. The man on the couch is not either. This old woman, she is probably some thrifty grandma, as she flicks away anything without the “1 dollar” blue tag sale with her French nails. She passes, in the book section, a woman just showing a bump, opening “Baby 411” with one hand, hitting “Football for Dummies” against her thigh with the other, as she reads. Four copies of Twilight sit on the bottom shelf, brooding and black. Eventually, the old woman settles in a wicker chair, which is practically pulp from claw marks, reading “The Fat Flush” cookbook.

Another man walks in, iPhone in hand, eyes immediately widening at a wooden piano just next to the couches. He adjust his fedora, and strides over, bending his knees and aiming that phone, and Instagramming that piano. He walks out again.

Each person, young and old, toothless or penniless or rich, breathes hope onto the clothes and furniture. Everything has a mysterious background. Some things may have been sitting on a rack for three years; but, at least they’ve found a safe, sleepy haven. They’ve been given a second chance. Boomerangs is kind of like a home for the things that have been neglected, or have had a sad past. No matter what, every person who decides to walk through, slowing down time just for a little while, gives new life to the stuff here. The paint on the walls is forgettable, and some things are just a little too ugly, but at least they are given the kindness of a hand running over their fabric once in a while.

The old woman departs with the “Fat Flush Cookbook,” trudging out of the molasses and into the rain. The old homeless man, still on the velour couch, braves out the bitter weather here, at home with these clothes and the couch’s red diamonds that someone forgot to care about. He closes his eyes, and they keep each other warm.