Locker Stories & Lessons

I bought the locker because it had 5 sturdy shelves I needed for my business—worth about $900 new at Home Depot. At first glance, the rest looked like waste. But as I dug deeper, I found crates of plumbing supplies, over 100 lbs of high-grade copper pipes, several expensive pipe cutters—and then, oddly enough, piles of empty vintage Nintendo boxes. The story slowly revealed itself. The unit belonged to a retired plumber. For decades, these tools had been his livelihood, the v

This locker in Jersey City had designer shoeboxes visible in the listing, so it went for more than I usually pay. It was a large one—8x10—and stuffed with what looked like high-quality items. Once I started clearing it out, a story began to unfold. The owner, it turned out, was a janitorial employee on a fixed income. Among the piles were uniforms from various companies and an abundance of brand-new cleaning supplies. But the rest of the locker told a different story. It was

The locker was dark and full to the brim with paintings, canvases, and art supplies—everything an artist might need for a lifetime of creation. It felt less like storage and more like an interrupted life, boxed away in haste. Given the location of the facility, in expensive Park Slope, it seemed likely that the artist had once worked nearby, perhaps in a studio now long gone. Brooklyn rents have climbed so high that even creativity itself seems to have been priced out. This a

After doing lockers for a while, I’ve started to notice certain patterns — traces of human enthusiasm left behind. In two lockers I cleared, both were filled with unopened boxes of custom cosmetic bottles, printed flyers, and perfectly preserved dreams. The labels read things like “Creme Goddess: Earth’s Essence in Your Hand” and “Country Hair.” Judging by the unused materials and idle websites, both ventures never took off. What struck me most wasn’t the failure — it was the

This was a mystery locker full of trash bags and boxes in a modest neighborhood of New Jersey. The price was right, and the size was manageable — an easy job, I thought. But as I began to sort through the bags, a clearer picture emerged. The owners had been an older couple, drawn to the small luxuries of catalog life. The locker was filled with glossy magazines and receipts from places like Swiss Colony, Ginny’s, and Tender Heart Treasures — the kind of stores that promise be

Some lockers tell stories that feel less like failure and more like fragments of someone’s unfinished life. This one, a 5x8 Manhattan unit packed neatly into Amazon bags, was like that. Everything seemed untouched for years — clothes folded in plastic, creams still sealed, jewelry carefully wrapped though most of it had little value. Among the items was a worn Louis Vuitton bag — fake, but clearly cherished. Its style dated back to around 2007, the kind that once symbolized s

This wasn’t the kind of locker I usually pick — small, cluttered, unremarkable — but it was cheap and available. Inside was a $3K West Elm sectional, which I sold the next day. Yet what stayed with me wasn’t the sofa, but the paper. Box after box, envelope after envelope — a mountain of mail sealed away, each plastic bag stuffed with bills, letters, and receipts. At first, I thought it was just disorganization. But as I dug deeper, it felt like something more human — a record

One of the first lockers I ever bought belonged to a Caribbean immigrant living in one of New York’s outer boroughs. Among the old menus, family photographs, and keepsakes from another life were stacks of storage receipts — month after month, year after year. “Thank you for your $49 payment,” they read, a quiet record of persistence. It struck me how this locker, like so many, wasn’t filled with valuables — but with proof of effort. Proof of someone who had come here, worked

This was a small unit in Manhattan — just a 5x5, the least expensive kind. What drew me in were the art supplies stacked neatly at the front. Sometimes, that means paintings or sculpture in the back, and I couldn’t resist the curiosity. Before I even began clearing the space, the storage manager told me the artist had been calling constantly, trying to get my number. She wanted her supplies back. Inside, the unit felt like a time capsule of dreams that had outlived their mome

This unit was in a large city — the kind of place where people pay for appearances. Papers were scattered across the floor: club membership invoices for $1.5K, sign-up fees of $10K, and restaurant bills from the same clubs reaching $500. These weren’t the ultra-elite institutions of old money, but rather the glossy imitation — the kind where ambition meets aspiration. As I sifted through the paperwork, I imagined the person behind it — someone chasing proximity to prestige. P

This unit stands out because it made me analyze my own behavior, not just the items I found. When I first saw a neat Manhattan locker stacked with boxes labeled “Paulson,” “Millennium,” and “Citadel,” I felt a rush of curiosity. Those were the names of major hedge funds — symbols of power, money, and mystery. I imagined the boxes holding something valuable, something secret. So, I bid high — higher than I should have — driven by that blend of curiosity and hope that defines s

When I first saw a unit filled with trash bags I assumed I would find little to nothing of value.  Looking back I think out of pure boredom I found myself bidding it up to $190 over the course of the next day, I would come to realize that the trash bags were just a facade to a once glamorous life. In that unit inside of trash bags and old plastic tubs, I found the remains of a life that once was. I found Hermes scarves, gold rings, silk curtains, and a story about how wealth

How it started: I became interested in buying storage lockers after watching a popular reality show “Storage Wars” during the long months of the Pandemic. My Youtube-educated background as an investor allowed me to look at storage through the prism of an “asset class”. What I saw was an “asset-backed” security with optionality: paying for things that are visible (principle), and the free-option offered by the things that weren’t. There was an element of the treasure hunt, and