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Mike Ross is an attorney at the law firm Prince Lobel.
In the Northern Berkshires, a small mid-century furniture and home goods store serves a potent antidote to our increasingly divided world. It’s the only commercial space I’ve ever seen that employs the honor system.
The store sits in a small stand-alone bungalow in Williamstown, next to the Green River, a popular swimming spot frequented by locals. The morning I visited with my wife, the door was propped open, and soft music beckoned us. The space felt like a curated gallery — leather seating, oversized coffee table books, ceramics and glassware, an occasional painting. There was a throw across a low-slung leather sofa, a collection of what appeared to be valuable jewelry splayed on top of an open book, and high-end vintage clothing throughout. The items were not inexpensive; a chrome desk lamp was $400, a leather jacket was $1,200.
What wasn’t in the store was another human, something that became apparent to me after I walked around clutching a small footstool, calling out, “Hello?” My wife figured it out before I did, reading the sign on the front door that explained that we were in an “honor-system” store. We were instructed to select whatever items we wanted and provide payment through Venmo.
The store is owned by Phil Sullivan, an “America’s Next Top Model” contestant, and Gwen Benjamin, a dancer turned model, who both got tired of living in New York City and decided to relocate just 20 minutes from where Phil grew up. The inspiration for Neighbor came naturally. Good clothing came with their day jobs in high fashion, and the items made better sense to sell than hold on to. Their love of furniture was something they bonded over while thrifting in Brooklyn.
Phil and Gwen first launched their store in 2024, originally in a former cotton mill, before they moved to Williamstown one year later. Their inspiration for an unmanned store came from humble farmstands found all across the nation. Often, these stands have only a cash box present, as if to say, “Go ahead, friend, make change, we trust you.”
Crimes like shoplifting have been increasing in recent years in certain cities, including some parts of Boston. It has been a lightning rod of political controversy, used to critique Democrats’ “soft on crime” policies, miserly corporate store staffing, and the ever-rising cost of living. Even with statistics decidedly mixed on the rise of shoplifting, the widespread locking up of goods in certain convenience stores has left consumers feeling, at best, inconvenienced and, at worst, preemptively suspected. Through this lens, Neighbor felt like a breath of fresh air; a place where community trust was freely offered with no strings attached. I asked Phil and Gwen how they could be so trusting of others, at a time when the world is not a trusting place.
“We’ve designed a place that’s exactly how we want the world to be,” Gwen, who grew up in Missouri, told me. “We think that people are genuinely good, they just don’t always get the opportunity to showcase it.”
“The store,” she said, “proves it to us.”
That’s a lot of pressure to put on a single store. The industry itself would tell a different story.
Neighbor, meanwhile, hasn’t had a single theft.
