the men at the bins move towards me when you go to look for record players among the piles of broken vaccums and lampshades marred with gummy fingerprints. they are old enough to be my father. they have bad breath and wear windbreakers. they say they like my leopard coat, did i get it from jayne mansfield? they are standing too close to me, i am backing up. "oh, you found a cookbook," one says right next to my ear. he is inching in between me and the wall and i just nod, i want to tell him that he stinks, that i'm not in the slightest bit interested in his opinions, but i just stand there.