on the way back from the art store the other day, i walked past a blaring neon sign that screamed EROTIC EMPORIUM, somehow more vuglar in the daylight than it is at night. standing in front of the sign was a neatly dressed white businessman, suit, tie and breifcase, who stared at me openly as i walked past and muttered disconcertingly under his breath.

at the end of the block is the salvation army, where i decided to take a detour. downstairs, the men's and children's department is musty and humid and the bare electric bulbs cast strange shadows. i was the only one down there for a while, perusing the rows of misironed collared shirts and bright children's jerseys.

racuous male laughter and loud footsteps made me look up. my small-town mind registered their race, their clothing and the area, and immediately threw them into the first available stereotype. i eyed the emergency exit and gripped my purse.

out of the corner of my eye, i watched them wander towards me, browsing in the kid's section. the biggest of the four pulled something off the rack.

"yo, i'd be fuckin' killer in this. i'd rip up the fuckin' neighborhood!"

i turned a little more so i could see. as his friends roared with laughter, he held against his chest bright pink flannel pajamas. with feet.