The first and second floors of this huge store are showcases for the usual selection of decent furniture, collectible tchotchkes, and shimmering prom dresses. But the basement, which smells like dirty auto parts, harbors a treasure trove of bizarre goods, most of which teeter on the useful-useless axis. Hospital beds. Dented, half-empty paint cans. Car seats. Gynecological exam tables. Boxes of envelopes from an accounting firm. I’m captivated by the ziggurats of putty-colored PC components shrink-wrapped together for $100. Instant art or just obsolete debris? Could I use 25 shiny metal cans? This basement is like the sheds and unkempt garages of a hundred mechanically inclined forever-puttering pack rat uncles. I was pondering how male this basement seemed when I noticed a man reclining inside one of the assembled pup tents, reading a book. The image seemed so right.
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