The store sat at the corner of 8th. It had transitioned between stores until finally ending up where it was. At one point it was a butcher, an eye glass store, and a corner market. Now it was a consignment store. A little paradise in a city of cookie cutter houses and chain food restaurants. The store was different and it was busy. I worked at the store working through college. I knew who was a serious buyer and who was a browser, I knew the people who would bring in 1980s crap and call it “vintage” and the pickers who would bring in something beautiful. Like lemonade pink glass Fostoria pitchers, Victorian teacups and saucers, or mid-century walnut furniture. Yes, it was a lot of work to filter the important from the junk, and sometimes clients felt that I wielded my power-axe of “no” too often. Maybe. But, no one could accuse me of taking something that you could find at the next antique store. I took beautiful. I selected it. I handpicked it. And I was good.