way up at the top of the peaked roof, but it was still accessible by the escalators. It was here (to me at least) that things got interesting. In order to access federal and state money for the development, they had to set aside a certain amount of space for local start-up businesses, particularly female- and minority-owned enterprises. Most of these came and went rather quickly, but several stayed and were moderately successful, carving out a niche market for themselves (pardon the pun, given the nature of the building…) If I shopped at The Medieval Market at all, it was usually up on third, where the hand-crafted, unique, original stuff was, rather than the preppie-frat-boy-type things down below.

Today was a federal holiday, so both the University and the bank were closed. I took the bus from the frat house downtown as I usually did when going to work, and set to work among the shops on the first floor trying to find something that I thought the frat boys would find acceptable. I went from store to store, trying on a lot, but nothing was really within my budget, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I wanted to vomit. After literally several hours of an activity (clothes-shopping) that I despise, I escalatored myself to the third floor for some visual relief.

I went to one of the handmade jewelry shops there, and picked up a pair of cuff links that I really liked, and then tried to find a shirt or something to go with them. I was resigned by then to being “punished” for my failure to uphold the standards of the frat, and frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn.

When I got to the third floor, however, something new had been added: the front part of the floor had always been closed off, because it led up to what had been the bell tower, which was structurally unsound. I now saw that the arch leading up to the belfry had been opened, and that there was a dark, winding, narrow stair with a sign out front saying “The Clothes Horse”, with an arrow pointing up the stairs. Next to the sign was a life- sized statue of carved wood, of an extremely large, well-muscled – and undeniably sexy – Centaur, with an unbuttoned silk dress shirt on his human torso that exposed his huge, muscular chest, a batik-printed tie loosely draped around his neck, and a fedora pulled rakishly to the side of his massive head. The Centaur leered out at me with this costume as if to say “I’m TWICE the man you are, and I’m only half a man!”

I climbed slowly up the winding steps – which were obviously original to the church building, and were very narrow, and not well-lit – and pushed aside the beaded curtain at the top.

The shop known as The Clothes Horse was a single room, with a desk and cash register in one corner, a Victorian-style settee, deep oriental carpets on the floor, and racks of clothes and tables of other things. There was a circle of full-length mirrors at the back of the room, seven mirror panels in a ring next to each other, with one missing to allow entrance to the ring.

There was a heavy scent of incense in the air, a smell I could not identify, comprised of sandalwood and cinnamon and jasmine and I don’t know what else, heavy but not too heavy, sweet but