He entered the used book store and stood while his eyes adjusted to the light inside. Immediately he took in the unmistakable aroma of old books. The store was larger than he expected, judging from the outside. He looked around.
"Can I help you?" A voice emerged from behind the a stack of books at the front counter, where an older, bald man with glasses sat. "Not right now, I've never been here before. I just want to browse, for now, but thanks."
The man behind the counter half-smiled and said "Let me know if you need anything."
"I will. Thanks." He moved down the center aisle. Once he found himself in what he perceived as the middle area of the store he noticed the signs. On his left "$5 Fiction" on his right, "$6 History" Straight ahead "Philosophy $7.50." Everywhere he looked, another sign with category and price. Certainly it was a low maintenance pricing system, he thought. Most book stores, of course, individually price their books. He felt a tingling on his scalp, a beckoning to come further into the store. He was unable to resist.
At the end of the main aisle to his left, he found what he didn't know he was looking for. A separate room with an ancient but sturdy Oak door. A sign like the rest, written with a permanent marker on poster board, read "Three Dollar Poetry" He held the brass door knob for a second, took a deep breath, and opened the door...