The butcher’s shop smelled like salami and chicken skin; spicy and slimy all at once. Like dried and crumbling floor tiles installed during the Eisenhower administration. And like used up Freon and an early commercial air conditioner on the fritz. That’s why the shop smelt like skin. The AC pumped and moaned, kicking air around but never cooling it. Even in April, it was too warm in the tiny hole in the wall of a shop where my grandfather bought his sausage. So I held my breath, hoping for the best, praying the chicken wings weren’t moving like I thought.