1. 1994, Record store in suburban mall, Southeastern Pennsylvania Green barn jacket, jeans, t-shirt, and a limp little bra, more of a band-aid than anything architectural. Sneakers. I’m looking for Toad the Wet Sprocket’s album Dulcinea. On cassette tape. “Can I help you, sir?”  The sales guy has long frizzy hair, the kind that acts of its own accord, independent of gravity or conditioner. “Miss.” “Sorry?” “MISS. I am a GIRL.” He blinks. Mild perturbation flits…