we walked into the lobby , to have all our senses assaulted at once : rumpled threadbare sleeping bags like snakeskins all over the floor , empty bags of potato chips and pork rinds , a model flying saucer , the smell of chocolate and feet , a diorama of the 1947 crash site labeled `` foo fighter , '' an almost untastable taste of eggs in the air , scraps of plastic wrap and paper , a dead rubber alien on a gurney overseen by a human mannequin in surgical scrubs , a paperback book called life , the universe , and everything , and enough pairs of underwear for thirty guys .