Page 29

Dean

Wednesday — August 15, 1984

Inventory day at Side A always began with optimism, several sharpened pencils, and the belief that this time we might actually finish before midnight, but usually ended with Brian accusing me of being unnecessarily rigid in believing that records should be alphabetized.

An hour after we started, he'd already broken two pencils, spilled coffee across the jazz count sheet, and decided Molly Hatchet belonged under H instead of M.

Brian sat cross-legged on the floor between rock and new wave, a yellow legal pad balanced on one knee while three open boxes of used records surrounded him.

His dark hair stuck up in the back as though he hadn’t considered checking a mirror before he left, and his faded Rush shirt had a coffee stain near the hem. My best friend treated mornings that started before nine as proof that I’d become the kind of employer people complained about over drinks.

Otis had taken one look at the boxes and decided none of this concerned him. He lay across the narrow aisle beside the counter with his graying muzzle on his front paws and his stiff back leg stretched behind him, placing himself exactly where both of us needed to walk.

“You know he's doing that on purpose,” Brian said.

“He's sleeping.”

“He could sleep anywhere.”

I stepped over Otis and carried another carton from the stockroom, setting it beside the counter while the loose cassettes inside shifted against one another.

The store looked worse than usual, which took some effort. Every available surface held records waiting to be counted, cassettes waiting to be checked against distributor invoices, or stacks of used albums that needed pricing before they could go into the bins. Seven-inch singles filled two milk crates beneath the Miles Davis poster, cardboard boxes crowded the listening station, and the handwritten inventory sheets I'd spent half the night making were already smudged with pencil, coffee, and one greasy thumbprint that probably came from the Hardee's biscuits Brian had brought with him.

The wrappers sat beside the register, filling the store with the smell of sausage and butter that fought a losing battle against cardboard sleeves, old paper, floor wax, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead or possibly strip paint.

I took another bite of my biscuit and checked the count sheet.

“Springsteen.”

“Thirty-two.”

“There are thirty-four.”

Brian looked toward the rack. “You're counting Born in the U.S.A. twice.”

“There should be fourteen copies.”

“I count twelve.”

“I ordered fourteen.”

“That doesn't mean somebody didn't buy two.”

“Since yesterday?”

He shrugged. “Music moves people.”

“Count again.”

Brian sighed loudly enough that Otis lifted his head, checked whether anything edible might be coming his way, then lowered it again.

Outside, State Street was only beginning to wake. Delivery trucks idled along the curb while shop owners swept sidewalks and rolled up security gates. A city bus pulled away from the corner with a cloud of exhaust, and somewhere down the block somebody had a radio turned high enough that Bruce Springsteen followed the breeze through our open door.

The morning still carried a little coolness from the night before, though it wouldn't last. The forecast called for another hot day, and Side A's entire climate-control system consisted of two box fans, one that rattled continuously and another that stopped turning every few hours unless somebody smacked the side.

The telephone rang behind me.

I reached across the counter, grabbing the avocado green phone. “Side A.”