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3
DO PEOPLE STILL BUY RECORDS?
CASH
Going to California by Led Zeppelin
Icatch myself too late for her not to notice that my eyes travel up her body from her toned legs to her trim waist, like the sleek lines of a Fender Stratocaster guitar. Still, I try to school my expression. I am not that creepy old guy who checks out girls half my age, except… I just did.
She seems unaffected by my outburst and gives me a small wave and a smile that brightens up the store. “Hi, remember me? Sasha?” she asks, tentatively.
I tuck the phone in my back pocket. “You’re the one that shoved a camera in my face.” How could I possibly forget her?
She smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I tend to do that.”
“What? Shove cameras in people’s faces?”
She laughs. “It’s rude, I know, but when the light is just right and the subject catches my eye, I can’t help myself.”
I know nothing about photography, but Erin thinks she’s talented, even getting her the gig at the festival we met at.
“I just don’t like having my picture taken,” I admit.
“Most people don’t.” I watch as she makes her way around the store as if she’s taking everything in. She turns in my direction. “Sounds like you’re having a bad morning.”
“You could say that.” I slump against the counter thinking about all the boxes of albums in the storeroom.
After inspecting the posters on the wall, she moves to the display of electric guitars lined up in a row. Her fingers lightly glide down the neck of the guitar. She plucks at the string with interest, her eyes roaming over the body.
“Do you play?” I ask, casually.
She looks over her shoulder at me, tendrils of her blonde hair caressing the back of her neck with the movement. “Is that a requirement for working here?” she asks.
“No,” I reply.
“Well then, no,” she says. “I’m not musically inclined.” She turns back to the guitar giving it one last curious look. “But sometimes I wonder if I should be,” she says, as if she’s talking to herself.
Before I get a chance to ask what she means, she turns to the posters in the bin and pulls one out.
“This is beautiful.” She inspects the screen print that is flat laid on cardboard and wrapped in protective plastic.
I walk over to where she stands. “That’s Patti Smith,” I point out.
“I know who she is,” she says, surprisingly.
The way she looks at the photo… it’s as if she’s trying to pull it apart so she can put it back together again. It reminds me of when I first learned the guitar. Emulating my favorite bassist was like dissecting their technique only to put it back together again with my own style.
Sasha looks young and I wouldn’t have expected her to know who Patti Smith is, but it’s nice that she at least knows some music if she’s going to be working here. She turns her attention back to the poster, admiring it. “This is the artist you were talking about.” She mentions the brief conversation we had at the festival when I asked about her photography.
Sasha turns over the poster, looking at price tag. “Wow.”
“I don’t know why I commissioned them for my store because no one around here can afford to buy them.” My customers are mostly kids from the beach, an occasional collector, or tourists stopping in on their way back to their hotel, not someone who would pay this much for a poster.
“Probably because you recognized the talent.” She flips through the bin, looking at the rest of them. “They are really beautiful.” Her eyes dance over each one with admiration, and I realize this is the most anyone has ever paid attention to these posters since I got them.
“Maybe someday my photos will be in a record store that no one can afford to buy,” she pokes fun at herself.
“It’s something to work towards,” I dead-pan, which gifts me a surprised smile from Sasha. She has dimples on each side of her mouth that become more prominent when she smiles.
