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Jesus.I am in trouble here.
I lean against the counter. “Notmy guitar.”
4
RUN'S IN THE FAMILY
SASHA
Everybody Wants You by Billy Squier
The back storeroom is an open space with shelves for storage and an adjacent office. The wooden door hangs open, providing a view of the old rustic wood desk inside. A computer sits amongst a pile of papers haphazardly strew over its surface. Past the desk, hanging on the wall, are dated band pictures.
I know Cash was in a band with Jack when grunge was at its height, but when they broke up, he bought this record store and has been running it ever since. Judging by the decor, it hasn’t been updated since either, but it adds to the vintage feel, especially with the light blue and white checkered tile flooring. The neon sign out front,Underground Records, has long lost its luster, but it seems to fit.
For the better part of the afternoon, I go through each box, separating out the damaged albums. The records themselves are still in good condition, but the sleeves are either ripped or soiled, making them unsellable.
I hold aSublimealbum in my hand, flipping it over to admire the artwork. Going through the records, I’ve gotten to see the evolution of cover designs over the decades, and wonder what it was like to photograph such artists as Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. I had a taste of that at the music festival, but it’s not the same as working with someone in a studio, having your concept come to life in unexpected ways.
My grandparents have a collection of old country albums and a record player, but it’s been years since they’ve used it, the dust hiding its original sheen.
Cash has been quiet up front aside from when customers have come through, and by the sound of their familiarity, most are regulars. There are long stretches of silence. I’m used to the chaos and constant interaction of working in a bar, so being back here by myself is lonely.
“So you used to play bass?” I ask, loud enough so Cash can hear me.
“What?” He pops his head around the corner.
“You used to play bass?” I ask again.
“Yes,” he mutters.
“What kind of bass?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going.
“I thought you said you weren’t musically inclined,” he responds.
“I’m not.”
It’s a warm summer day, and I push the stray pieces of hair from my neck. “Do you mind if I prop open the back door?” I ask.
Cash walks down the hallway towards the back door and shows me how to prop it open by pushing what looks like a piece of parking block in place to keep it from closing. “It can get pretty stuffy back here.”
He looks around at the boxes I have piled up appreciatively and then heads into his office, shuffling papers around.
“What did you mean when you said you should be?” he asks, absently.
“Huh?”
“Earlier, when I asked if you played, you said you weren’t musically inclined but you should be?” He makes a face, clearly showing his confusion.
“I’m pretty sure my father was a musician,” I explain, while stacking up a few more albums and shoving one of the boxes to the side with my foot.
“You don’t know?”
“I never knew him,” I say, shaking my head. “For all I know, you could be my dad,” I tease, tossing another album on the unsellable pile.
I’m met with silence, and for a minute I think he might have left or passed out, so I peek around the corner of his office door and look at him.
I am met with stormy grey eyes. “I am not your father,” he says definitively.
