I nodded. On his way down from the mountains. He’d taken Mad Dog and Rosa up to some guru for sunrise meditation this morning, so I had about an hour in town.
“All righty. Don’t do anything I’d do,” Starla said with a grin. “See you back at the lodge.”
I jumped out of the car and headed down the Strip with Frida. It was too early in the season for a lot of tourists, but the weather was nice, and a family in shorts and sunglasses were renting kayaks. I skirted around them and spied what I was looking for half a block down—a sign above a windowed storefront in bright gold retro lettering:
VICTORY VINYL
NEW AND USED RECORDS SINCE 1980
An institution at the lake, and one that was connected with Eddie’s family. Not the Sarafians, though. The record shop was owned by Eddie’s other grandfather—on his mother’s side, Grandfather Kasabian. When he first bought it, Victory Vinyl was just a hole-in-the-wall. Now it was run by Eddie’s aunt—Eddie’s mother’s older sister, it all stayed in the Kasabian family—and was where some of the festival bands occasionally did signings and surprise promo events. Tugging Frida’s leash, I strode toward the shop’s entrance, where a motley collection of peeling decals was plastered on a mirrored front door—Zildjian cymbals, 2Pac, Dead Kennedys, the Armenian flag.
On the wall nearby was a collection of framed regional honors. National ones too: the shop had been listed on a bunch of national Best Of lists. Next to that was an article in theSan Francisco Chronicle, “Two Immigrant Families Bond Over Music.”
“Hey,” I warned Frida. “I need you to be on your best behavior. Don’t embarrass me, and after it’s over, I’ll let you gnaw on Captain Pickles, okay?” We shared a silent agreement, and I quickly set an alarm on my phone to remind me to get theshampoo—a trick I’d learned from my father, Mr. Military. Never be late when you’re working for the rich and famous.
Jangly guitars and soft, snared beats pulsed through speakers as I stepped inside the rustic shop. Wooden bins of LPs lined narrow aisles. Old linocut concert posters. High walls. A dark balcony sat above the ceiling rafters, where autographed guitars hung. Everything smelled pleasantly of musty cardboard and old plastic. That scent overwhelmed me with good feelings.
The shop wasn’t busy, but space was limited, so me and my size-five sneakers had to turn sideways to step around a couple customers intently flipping through records. I was also keeping an eye on the pup, who could decide to have a meltdown any moment and either start barking or pee on someone’s shoe.
Mainly, though, I was keeping an eye out for Pari Kasabian, Eddie’s aunt and his mother’s sister. There might be another aunt across town, not sure. He didn’t talk about his mother’s family much. Anyway, I didn’t think she’d recognize me, not with my new hair, but if she was working today, I didn’t want to be caught by surprise.
The shop’s checkout area was at the back, under the guitar-filled balcony. To the left, a willowy woman leaned on a counter near the register below a sign that saidBUY, chatting with a customer—was that Eddie’s aunt? I wasn’t sure. On the right was a smaller glass display case markedSELL. No one attending that. Good. That was the place I needed to check out—where they kept the good stuff.
Dad had a massive rare-record collection, an obsession heshared with Mad Dog—a love for old vinyl. There was one rare album my dad had been hunting for a while, his Holy Grail. Rare alternate pressing of iconic L.A. punk band Black Flag’sMy War. It had been my father’s favorite band since he was my age; he had signed copies of Henry Rollins’s poetry books and framed photos of them together. You’ve never seen a grown man turn into mush like my father did around Henry Rollins. He’d chauffeured a thousand stars with nary a twitch of his muscular arms, but Henry? Full-on fanboy swooning.
I was always on the lookout for his Holy Grail when I was in a record store.
As I perused the rows of album covers in Plexiglas holders, a shop attendant approached from the other side of the display case. My heart hammered for a moment, but it wasn’t Eddie’s aunt.
Not Eddie, either. Of course it wasn’t. He was on a flight to the Philippines.
But itwasa boy. A striking boy, about my age.
He had a head of messy, voluminous rich brown hair and intense vibes. A couple of badges were pinned to a wrinkled black button-down layered over a T-shirt: a tiny enamel piano and a record-shaped name tag that saidWRONG.
He was definitely appealing in one of those tortured and stormy ways. I mean, not that I was looking; next to Eddie, no one stood a chance. Besides, that wasn’t it. There was something underneath the surface that was hidden from me, just there but unreachable. Like a word on the tip of my tongue I couldn’t quitegrasp. And that hidden thing was flipping on all the lights inside my head, which was worrisome—not in a stranger-danger kind of way. More because I didn’t want my word-pixie waking up.
He had hawklike eyes that I avoided. When I did, I found myself looking down at his hands. I’d never noticed anyone’s hands before, but his didn’t match the rest of him—long, elegant fingers that moved in an uncannily malleable way when he stretched them out, templing them against each other.
I was staring, and he’d noticed. Our gazes connected and stuck. For several moments too long. I was a fish who’d bitten a hook, panic firing through. I was caught.
Embarrassment finally gave me the strength to look away.
Words. I needed them. Come on.
“Sorry,” I mumbled while Frida pawed at the counter.
“What’s that?” He took a step closer until we were across from each other, separated by the narrow glass of the counter.
“I was looking for a certain record,” I explained. “Uh… I don’t see it. Never mind. It’s super rare, so… It was a long shot. Sorry. Thanks. Sorry. I mean… sorry.”
Good God. How many times could a person apologize? At least I hadn’t slipped up with any words. Time to abandon the quest for my father’s Holy Grail and get the heck out of here before I made a bigger fool out of myself.
But as I turned to leave, the boy spoke to me again.
“Holy fuck. It’syou,” he said in a deep, dark voice. “You’re… alive.”
Track [5] “Unrequited Love”/Thundercat
