“I know that. Hence the anxiety and panic attacks about being sick, dummy.” I rip open the bag of twizzlers and start chewing on one. “Andy’s death was beyond anyone’s control.”
“And you’re worried you’re next.”
“Yeah,” I finish my twizzler and offer the package to Dean, who takes one. “You should
consider being a therapist.” I snicker at the expense of my own joke.
“I’ll think about it,” Dean returns my smile, before he turns off the hazard lights and
pulls back onto the road. “Let’s check out this record shop.”
“Do you collect them?” I ask, wondering why Dean could be interested in records.
“I do, yeah.” Dean says. “I got into them a few years ago when my sister gifted me a turntable.”
“Oh, yeah. Your sister.”
“Yep. She’s the baby of the family. Seventeen. Sierra.”
“Will I meet her at this family get together?”
“You might if you’re unlucky. She’s annoying,” Dean laughs. “I don’t think she’ll be there. She’s usually out with her friends, shoplifting. It’s why my mother thinks I’m such a loner.”
“I'm sure she’s not that annoying,” I defend the girl even though I haven’t met her.
“You’ll change your mind if you meet her,” Dean says sarcastically.
We pull into a small side parking lot near the record shop. On our way around the corner, Dean feeds the parking meter some quarters. We approach the shop side by side. I stop to peer into the front window. There are large, leafy green plants in thedisplay, with the name RONNIE’S RECORDS in big, swooping red painted letters.
When we walk in, we’re welcomed with warmth. The bell chimes on the door, and a large, burly man greets us at the front counter. I wonder if he’s Ronnie. I follow Dean to the back, unwrapping my scarf and taking off my hat and gloves.
There are records on the walls, and rows and rows of displays. The last time I was in a record store was before Andy’s death, probably for a signing for his record, many years ago. I stop in front of a display labeled “NEW RELEASES”. The display is filled with names I don’t recognize, maybe the only one I know is Taylor Swift.
I lose sight of Dean and on a whim, I wonder if they have Andy’s record in stock. I wander around, past the Pop Rock to Classic Rock, to finally the section labeled in scrawled handwriting on posterboard, FOLK ROCK. I flip past records from Bon Iver, Caamp, Father John Misty, Iron & Wine, …and then, in between The Lumineers and The Mountain Goats is Andy McKinney’sMadeline.
I never got used to seeing the album cover photo plastered everywhere—from a Times Square billboard to Rolling Stone Magazine to my own home. It was a photo of the back of my head taken on our wedding day, where I have my hair plaited in a braid, and done up with baby’s breath flowers. It was the most beautiful I’ve ever felt, and I’m glad no one can really confirm if it is me or not since they can’t see my face.
I read the tracklist on the back.
MADELINE
ANY MAN WHO IS NOT AFRAID
MORE THAN THIS
IF THE TIDE TAKES THE COAST
FAULT LINE
LAST TIME
I WAS HER LOVER
It’s a short record, maybe fifty minutes at the most, but each song was agonized over and written carefully. I was away at college for most of the time Andy was writing, but I was there when he recorded it in a small studio in Portland. A recording of Andy singing Madeline went viral online, and he became a success in what seemed like practically overnight.
We found him a publicist. There was the Good Morning America appearance. A small tour on the West coast sold out small venues and theaters, and so they scheduled an Eastern tour, with five shows ending in Maine. He teased a second album that was never released. His album got nominated for am award, but of course he was dead well before then and he won posthumously. His cult following kept growing well after that.
I have about ten copies of this record stored away and don’t really need another one, but still, I take it out of the bin, and tuck it under my arm. Since Andy died, I haven’t touched a single one, even though this was made for me. Seeing my wedding photo here makes me sad, but not in a teary way.
