“Nonsense,”the man said – a bit too loudly and cheerily – “let’s take a look.”
Hewalked past me without a look at the woman. I hung back, watching her. She metmy gaze with a look of terror, shook her head, and ran into the house. I turnedand followed the man back to the Victrola.
“Doesit work?”
Hishead snapped toward me and just for a split-second I saw a look of fear in hiseyes. “Sure, it works.” His voice was cautious, no more of the chipper old manfrom a moment ago.
“Howmuch?”
Helooked at it, then back at me. “I guess I could let it go for twenty.”
Ipulled out my wallet and handed him a twenty without thinking about it. Hesnatched the money and stepped back from the Victrola.
“That’sgonna look pretty cool on display. You got one of those man caves to put itin?”
Ismiled. “This baby’s going in my living room. I’ve got a killer collection ofvinyl.”
Theold man’s face contorted into a look I couldn’t identify. “Well, I mean, itworks, but, uh, it sounds crappy. Don’t go ruining your collection on this oldrelic.”
Hiseyes were begging, for what, I wasn’t sure. I picked the machine up gently andfelt something ripple through me, like a weak electric current. I shook my headand turned to thank the man, but he was already moving quickly back toward thehouse. I placed the Victrola in the trunk and turned my car around, headingsomewhere.
* * *
Thefollowing weekend, my buddy Jason and I were hanging out at my place having afew beers. “Hey Mark, why don’t you throw an album on the turntable and we canrelive the not-so-glory days of analog sound?”
Iremembered the Victrola sitting in the trunk. “I’ll do you one better, Jay.Grab me another beer, I’ll be right back.” I ignored his look of confusion andwent to the garage. I popped the trunk and grabbed the ancient machine, againfeeling a shock course through me. All the apprehension of the day at the yardsale returned. For a moment, I considered closing the trunk and forgetting theVictrola existed, but I shook the feeling off and carried it inside.
“Whoa,dude, do you have a time machine in your garage?”
Ilaughed. “No, but twenty bucks at a yard sale is almost as good as a timemachine.”
Jasonhelped me set up the Victrola and clean it off. I cranked it up and theturntable spun silently. I grabbed an obscure blues album that Billy had loved– no way was I hacking up a Springsteen or Eagles album if this thing didn’twork right.
“Comeon, fire it up,” Jason urged.
Islid the disk onto the spindle and moved the needle in place. Just before Ireleased it, I had the distinct feeling that I was setting something in motionthat I would not be able to stop. I let go of the tone arm and once again asurge of current ripped through my body, much stronger than the previous times.
A scratchy sound, like a kitten trying to tell you it wants tocome inside, emitted from the horn, then the music kicked in. The rhythm guitarstarted slow, joined by a subtle drum beat. Then the bass and the hornsexploded and the gritty voice of Billy’s hero, Johnny “Orleans” Johnson beganhis tale of sorrow.
I stared at the big hornof the Victrola, lost in the music. Jason said something but it didn’t register.There was another sound, beneath the music and song, but I couldn’t make itout. It was like trying to hear a whisper over the roar of the ocean. Istrained to understand the words, all the while staring into the gaping void ofthe horn. The darkness there was complete, somehow refusing the ambient lightof the room to penetrate its mouth. And it did look like a mouth, and it beganto move like a mouth, and only then did I finally hear the message.
* * *
I woke to murky splintersof sunlight stabbing the dim room, bright enough to send pulsing pain throughmy head. My tongue felt too big for my mouth and my heart was beating like I’djust run a race. A fucking hangover. How is that possible, I only had acouple of beers? I remembered setting up the Victrola and playing a bluesrecord, then... Then what? I had no memory of what happened afterputting on Orleans Johnson’s record. Everything before that was crystal clear,then nothing.
I stumbled into thekitchen and guzzled some orange juice out of the carton, then stood still whilemy stomach did flip-flops. When I was sure I was going to keep it down, Inoticed the time on the microwave: 11:37. I hadn’t slept this late sincecollege. I found my cell on the couch and called Jason. It went straight tovoicemail. I noticed the Orleans Johnson was still on the turntable. Resistinga sudden urge to turn the crank and play it again, I put it back in its sleeveand returned it to the collection.
I tried Jason again, thistime leaving him a message to call me back. “Shit.” I remembered I had a datewith my sometimes-girlfriend, sometimes-nemesis, Angie Giordano. We’d beenthrough a rough patch and I finally got her to agree to see me without havingto beg. Barely. She was a firecracker; her Italian blood ran hot at times and Iseemed to be the spark to heat it. I’d been looking forward to this for a week,and now I felt like shit. I went to the kitchen to make some toast and starttrying to shake my hangover.
The day passed in a kindof fuzzy blur, sometimes dragging, other times seeming to fly by. I couldn’tsleep. The idea of putting a record, any record, on the turntable was almost aphysical thing. I avoided it by going out driving.
I found myself on thebackroads, realizing I was looking for the house where I’d bought the Victrola.I tried Jason a few times but it always went straight to voicemail. A littletickle began in my belly and I knew if I didn’t get in touch with Jason, itwould blossom into fear. I thought about my hangover and how there were only afew empties back home. I didn’t find
