Page 34 of For the Record

“Good,” he deadpanned. “I was worried.”

Currently Playing: You Really Got a Hold On Me by Percy Sledge

***

There was nothing that a bacon cheese scone and Elton John couldn’t fix.

Specifically, ‘Tiny Dancer.’ It fit in perfectly with the rain dripping outside the store’s floor-to-ceiling windows and the fact that my boss was still considering shutting the place down.

Arthur and his wife, Cheryl, had owned Sip ’n’ Spin for as long as I could remember. When I was eight years old, Dad pulled me into the store and showed me the prettiest covers, going into grave detail about how the grooves in each vinyl caused vibrations, like how our throats do. How music was a real, physical, tangible thing. Not just Bluetooth and speakers or something you can pull up on a touch screen. But how it started here, how each record held its own story. A past, a memory.

He told me that each microscopic groove, left or right, was imperative to music. They each held a purpose, they added value to the entire experience. He bent down to my level and said I was the exact same way. I, as small and young as I was, held incredible value to this giant floating rock in space.

Life hadn’t been the same since.

Now, that same store was looking at possibly closing down this year. And I was supposed to idly sit by and watch it happen without a word? No. I was a groove. I was small but mighty, not some insignificant employee who kept her mouth shut, and Arthur knew it.

“Rachel, honey. I know it’s hard.”

“Hard? Crocheting is hard, making dinner without burning something is hard. This?” I waved my hands at the front of the store. “This is impossible. You can’t let this go.” My voice was wavering, but I forced down any inkling of tears that were building up in my eyes. I wasn’t going to pathetically cry over this. Not in front of him, anyway. I was going down with a fight.

Arthur sighed, took a spare cloth, and wiped his brow as he sat in the old white leather chair behind him. “This was always Cheryl’s thing. I loved it because she did. But she’s gone, and I need to rest. I need stability, this place”—he waved his hand around the store—“doesn’t give that.”

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Sip ’n’ Spin was anything but standard. It wasn’t some new, cool place that people came into because of flashing neon signs or because of its trending accent walls. And sure, there were a few leaks, maybe some asbestos in the walls, but that was all part of the beauty of it.

It could use updates, absolutely, but if they sold it to some investor, I could guarantee they would slap white paint everywhere and turn it into a trendy coffee shop with new light fixtures. Maybe they’d have one stack of records in the far back used for photo ops.

And unless some new owner was willing to keep the girl who was belovedly attached to a physical building and was going to scream if they dared to take down our original Abbey Road art and throw up some kind of Live, Laugh, Love sign in its wake, then I was jobless.

Or unless I could convince Art that there was enormous value here. That with the right updates and some expert social media coverage, this place could be packed full every day like it had been during Layla’s book signing.

Lightbulbs began to flash in my mind at the thought of renovating it. No, not renovating. Rebranding. Keeping the good, getting rid of the bad, and tying it up in this pretty bow that wouldn’t kick out the authenticity of what this place was and what it meant to people like me.

I leaned against the clear counter in front of Arthur, both of my hands pressed into the glass, and a smile broke out on my face. “What if we could make it like how Cheryl did?”

Art made a point of looking around the store with a grimace. “It’s hardly been touched since Cheryl did it.”

I shook my head, fully prepared to figure out how to make him see. “No, I mean what if we could make it feel the way Cheryl made it feel?”

He didn’t scowl at me or brush me off, but he didn’t show any satisfaction at the idea either.

I continued. “Remember what it was like at its peak? People lining down the street to come in? How everyone felt like this place was so classic but yet still keeping up with the times? I mean we could do that.”

Art grumbled with his wrinkled hand waving around. “Bah. I don’t have the budget for something like that. I redid the place once, and I don’t want to do it again.”

My fingers tapped on the glass as I reached my tiptoes. “No, no. No redoing or ripping out floors. Nothing like that. I’m talking about changing logos, rearranging storage. Maybe moving this to the far wall where the coffee stuff is.” I turned to the front of the store, pointing around like this was The Sims and I was rearranging my virtual bedroom. “Bring the bookshelves closer and maybe find a cool accent chair here. Oh and—”

“Listen, doll. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I know you and your dad loved this place like it was your own. But I don’t have the time or energy for this—”

“But I do!” I butt in, lifting my hands to my chest. “I could do it. You could give me a budget, and I could pull numbers, and oh! Charts. I’ll make charts and pull pictures from Pinterest and make some mood boards.”

“Mood what?” He squinted.

I rounded the corner of the checkout area over to our chairs, taking a seat in mine and leaning toward him. “Oh Art, come on. It could be incredible. And then you wouldn’t have to sell, and I could keep my job.”

He took his glasses off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance before looking up at me. “I’m not saying no—”

I bit my lip in a smile and shook my body from side to side.

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