Page 9 of Resonance
I led him around the cases, let him look inside and poke around a bit, then guided him over to one of the displays, pulling out an album. “You need this guy right here. You have a record player, right?”
“Mom says that’s the only way to listen if you actually care about music. Which I think she’s being totally nostalgic about, because digital sound quality has definitely gotten better.” Carter examined the record. “Is this country? The name sounds country, and I’m not a huge fan of country. Uh, no offense or anything.”
I fought a smile as I snuck the price sticker off the back of the Polk album and handed it to him. “None taken and nope, it’s kind of a mash of different genres. He switches it up a lot. But I think you’ll like it.”
Carter turned the sleeve over. “But it’s in here with all this other badass stuff, so… how much is it?”
“It’s a remainder, actually,” I fibbed. “The artwork was a little off center.” I pointed at a negligible spot. “I was planning on putting it out on the floor or giving it away, so it’s yours if you want it.”
“Really?”
I met his skepticism with a casual nod. “Your call.”
“Mine, then.” He held the album possessively to his chest like I might reach out and take it from him. Then he lifted his gaze to meet mine. “Thank you.”
Once they were gone,I flipped off the lights on the Open sign in the front window, locked the front door, and turned off the lights that bathed the main room in a cheery yellow-white glow before turning around and settling my shoulders against the glass. It was my favorite time of day, a thrumming sense of energy from the customers who’d passed through still floating around the shop. A quiet that wasn’t too quiet, just serene. I liked to loiter in it, thinking about the things people had purchased that day, wondering if they’d be back in again.
I’d always believed music was a binding thread that wound through all of humanity. Even when I couldn’t stand to play anymore, I’d still wanted it around me.
I’d started Grim’s Record Repository with a single haul from another shop in town whose owner was retiring, and I’d built it up faithfully, found comfort in preaching the gospel of a good song to anyone who’d listen. But I felt it slipping through my fingers now, despite the increased business hours, the promos, the podcasts, advertisements, and sales. Of course, handing a rare album over to a kid didn’t exactly say much about my business sense; that’d always been my Achilles’ heel.
I knew what I needed to do, knew that I’d spread my finances too thin with the Knoxville and Gatlinburg satellites. But goddamn it was hard to admit defeat sometimes, even with the numbers right in front of me. Choosing whether to close Knoxville or Gatlinburg had felt like choosing which limb I wanted hacked off. But the Nashville shop, it had always been my heart.
I grimaced and tried to shake off the melancholy, turning my attention to the worn brown-and-cream checkered linoleum tiles that’d graced the shop’s floors since I’d opened. The linoleum was aging worse than I was. So there was that.
I straightened the racks Sara’s kids had gone through, tallied sales, and left, carrying out a mop bucket Owen had forgotten to empty. As I dumped it onto the pavement and set it back inside, a smile threatened the corners of my mouth. The guy had been ready to refuse a sale and risk my ire on the basis of his own sense of ethics. Initially, I’d been miffed, because god knew I needed that sale, but as I unlocked the door of my truck, that smile unpacked itself all at once and left me grinning like a fool into the darkness of the parking lot.
* * *
Howie pausedwith his hand on a tap and widened his eyes dramatically as I strode toward the bar. I claimed a stool between the musty, cigarette-smoke-stained wall planks and an enthusiastic trio of what I guessed were Belmont kids, going by the hipster wear they were sporting.
“Thought you were the ghost of Christmas past for a second.” Howie rested his forearms on the bar as I sat.
“Past the season,” I muttered, and nodded when Howie held up a rocks glass.
“Jameson. Splash of soda, right? Or just neat? Shit, it’s been so long I can’t remember.” His scowl was just for show, though.
“Splash of soda,” I confirmed, splitting my attention between him and Ru onstage. Ryder and I had played one of our first shows here, back when Howie Senior was still behind the bar. Not much had changed, aside from Howie installing some twinkle lights. Senior had nixed a digital juke on pain of death. Even the crowd looked the same, forever a mix of tourists and college kids.
“The hell is Les doing here?” I ticked my chin toward the small loft Howie always kept roped off. I’d recognize that profile anywhere, even if he was sitting close to the back. And with his manager, too. Interesting.
Howie glanced up, then dropped a stirring straw into my glass. “I’m not sure I give a shit as long as he doesn’t start a riot in my bar.” He passed me my drink. “Having a night out, I guess. Asked for a bottled water like we’re that fancy, so I told him I’d give him a pitcher of tap with some lemon in it.”
Chuckling, I picked up my whiskey and took a sip. “Ru played any of his own stuff yet?”
“Nope, and he won’t. You know him. Wants the steady shake,” Howie said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Not the glory.”
Selling himself short, but I didn’t say that. Howie reached down and returned with a can of beer, cracking the tab as he leaned against the bar, blithely ignoring the clamor for drinks down on the other end while one of the barbacks scrambled to fill orders. “Been listening to the podcast you’ve been doing with Ru and that other guy.”
“Owen, and you’re probably one of a handful.”
“Owen, yeah. It’s fun. I like how you mix it up. Y’all play well off each other.”
“It was Owen’s and Ru’s idea. Not sure how much longer we’ll run with it. Doesn’t seem to be doing much besides taking up time.” Except I’d started looking forward to the sessions Owen and I did together. I’d dreaded them at first. All that energy one-on-one bouncing at my face. I guess it’d grown on me.
Howie mmm-hmm’d and then tapped the counter in front of me. “Is it gonna be another six months before you grace my bar again?”
“Probably more like eight. Which is about how long it takes for my clothes to air out after being in here.” Howie’s was one of the few places where smoking was still allowed. “Looks like business is jumping, though.”