Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 1
Forty dollars and an hour of peace at last.
Lucy stood outside a hole-in-the-wall record store with two crumpled twenty-dollar bills clutched in her fist. The building was nondescript, a white two-story with chipped paint and a hand-lettered sign that read Raymond’s Music Store. Sandwiched between a deli and a Cuban takeout place, anyone could have wandered right by it and not realized it was there.
But not Lucy.
That morning, she had searched for record stores in the area and found this one just a two-mile walk from her temporary Airbnb apartment. It was completely worth the battle against the roar of traffic and brusque pedestrians to find a place where she could relax for the first time since coming to that godawful city.
The window front was crooked and grimy, but wide enough to get a sense of the place. A slim man operated a wooden sales counter while an older woman browsed a shelf of vinyl records. It wasn’t crowded at all. She could handle this.
She entered with a bracing breath, the bell’s ting-a-ling announcing her like a musical butler. The man at the counter lifted his chin in greeting and offered help if she needed it.
She didn’t.
She was surrounded by her friends.
The atmosphere was infused with the scent of plastic and patchouli, topped with the musty, worn smell of pre-owned things. Pre-loved things.
Lucy had no set purpose there, so she chose a shelf at random, leafing through the vinyl albums. Some of the records for sale were brand new, the cellophane unbroken and clean. Others were used, vintage copies that held forgotten memories like an explorer’s journal. She picked up the soundtrack to Elvis’s live NBC television special, a favorite of hers, but her copy was back at home in Indiana with the rest of her things. She outlined the familiar cover with her hand—the nebulous red lights, the solitary figure crooning into a microphone. It was like clutching a security blanket, and her mind stopped racing at last.
A figure stepped into her peripheral vision, but she didn’t acknowledge them. She believed that music stores should be treated like a church—holy and reverently. Silent except for the sermons of singers past and present.
A rough, calloused hand with long fingers flipped through the albums next to her. It selected Elton John’s Greatest Hits, and her hand jerked. She pressed her lips together and gritted her teeth. The urge to speak bubbled like molten lava inside her, a reflex she had fought her whole life to control.
The hand turned over the album to the tracklist on the back. Lucy’s toes curled inside her shoes, and she tightened her lips until they ached. Her hands were balled fists, her nails biting at the palms.
“You don’t want that one,” she blurted out.
The hand stilled. With reluctance, Lucy hauled her gaze from the album to discover a lean torso in a rust-colored leather jacket, a rugged jaw, and a face shadowed by a washed-out ball cap.
“I don’t?” His voice was low and rough, like molasses poured over broken glass.
“No.” She ducked her head, studying the carpet and toeing the frayed seams. “That one is from 1974. The songs are definitely classics, but his best albums are from the years before. You’re cheating yourself if you just get the Greatest Hits album.”
A pause. “But these are the songs I like.”
Her eyes darted to the tarnished zipper pull on his jacket before she plucked an album from the display. “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was his seventh studio album. It’s widely considered his best. It’s from the year before the Greatest Hits album and has some of his best songs, like ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’ and ‘Bennie and the Jets’ and ‘Candle in the Wind.’” She clenched her hands to prevent her fingers from flickering and dancing. “I think it’s gone platinum eight times at this point.”
She gave him the record and chewed on the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t say anything further. He turned over the album and skimmed through the credits, verifying all the facts she had just spewed at him.
He didn’t need to do that. Lucy knew it was all correct.
“Huh.” He returned the Greatest Hits album to the rack and tucked Goodbye Yellow Brick Road under his arm instead. “Thanks.”
She bobbed her head, a curt military-like nod. He lingered next to her for a few seconds more, his gaze burning into her, but she kept her eyes focused on the floor. The carpet pattern was mud brown with flecks of green and blue threaded through, and she followed it with her eyes, tracing it until her shoulders relaxed. Green green blue. Green green blue. When she eventually looked up, the man was gone.
She browsed through the rest of the Elton John records, examining a vintage copy of Madman Across the Water. When someone tapped on her shoulder, her muscles seized. Icy fear dripped down her spine, and she wrenched her shoulder forward to break contact. The hand fell back, and she whirled around.
“I scared you.” There was a pause long enough for an apology, but the man in the ball cap didn’t offer one. “I have some questions about the Beatles albums over here.”
Of course—he thought she was an employee. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to her in a music shop. Complying was less stressful than explaining, so Lucy trailed behind him as he led her to the expansive section dedicated to the Fab Four.
A stolen glimpse toward his eyes barely revealed long lashes amongst purple shadows. Lucy detected the woodsy scent of whiskey, but it didn’t bother her. This was a record store. Alcohol was probably the least of the vices found here.
“What do you know about this one?” He held up a used copy of Rubber Soul. She tilted her head, scrutinizing the foppish gentlemen on the cover.
“Probably the best place to start if you want to dig into their evolution from teenage idols to experimental artists. It’s their sixth album, so they’re slowly breaking away from the manufactured ‘boy band’ style. It dips into both the folk and soul genres. Plus, they were on a lot of drugs by that point, so the lyrics get a little wild.”
He made an amused noise deep in his throat and added the record to the Elton John one sandwiched in his elbow before beckoning for her to accompany him to another shelf.
“What about this one?” He held up Prince’s Purple Rain. Lucy nearly purred with approval.
“One of my favorites. That’s his sixth album and the soundtrack to the movie of the same name. Did you know that it’s the reason Tipper Gore got the Parental Advisory sticker put on albums? She did it because of the song ‘Darling Nikki.’” She rapped her knuckles on the song’s tracklisting.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, because Nikki is a stripper, and they mention masturbation and grinding, and such.”
He choked, breaking into a coughing fit. Her cheeks and neck burned hot.
Filter yourself, Lucy.
“Sorry, that was inappropriate,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you’re good,” he wheezed. “You know a lot about music, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She stroked her fingers against her palm over and over. He gaped at her again, then leaned over, pulling another album from the shelf behind her and laying it in her hand.
“Tell me about that one.”
“Jack Hunter?” She glanced at both sides of the record sleeve. “He’s decent. This is his debut album, Slow Down. There’s a lot of blues influence on this one. If I remember correctly, it went double platinum, and he won two Grammys for it.”
He rubbed his thumb against his stubbled jaw before selecting another album from the same shelf.
“What about this one?”
“That’s his second album. Wayward.”
“What do you think of it?”
She hissed an exhale through tensed teeth. “It’s okay.” She kicked at the faded carpet again.
“No, really.” He tapped Lucy’s shoulder insistently with the corner of the album, and she twisted away from him. “What do you really think of it?”
She sighed. “It’s not his best. All originality shown in his first album seems to be lacking here. It didn’t do well with critics or in sales.”
Several awkward moments passed, and Lucy got the feeling that she had answered incorrectly. He reached for another album. “What about this one?”
She squinted up at his shadowed face. “Are you a Jack Hunter fan?”
His scowl intensified. “Indulge me. What did you think?”
“That’s his third album. It…it’s not good. Unless you like it, of course. That’s okay too.”
Again, he stayed silent. Lucy had messed up something, but she wasn’t sure what exactly. She often misread social cues. Panic ratcheted her lungs, and she worried a few loose strands of the carpet with the edge of her sneaker until he spoke again.
“Thanks for your help.” His tone was glacial, with a note of defeat, further cementing her suspicion that she had said something wrong.
Filter, Lucy. Girls like you shouldn’t speak their minds.
She jerked her head down in acknowledgment, and when she dared to look up again, he was gone from the store.
When Lucy left the store later, she passed by the rickety wooden counter only to see, abandoned and scattered across the counter, a stack of albums with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road on top.
* * *Lucy ended up back at Raymond’s Music Store at the same time, on the same day, the following week. Structure and schedule were as necessary to her as oxygen, and having something special to look forward to every Thursday at six o’clock sharp eased her scattershot mind.
She should have been looking for a more permanent apartment, as she only had two more weeks in her temporary rental. Moving to New York City had been a necessary evil, but the unfortunate paradox was that to find an apartment, Lucy needed to leave the apartment. Outside, the city was a tornado of noise and lights and confusion, whereas the old brownstone apartment building in Brooklyn had thick walls to block out the cacophony outside.
She wasn’t really looking to buy another record at Raymond’s. Her budget was significantly tighter, even though the apartment had been a steal, easily affordable for a few months while she got her bearings. Besides, buying another record without her record player—left behind in Indianapolis—was like buying tires without a car. She could admire them, but they weren’t going to take her anywhere.
Inside, the same slender clerk stood behind the old wooden counter. He flashed Lucy a smile, and, although she didn’t return it, she paused long enough to regard him. His hair was jet black, with streaks of green running through it in a pattern that mollified her senses. Green black green black green. Simple and clear.
“You’re back,” he said. Her eyes flicked to his nametag: Sully. “Can I help you with anything?”
Don’t say it, Lucy. Don’t say it.
She gritted her teeth together, but it was too late. “You only have two rings in your left eyebrow as opposed to three in your right.”
He blinked, and her lip trembled. Sully’s eyes shot to her mouth, and his perplexed look dissolved. “You’re right. I lost the third ring on my left this morning. The ball must have come loose.”
Her throat clenched, and she scurried off to peruse a display as far away from Sully as possible in the cramped store. Her embarrassment faded when she picked up a used copy of Aerosmith’s Pump. It had a yellowed price sticker from its previous life, too stuck to remove without damaging the sleeve, but otherwise, it was in excellent condition. Her fingers dawdled down the tracklisting, and she murmured the songs aloud like a rock n’ roll Hail Mary.
“‘Love in an Elevator.’ ‘Monkey on My Back.’ ‘Janie’s Got a Gun.’”
She thumbed through the rest of the Aerosmith collection, oblivious to the rest of the store, and didn’t catch the scent of whiskey and leather until it was too late.
The heavy curve of a male hand grasped her shoulder. Instinctive fear, deep-rooted and conditioned, blasted through her body, along with a surge of adrenaline and a dash of fight or flight.
Janie’s got a gun, but Lucy had a mean right hook.
She pivoted in place, shrugging the man’s hand away. Her right fist slammed into his face. Panicked, she didn’t aim correctly, and instead of landing the blow on his jaw, it caught him squarely in the nose. His head snapped back, and his navy blue ball cap flopped onto the floor.
Lucy blinked at it. She knew that cap.
“What the absolute fuck?!”
Even muffled by hands that cradled a bloody nose, she knew that voice.
Her ribcage was a vise of humiliation and horror as she elevated her gaze to the enraged eyes of the man she had met in the store last week. Her throat constricted as if she had gulped down a glass of pure lemon juice. Her lips were numb and cold, and she drew in a rushed gasp. He took a halting step toward Lucy. His broad palm pressed against his swelling nose, and blood dribbled through the cracks of his fingers.
“What the hell was that?” he said.
She stumbled, desperate to get away from him, but her back slammed into the shelf, knocking a cardboard sleeve of albums to the floor. Her heels skittered for purchase, but she toppled backward into the mess, accompanied by the screech of cellophane and the crack of splintered records.
Too loud too loud too loud too loud
She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, trying to ground herself and let logic replace the panic.
Look what you did, Lucy. You messed up again.
An ominous silhouette fell over her, obstructing the cold fluorescent light. Against the plea of every brain cell she had, she glanced up at him.
He glared down at her, his brows knitted in confusion and anger. Slowly, he dropped his bloodied hands from his injured nose, and her stomach sank.
Lucy knew that face. Not personally, and not usually covered in blood, but she knew it.
That face was trouble.
The right thing for her to do would have been to apologize, to help him clean his face, to pick up the display, and offer compensation for damages.
She didn’t do the right thing.
She made a noise like an agitated badger, sprang to her feet, and ran out of the store as fast as her legs could carry her.
She dashed through the streets, dodging pedestrians and earning the occasional middle finger. When the stitch in her side became too pinched to ignore, she slowed to a hesitant walk, but whipped her head around every few moments in case she was being followed.
It wasn’t until she was panting in front of her apartment door that she let herself relax. She locked the door behind her and dropped her head back against it, sliding to the floor and hugging her knees to her chest.
Oh God, she thought. I punched a rock star.