Jane’s stone chimney—don’t invoke a feeling of homey comfort. If Noel happens to think she went to the trouble of baking for him, well she’ll simply correct him. It isn’t as if she’s planning to lie.
Noel’s floors are much like her own: a beautiful worn stretch of planks mottled to black in spots. The ceiling, however, is painted charcoal, and strung from it are faded album covers that spin in the airflow, old metal fans, and a disco ball. Long plywood troughs hold thousands upon thousands of records, and, beneath the troughs, plastic milk crates hold even more—with handwritten signs prompting customers to
Check out these records too!
with an arrow pointing down. Also beneath the troughs are dusty old record players that seem to range wildly in price from $25 for one assured to not be in working order to $160 for one in “good condition with sweet-ass needle.”
The music, no surprise, is “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
She catches sight of a framed photo on the cash desk and stops, leans closer. The grinning woman is classically beautiful with deep-set eyes, curly black hair, and an unself-conscious smile. She sits in front of a birthday cake ablaze with candles.
“I’m not open yet.” Noel doesn’t look down from the top of a ladder. Over his head, a stoplight changes from yellow to red. “Try again next week. Or the week after.”
“It’s me. Eleanor.” She holds up the tart. “I just came by to offer you a pastry. And to insist you turn down the music.”
He glances now. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” He motions with his screwdriver toward the closest speaker. “If you don’t mind.”
“It’s customary, among the humans, to be appreciative when someone brings you a treat.”
“I’m not into sweets.”
“But I baked it myself. From
scratch
.”
No reaction from him.
Her exit is blocked by a stooped man who has wandered in, his hat in his hands as he slows to examine the Sasquatch.“Do you carry John Coltrane?” he asks Noel. “I’m looking for the album
Black Pearls
.”
Eleanor is standing beside the Jazz section and allows her eyes to travel the names. She walks her fingers through the Cs to
Coltrane
and pulls out the album. “Here it is. It’s marked twenty-nine dollars.”
“That seems a bit high,” the man says.
“I agree. I mean, the jacket is all dinged up.” Eleanor pulls out the disk. “The record itself looks pretty good …”
“I’m not open for business yet!” says Noel.
“Would you pay nine ninety-nine?” Eleanor asks the man with the hat.
He digs through his pockets and hands her a ten.
“I don’t have a penny,” she says, putting the album in his hands. “Noel will owe you a penny.”
“Is nobody listening? I’m not open yet!”
“It’s fine,” Eleanor says, shooing the customer out.
The man nods, unsure of what just transpired. With an accusatory glance at Noel and the album pressed tight to his chest, he scurries out of the store.
“Come again!” she calls after him. Once the door is shut, she says, “Well, there’s a customer who’ll never be back.”
“Hey. Sign on the door says ‘Closed.’ Technically, the guy’s trespassing.” Noel leans into the screwdriver and gives it a few mighty twists. In a low voice he adds, “As is anyone who walks in here uninvited.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you for the cupcake—”
“It’s a butter tart!”
“Thank you for the butter tart, but I don’t eat dessert.” He nods toward the door. “So if you don’t mind …”
Her chest heaves with as much indignation as if she’d been up all night rolling dough. She takes the tart between two fingers, holds it up so he can see it, drops it to the floor, and mashes it with her heel. On her way out, she calls, “Turn down your music!”
“Sound is what I sell. I can’t not display it!”
The relative calm of Pretty Baby is a relief after the surreal interior of Death by Vinyl. At least here, things make
Noel’s floors are much like her own: a beautiful worn stretch of planks mottled to black in spots. The ceiling, however, is painted charcoal, and strung from it are faded album covers that spin in the airflow, old metal fans, and a disco ball. Long plywood troughs hold thousands upon thousands of records, and, beneath the troughs, plastic milk crates hold even more—with handwritten signs prompting customers to
Check out these records too!
with an arrow pointing down. Also beneath the troughs are dusty old record players that seem to range wildly in price from $25 for one assured to not be in working order to $160 for one in “good condition with sweet-ass needle.”
The music, no surprise, is “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
She catches sight of a framed photo on the cash desk and stops, leans closer. The grinning woman is classically beautiful with deep-set eyes, curly black hair, and an unself-conscious smile. She sits in front of a birthday cake ablaze with candles.
“I’m not open yet.” Noel doesn’t look down from the top of a ladder. Over his head, a stoplight changes from yellow to red. “Try again next week. Or the week after.”
“It’s me. Eleanor.” She holds up the tart. “I just came by to offer you a pastry. And to insist you turn down the music.”
He glances now. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” He motions with his screwdriver toward the closest speaker. “If you don’t mind.”
“It’s customary, among the humans, to be appreciative when someone brings you a treat.”
“I’m not into sweets.”
“But I baked it myself. From
scratch
.”
No reaction from him.
Her exit is blocked by a stooped man who has wandered in, his hat in his hands as he slows to examine the Sasquatch.“Do you carry John Coltrane?” he asks Noel. “I’m looking for the album
Black Pearls
.”
Eleanor is standing beside the Jazz section and allows her eyes to travel the names. She walks her fingers through the Cs to
Coltrane
and pulls out the album. “Here it is. It’s marked twenty-nine dollars.”
“That seems a bit high,” the man says.
“I agree. I mean, the jacket is all dinged up.” Eleanor pulls out the disk. “The record itself looks pretty good …”
“I’m not open for business yet!” says Noel.
“Would you pay nine ninety-nine?” Eleanor asks the man with the hat.
He digs through his pockets and hands her a ten.
“I don’t have a penny,” she says, putting the album in his hands. “Noel will owe you a penny.”
“Is nobody listening? I’m not open yet!”
“It’s fine,” Eleanor says, shooing the customer out.
The man nods, unsure of what just transpired. With an accusatory glance at Noel and the album pressed tight to his chest, he scurries out of the store.
“Come again!” she calls after him. Once the door is shut, she says, “Well, there’s a customer who’ll never be back.”
“Hey. Sign on the door says ‘Closed.’ Technically, the guy’s trespassing.” Noel leans into the screwdriver and gives it a few mighty twists. In a low voice he adds, “As is anyone who walks in here uninvited.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you for the cupcake—”
“It’s a butter tart!”
“Thank you for the butter tart, but I don’t eat dessert.” He nods toward the door. “So if you don’t mind …”
Her chest heaves with as much indignation as if she’d been up all night rolling dough. She takes the tart between two fingers, holds it up so he can see it, drops it to the floor, and mashes it with her heel. On her way out, she calls, “Turn down your music!”
“Sound is what I sell. I can’t not display it!”
The relative calm of Pretty Baby is a relief after the surreal interior of Death by Vinyl. At least here, things make
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