Old Records Never Die by Eric Spitznagel Page B

and no actual album art, other than the bloody Slash Records logo. I was practically trembling. It had to be mine, I told myself. Everything about it looked exactly the same. It had the FOR PROMOTIONAL USE O NLY—NOT FOR RESALE sticker. The sleeve looked a little warped, suggesting that its previous owner took a lackadaisical approach to caring for it. Bingo! Guilty as charged!
    But then I slipped the record out of its packaging, and my heart sank. It was in pristine shape. The grooves were so clean and shimmery, they almost reflected the light like a disco ball. It had clearly only ever been held correctly, on the outer edges, to prevent thumbprints and fingernail scratches.
    The guy behind the card table—lined with dozens of boxes ofvinyl records—caught my eye and gravitated toward me from his stool. He had long hair, white as a department store Santa’s, pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore a Rush T-shirt that looked like it’d been ironed. He smelled like Pert Plus and peppermint gum.
    â€œNever been played,” he told me, snapping his gum. “That’s a mint-condition item right there.”
    I slipped it back into the sleeve. “Thanks,” I said, handing it back to him. “Not what I’m looking for.”
    White Ponytail narrowed his eyes, sizing me up. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll give it to you for ten.” He looked over my shoulder, like he half expected the crowd to come lunging toward us, cash in hand, when they overheard that he was discounting records.
    â€œI appreciate that,” I told him. “But I’m not interested.”
    â€œYou’re not going to find a better copy of that record anywhere,” he said. “These are really rare, especially in this condition.”
    â€œI believe you,” I said. “I’m just looking for something else.”
    â€œThere was only one pressing of this single,” he said, growing impatient. “If you’re looking for a different catalog number, I don’t think—”
    â€œI’m looking for a copy with scratches.”
    He paused, midchew.
    â€œA very specific scratch, actually,” I continued. “Somewhere on the ‘Molasses Dub.’ Which, you know . . .” I forced a laugh. “No big loss, right?”
    White Ponytail said nothing, just watched me.
    â€œYou want me to scratch it for you?” he finally said. “I’ll scratch it for you. Or scratch it yourself, I don’t care.”
    â€œNo, thanks. I was kinda hoping for a scratch from 1998.”
    He waited silently, perhaps hoping that this was just some joke he didn’t understand, a preamble to finally pulling out my wallet andpaying for the damn record already. And then, satisfied that I was a lost cause, he drifted away, moving on to the next customer down the line.
    No matter, there were plenty of other dealers here. I gazed out at the sea of heads, all faced downward, their thumbs busy flipping records, filling the room with a faint drone not unlike chirping crickets. But these insects weren’t looking for mates so much as Beatles forty-fives.
    These records I’m trying to find, it’s reasonable to assume they were still in the state. If not within the city limits, at least a morning’s drive away. I could go from store to store, thrift shop to yard sale, hoping I’d be able to piecemeal together my collection. Or I find their ground zero—a record fair that all the dealers and sellers and serious addicts attend, their vans filled with records, ready to unload their stock in a hotel banquet hall that smells like cheap wedding cake.
    But what if some of my records had crossed state lines? I’d thought about that possibility. But the guys selling records at this Best Western weren’t just locals. They came from Michigan, Indiana, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin,