Old Records Never Die by Eric Spitznagel Page B

building who had looked at Charlie with anything besides fearful derision. As I held tightly on to Charlie, the one in the Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt told me, unsolicited, everything about his history with recorded music.
    â€œI got my first record player when I was about his age,” he said, nodding to my son. “I used to sit on the floor and watch the records go around and around and around. I was a psycho.” He burst into loud laughter.
    â€œYou’re still a fucking psycho,” his friend in the Guns N’ Roses shirt offered.
    â€œFuck your ass,” Dinosaur Jr. countered.
    I covered Charlie’s ears. They both continued talking, telling me how their childhood fascination had grown into a lifelong hobby that sounded just slightly less depressing than a tax accountant’s.
    â€œI’ve got over fifty thousand albums,” said Guns N’ Roses. “That includes about ten thousand in my core collection, which are the ones I won’t sell. They’re my babies. I also have about seven thousand forty-fives that are also my babies. The others are hobos. Those are the ones that travel.”
    â€œAnd you’ll sell the hobos?” I asked.
    â€œHobos can always go. One way or another, they’ll come back to you. But the babies, you have to protect them. Keep them in the house, away from the world . . .”
    Dinosaur Jr. was laughing. “You’re so queer.”
    Guns N’ Roses just shrugged. “You know what the thing is though? I’m finally starting to lose interest.”
    â€œLiar.”
    â€œNo, it’s happening. I’m always looking for new stuff, but then you get the new stuff, and you play it a few times, and then file it away in a box. I’ve got responsibilities now. I have to cut the grass.”
    Kelly emerged from the crowd, and without even breaking stride, lifted Charlie from my arms. “I’ve got him,” she said, still moving.
    â€œWait, are you—?” I called after her.
    â€œDo what you need to do,” she said. “Just please be fast about it, okay?”
    â€œCan we help you find something?” Guns N’ Roses asked.
    I glanced down at the dozen or so boxes of records, which now seemed like a hopelessly time-consuming job.
    â€œYou have the Replacements’
Let It Be
?” I asked.
    They both laughed. “Setting the bar a little high, aren’t you?” Dinosaur Jr. asked.
    â€œSo . . . no?”
    â€œI’ve seen a
Don’t Tell a Soul
every once in a while,” he said. “And a few months ago I had a copy of
Tim
in my store for almost exactly thirty minutes before it sold. But I have never, in my forty years of doing this professionally, seen an original
Let It Be
. Like ever. That includes in the eighties.”
    â€œSo it’s like looking for Bigfoot?” I asked, trying to be funny.
    â€œNo,” Dinosaur Jr. said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen Bigfoot before.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve seen Bigfoot,” said Guns N’ Roses. “That’s no big deal.”

    I don’t know why
Let It Be
was so important to me. There are a million reasons why it shouldn’t be. There is almost nothing about it that is or has ever been directly relatable to me or my life. I’ve had no experience with androgyny—other than wearing pseudo-drag to a
Rocky Horror Picture Show
screening during my freshman year of college—and have never had any friends with androgynous tendencies, other than the aforementioned
Rocky Horror Picture Show
outings and the occasional David Bowie Halloween costume. I’ve never been an alcoholic who’s had a moment of sad self-realization at his favorite dive bar, and I’ve never been in a band bemused by a more popular band’s video on MTV. I’ve never been in a long-distance relationship with somebody and tried to call her at night and left a series of answering-machine