from Dad’s studi o .
I gave the Victrola a little pep talk and exerted some force.
It gradually started to turn.
The record spun, and the music started playing, all without the power of electricity . “Just like magic,” I whispered.
The glam-rock beats sounded raw and scratchy coming from the large flower-shaped cone, and the slow start of the opening song crept over me with the grip of a soon-to-be obsession. I spritzed dusting cleanser with the downbeats of the tune, and wiped the rag over the piano as if I was performing on stage. By the time the next track began, I had moved on to the vanity mirror and decided that I loved Bowie.
When the third track began to crescendo, my fingers picked an air-guitar, but just as I started to shred, the music suddenly cut off, and the room became completely still. I caught sight of my frozen pose in the mirror and quickly dropped the imaginary instrument.
I glanced at the Victrola, hoping I hadn’t broken it. Blaming the spiders from Mars, I forced myself to keep cleaning, but it wasn’t the same. Even though we had only just been introduced, I was already having Ziggy Stardust withdrawal.
“Ugh, the crank!” I yelped, having a second mini-revelation over the machine’s need for manual power.
Finish the mirror firs t …
Without even the slightest ambient street noise coming in through the open windows, the swooshes from my rag seemed loud. I worked fast, eager to get back into David Bowie’s spaceship, but then a wave of tingles jettisoning down my spine made me freeze mid-scrub.
A faint rattle was coming from behind me.
I strained to listen . It’s just the old pipe s , I told myself. But the rattling sounded way too close to be coming from behind a wall.
Scrubbing again, my nerves began to fry, but I refused to look back, feeling safety in not knowing the truth. The noise grew louder and louder, chipping at my curiosity like an ice pick. Chip. Chip.
Breath e .
Without moving my head, I slowly raised my eyes to the mirror and blinked a couple of times at the reflection. Across the room, the metal hand-crank was aggressively jerking, causing the entire music box to shake. I spun around, dropping the rag.
As I gaped at the machine, the handle slowly began to turn itself, and the music started up again.
“What the…?”
Am I losing my min d ? I wondered as I went back to cleaning. Experiencing some kind of Storm-induced post-traumatic stress disorder?
The next time the volume died, the sounds of my own heartbeat pounding were interrupted only by the sound of creaking metal. I knew what was making the noises, but my brain could not adjust to the idea.
Breath e .
Creak.
Breath e .
Creak.
Bowie’s voice warbled back to full volume, and the room was back to feeling like a 1970s rock opera.
I bent and swooshed the rag around the bucket of soapy water, racking my brain for logical explanations, never landing on anything scientific. Maybe it’s a ghos t ? A lost spirit who really, really wanted to listen to “Ziggy Stardust.” I couldn’t blame it. Wait, do I even believe in ghosts?
The volume died again.
Getting annoyed by the start and stop, I whipped around to the machine. The metal handle flew around so quickly that the album hardly skipped a beat. David Bowie’s voice parachuted in to keep me from going into panic mode.
I had no idea if I was dreaming, awake, crazy, or sane, but as the B-side repeated, I began to relax, and my thoughts moved from a recently grayed-out New Orleans to Mr. Bowie’s fantastical world.
I hadn’t realized that I was full-on rocking out with the mop until my father appeared and spun me around, but I was loving it too much to be embarrassed.
“There is absolutely no denying that you are my daughter,” he yelled over the music, twirling me around.
He grabbed the shadeless floor lamp and belted out the “Lady Stardust ” lyrics, doing his best David Bowie impression. I burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, Dad,
I gave the Victrola a little pep talk and exerted some force.
It gradually started to turn.
The record spun, and the music started playing, all without the power of electricity . “Just like magic,” I whispered.
The glam-rock beats sounded raw and scratchy coming from the large flower-shaped cone, and the slow start of the opening song crept over me with the grip of a soon-to-be obsession. I spritzed dusting cleanser with the downbeats of the tune, and wiped the rag over the piano as if I was performing on stage. By the time the next track began, I had moved on to the vanity mirror and decided that I loved Bowie.
When the third track began to crescendo, my fingers picked an air-guitar, but just as I started to shred, the music suddenly cut off, and the room became completely still. I caught sight of my frozen pose in the mirror and quickly dropped the imaginary instrument.
I glanced at the Victrola, hoping I hadn’t broken it. Blaming the spiders from Mars, I forced myself to keep cleaning, but it wasn’t the same. Even though we had only just been introduced, I was already having Ziggy Stardust withdrawal.
“Ugh, the crank!” I yelped, having a second mini-revelation over the machine’s need for manual power.
Finish the mirror firs t …
Without even the slightest ambient street noise coming in through the open windows, the swooshes from my rag seemed loud. I worked fast, eager to get back into David Bowie’s spaceship, but then a wave of tingles jettisoning down my spine made me freeze mid-scrub.
A faint rattle was coming from behind me.
I strained to listen . It’s just the old pipe s , I told myself. But the rattling sounded way too close to be coming from behind a wall.
Scrubbing again, my nerves began to fry, but I refused to look back, feeling safety in not knowing the truth. The noise grew louder and louder, chipping at my curiosity like an ice pick. Chip. Chip.
Breath e .
Without moving my head, I slowly raised my eyes to the mirror and blinked a couple of times at the reflection. Across the room, the metal hand-crank was aggressively jerking, causing the entire music box to shake. I spun around, dropping the rag.
As I gaped at the machine, the handle slowly began to turn itself, and the music started up again.
“What the…?”
Am I losing my min d ? I wondered as I went back to cleaning. Experiencing some kind of Storm-induced post-traumatic stress disorder?
The next time the volume died, the sounds of my own heartbeat pounding were interrupted only by the sound of creaking metal. I knew what was making the noises, but my brain could not adjust to the idea.
Breath e .
Creak.
Breath e .
Creak.
Bowie’s voice warbled back to full volume, and the room was back to feeling like a 1970s rock opera.
I bent and swooshed the rag around the bucket of soapy water, racking my brain for logical explanations, never landing on anything scientific. Maybe it’s a ghos t ? A lost spirit who really, really wanted to listen to “Ziggy Stardust.” I couldn’t blame it. Wait, do I even believe in ghosts?
The volume died again.
Getting annoyed by the start and stop, I whipped around to the machine. The metal handle flew around so quickly that the album hardly skipped a beat. David Bowie’s voice parachuted in to keep me from going into panic mode.
I had no idea if I was dreaming, awake, crazy, or sane, but as the B-side repeated, I began to relax, and my thoughts moved from a recently grayed-out New Orleans to Mr. Bowie’s fantastical world.
I hadn’t realized that I was full-on rocking out with the mop until my father appeared and spun me around, but I was loving it too much to be embarrassed.
“There is absolutely no denying that you are my daughter,” he yelled over the music, twirling me around.
He grabbed the shadeless floor lamp and belted out the “Lady Stardust ” lyrics, doing his best David Bowie impression. I burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, Dad,
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