The widower had a twelve-year-old son who had recently become obsessed with records. His son had walked the swap meet many times in search of a goldmine amongst the flotsam, a crate of old records. He suggested they set up a table at the next swap meet. The widower was happy to set up a table and get rid of junk accumulating in their three-bedroom apartment. But when the day arrived the young widower sat bored for hours. No one was interested in what he had for sale. All cheap remnants of his younger days with his wife. He felt a comfort sitting amongst the nostalgic debris. He considered abandoning the swap meet and taking it all back inside to the safety of the extra bedroom. It didn’t matter. After four hours only one person had come to their table asking irritating questions, buying nothing. It wouldn’t have taken much to catch his attention. Dez kept passing the widower and his son with crates of records and bulky wardrobe boxes.
The widower had come from the bathroom in his apartment, when in the passageway he heard a shrill irritating voice. Lily emerged from the stairwell wearing scant clothing, but everything was perfectly in place. She was talking loudly into a wireless headset,
“These morons and their swap meet are destroying our move!” She paused as whomever she shouted at through the headset on her face must’ve responded. She sighed.
“I know. Why would they have it on the first weekend of the month?” She’d noticed the widower and smiled a warm smile. She waved before passing and almost bumped in to her beau, Dez.
“Sheez baby, get off that goddamn thing!” Dez scolded her.
“I’m on the headset!”
“Come on. Can’t you help a little bit?” The widower passed them in the stairwell and they all made eye contact and smiled.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
“Hi!” she’d said it very bubbly. Her demeanor was completely changed. She kept chatting.
“My name is Lily. This is Dez. Do you live in the building?”
“I live one floor above.”
“Which unit?” she pressed.
“I’m in 5C.”
“Just above us! You must love having that patio. I told the management company I would kill for it.” Dez was quiet and seemed complacent.
“Well I’ll have to apologize ahead of time for any loud music you might hear. I have a twelve-year old boy, and we fight over the record player,” the widower said changing the subject.
“You have a turntable?” she furrowed her eyebrows playfully, “A man your age?”
“Hey, sheez Lily,” Dez had interjected.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No it’s okay.”
“Dez collects some stuff too, for like, rap songs,” she said.
“Cool. I’ve just gotten my son into hip-hop as well.”
“You got him into it?” she asked incredulously. The widower laughed,
“Yes, he’s into new school. I had to teach him where it began. He loves it. He’s starting to listen to soul music now too.”
“It’s no surprise,” Dez said.
“Oh my god Dez! You’re gonna be just fine here.” She winked at the widower.
“He loves music. Always going on and on about it,” she said rolling her eyes.
Her phone rang and a pop sang out, You ain’t gonna take my love, Ahhhh, no love. She answered her phone, speaking again to the air. Dez began to bicker with her and the widower parted ways with them.
He began to see Dez sitting on the stoop of the building regularly. One afternoon, after doing errands the widower came back to an empty stoop. He took a seat. The stoop of any building that lined the park was deemed by many to realtors to be a luxury. Since the late 90s the park had undergone a massive botanic overhaul. After twenty years, the trees had filled out. It was summer so the park was spattered with bits of red and pink from the pre-autumn blossoms that would soon be gone. The widower read the paper for some time before music began to blare from the building. It sounded operatic. He looked up and realized it was blasting from his fifth-floor apartment. His son was at the records again. Lyrics came blasting out, What is soul? Mama! I don’t Know! What is soul?! At this point he was sure it was the band, Funkadelic blasting from his living room above. Unable to read, he took a stroll around the park. When he circled and approached the building again there was no more music. Dez was on the stoop again.
“Hey man. How’s it goin. I was just in your apartment.”
“I heard the music out here.”
“That’s a great turntable. Good job on the maintenance. Where did you find that? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“That was actually my father’s.” Dez raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Good man.
I lent Jay an album. You should check it out,” he said smiling and looking down at the ground.
“Then he must’ve showed you Maggot Brain.”
“Mmm Hmm,” Dez said nodding, “Incredible grab.” The widower shook his head a bit.
“It was a frivolous purchase.” The widower left out the detail of how expensive the album was. A year after his wife died, he went to Atlantic City. It was their favorite getaway together. He’d sentimentally used only thirty dollars in chips to play at the roulette table. Thirty dollars for her thirty years. The widower was prepared to go spend a sentimental thirty bucks and get drunk. He wasn’t prepared to win three grand. His drunken evening lasted into the next morning. There was record expo being held at one of the hotels. The widower perused the aisles of the stalls containing original issue, mint condition vinyl. He was drunk and emotional, moved by each album his wife would’ve liked. He’d seen Maggot Brain from a hundred feet away, displayed up above the others. As if, the vendor felt sure it wouldn’t be sold. The widower thought of his lovely sweet wife bought the record in a frenzy that alarmed the vendor. The cost was twenty-five hundred dollars.
The widower shook this memory off and continued to tell Dez about the album.
“The first song opens with that seven-minute guitar solo--”
“I know! It’s sick. Eddie Hazel was incredible,” Dez said excited.
“Ahh. So you know it.
I heard somewhere, Eddie Hazel was told by George Clinton to think of the saddest thing in the world. And play.” The guitarist supposedly thought of his mother dying. The widower was affected by this detail. It made perfect sense to him. When he heard the solo he could hear an entire lifetime. Pain and joy, the cloudiness, the clarity.
“It’s a shame how young he was when he died,” Dez said.
“Who? Eddie Hazel?” Dez nodded his head. The widower was surprised Dez knew so much about him.
“How old are you?” Dez began to graze the hair on his chin with his fingers.
“Oh I’m not that old. I just love music.” He’d avoided the question. The widower couldn’t tell if he was a young man with an old soul and early lines in the face. Or if he was a man aging incredibly well.
The widower quieted as he spotted Lily’s figure approaching. She crossed through the park. She was wearing the highest heels he’d ever seen. The way she dressed had zero congruence with the lush old trees that surrounded her in the park. Dez nodded his head when she’d made eye contact. The widower smiled.
“Hi boys,” she said.
“Nice shirt,” he said dryly. The shirt had a logo of the Brooklyn Dodgers.
“I got hit on twice at the grocery because of this shirt. Weird, huh?”
“I bet,” Dez said, smacking her butt, “How quick did they run off when you started talking?”
“You jerk. He’s such a jerk,” she said to the widower. “I bet you adore you’re wife.” Dez began to focus on the crossword puzzle in his lap.
“You’re son was up the other day, going on and on about her. So sweet. How long is she gone?” The widower was surprised at this. His son hadn’t talked about his mother in a very long time.
“Gone?”
“Gone?”
“Yea, he kept saying before she left, before she left. I thought, ‘I bet she’s only gone a couple weeks. What a sweet kid.’ ” The widower shifted uncomfortably.
“Oh yes, he does say that sometimes,” he said and chuckled to lighten the mood. She wrinkled her brows, confused. His smile faded.
“My wife died a few years ago.” Dez looked up with concern for a moment. Lily looked embarrassed. Her voice suddenly lost the shrillness,
“I’m a-- I’m very sorry,” she turned to enter the door of the building. The clicking of her heels had a slow rhythm. The widower was not offended only surprised that something could shut down her exhausting energy.
“Well I should be going up to start dinner,” he said to Dez.
For the next week, the widower was overloaded with work. He went in early and came home late. He’d attributed all of this to why he hadn’t seen Dez on the stoop. The first Saturday of the next month came again. There was a swap meet and again new tenants were moving in and frustrated. The widower enjoyed not having to participate in the swap meet. Him and his son stayed in and listened to records well in to the afternoon.
He finally got himself up to go for a walk in the park. He walked down the stairs and one flight down he passed two big men wearing uniforms moving a couch. He glanced over and saw they were movers. He was baffled. They were entering Dez and Lily’s apartment. He quickly went back up the stairs, after getting swiped by another couch. He burst in to find his son,
“Hey. The tenants, you know that couple, from downstairs?” His son nodded.
“They’re gone!”
“Yea, they moved out after like, two weeks,” he said, apathetic.
“Shit.” The widower stared anxiously through the window looking at nothing.
“Where’d they hurry off too?” His son shrugged his shoulders,
“I don’t know. I saw they came back flashin’ one day. That chick had an insane amount of gold jewelry she was wearing. They got all nervous and said they’d gone to the bank and pulled some stuff from the safety deposit.”
“How long after that, were they gone?” His son winced,
“Like a day. Did they get something off you??”
“I lent that guy Maggot Brain.”
“Oh right!” His eyes grew wide with excitement, “Yea, but Dad, Dez left Funkadelic!” Dez had left the album he’d lent to the widower’s son. The widower was frustrated,
“So, what do you mean?”
“It’s an even trade! It’s a better trade.” The widower felt panicked.
“Do you know how expensive that was?” he sighed.
“Dad! Believe me, as far as value, we got a mint condition, and it’s a special issue. It’s probably worth more.” Up to this moment, the widower had convinced himself he was upset at the loss of an expensive asset. His son’s logical omission made him feel worse.
“I love that album!” the widower said passionately, “I went back down to 4C after I saw that guy on the stoop one day and lent it to him. I told him it was important to me.” His son was surprised,
“We can buy another copy. It’ll just be a reissue.” The widower stared again out of the window, this time focusing on the canopy of trees that lined the park.
“It had some sentimental value.”
“Aw come one, Dad. I think this is way cooler. It’s better to pass stuff on. So they were hustlers. He took something and replaced it. It’s not like they jacked us.
I bet he won’t even sell it.” The widower looking quite defeated sighed.
“You’re right. I’m just—
There was a story behind it, you know?” His son did not know the story behind his father’s sentiment and the album at all. He was confused by his father’s attachment, it was unlike him. It was very rare that he behaved this way. He tried to console him,
“Dad, it’s not like you’ll ever forget the story behind it. Don’t worry! You worry all the time.”
