faultline
“Records,” I said. “Wanna bet?” “Okay,” Danny said. “But it depends on what the bet is.” “How about you do the trash for a month if it’s records.” I despised the smell of garbage, which lingered and seemed to concentrate in pungency in the municipal barrel we kept in the backyard. “If not, I’ll do it plus trim the hedges.” “Let me think about it.” Dad approached the car with the dolly and yelled at us to get out and help. Danny pulled the lever to make the front seat tilt forward and we both stepped out. “Happy Hanukkah!” Dad said. His hands were tremulant with jubilance. “It’s for us?” Danny asked. “This is for everyone,” he said, lifting the lid off the top box, which had a large “4” written on it. “Here we have the holy grail.” He pulled out one plain white record jacket housed in a protective plastic sleeve. He held it with open palms so that there was as little contact with his skin as possible. After admiring it, he removed the jacket from the sleeve and slowly exposed what appeared to be just another record. “Yes,” he said. “Yes!” I began to laugh at the dismay spreading across Danny’s face. Dad slid the record back into the sleeve, jacket, and box. “What do you think I brought you here for, kids?” Dad said, pointing at the car. “Load her up.” He opened the trunk and we leaned in with our nimble bodies, folded down the back seats, and as a team of two lifted each box into the expanded cargo area. The obese man in Lennon costume forwent helping us to talk about various “surprises” that awaited Dad: “‘Back Seat of My Car’ rehearsed by The Beatles. Harrison singing ‘Threw it All Away.’ Many, many other life-changing gems.” Dad hugged the man. “This is the greatest day.” On the way home, sharing the front passenger seat with Danny and suffering through the fourth and fifth listens of Let It Be, I asked Dad if were also stopping at Target, if he brought us along because we were all receiving presents. “I could pick mine out,” I said, “like you did.” “No. You need to discern what’s important in life,” he said. “An average vinyl record spinning at thirty-three and a third revolutiones pero minuto holds about forty-five minutes of music. Do the math. I’ll be busy for a long while, and it’s important you understand that. Go cold turkey on the complaining. Don’t ask me to play catch or take the dog to the park. There are three hundred records, which means: don’t bother me.” He shut us out of the listening room a week later, on the second of January. Occasionally, he’d emerge for meals, standing bedraggled and barefoot in the - 110 -