EXTREME VINYL CAFE
ALSO BY
STUART McLEAN
FICTION
Stories from the Vinyl Cafe
Home from the Vinyl Cafe
Vinyl Cafe Unplugged
Vinyl Cafe Diaries
Dave Cooks the Turkey
Secrets from the Vinyl Cafe
NON-FICTION
The Morningside World of Stuart McLean
Welcome Home: Travels in Smalltown Canada
EDITED BY STUART McLEAN
When We Were Young:
An Anthology of Canadian Stories
STUART McLEAN
EXTREME VINYL CAFE
VIKING CANADA
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published 2009
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (RRD)
Copyright © Stuart McLean, 2009
The Vinyl Cafe is a registered trademark.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner
and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
McLean, Stuart, 1948–
Extreme vinyl cafe / Stuart McLean.
ISBN 978-0-670-06447-2
I. Title.
PS8575.L448E94 2009 C813’.54 C2009-903831-5
Visit The Vinyl Cafe website at www.vinylcafe.com
Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca
Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see
www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 477 or 474
To Jess Milton,
friend and producer,
verba desunt
My favourite pastime? To laugh!
Tenzin Gyatso
14th Dalai Lama of Tibet
CONTENTS
Introduction
Sam Goes Green
The Birthday Cake
Spring in the Narrows
Wally
London
Dave’s Funeral
Petit Lac Noir
Rat-a-tat-tat
A Trip to Quebec
Newsboy Dave
The Waterslide
Margaret Gets Married
The Cruise
The Lottery Ticket
Dave and the Roller Coaster
INTRODUCTION
Now before we begin, I thought I should say a word or two about the title. I imagine that many of you picked this book up because you were taken by the striking cover design and intrigued by the title. You were probably thinking to yourself, Hmm, Extreme Vinyl Cafe. That sounds interesting. I wonder what Extreme Vinyl Cafe means.
I want to be upfront about this. I have no idea whatsoever.
Many months before this book was due to hit the shelves, I was called into my publisher’s office and told that they had a great new concept for me. In the conversation that followed, I have to admit, I was a little overwhelmed—by the marketing terms, by the sales strategy and by the very comfy chairs. To be honest, I think I drifted off for a while. But before I lost consciousness, I vaguely remember mention of extreme sports, and supercharged energy drinks, and, possibly, high-definition television. And then the next thing I remember, I was being ushered out the door, with handshakes and backslapping and general words of congratulation. I realized that I must have agreed to something, and that “something” appears to be the title of this book.
Several weeks later, still confused, I asked the marketing manager to explain the concept to me again. “Oh you know, Stuart,” he said. “Extreme. Like we’re taking fiction to a whole new level.”
A whole new level. That begged an obvious question. What level were my stories at before? And where was I supposed to be taking them now? The only thing I could figure out was that maybe I was meant to provide something extra for my readers with this collection. Something new, and beneficial, and helpful. But what?
So I rounded up the people who work with me on The Vinyl Cafe radio show and asked them. “With my stories,” I said, “what could I improve, what could I add? What else could I do for my readers?”
“For starters,” said my long-suffering story editor, Meg Masters, “you could learn how to spell.”
“But that would only help you,” I pointed out.
“You could charge them less,” said production assistant Louise Curtis. “Books are quite expensive, you know.”
“But that’s up to the publisher,” I said.
“How about this?” said my producer, Jess Milton. She reached into a file cabinet, pulled out a folder and slapped it down in front of me. “Why not answer some of your mail?”
Now it may surprise some of you to know that since I started The Vinyl Cafe radio show and have been telling my stories in concert, people have begun to see me as somewhat of an authority. An authority on what exactly has yet to become clear, but let’s just say they’ve been coming to me with questions, looking for my wisdom and guidance. And even when I don’t immediately know what to say, or how to help them, their questions do linger in my mind and sometimes creep into my writing. In some cases, I feel that a story I have already written might be of some assistance to them. At other times, it is as if the question has tickled my imagination, and, quite unconsciously, I begin to answer it as I tell my tales.
Here, then, are fifteen stories that could serve as answers to fifteen intriguing questions that you might share with the people who originally presented them. I hope that in reading the questions, and then the corresponding stories, you find this book to be a “miracle cure,” and “a bargain at twice the price,” or at the very least, you find yourself at a whole new level. Whatever that means.
EXTREME VINYL CAFE
Dear Stuart,
I seem to have developed a nasty rash. (I am enclosing four photos for your perusal.) I took these shots at the photo booth at the train station, so you have to look carefully. But look at the second one, which is just of my legs (I had to stand on the stool to take it). I know those marks look like freckles, but that is because these pictures are in black and white and the e
xposure is weird. But if you could see them in colour, you would know they don’t look like freckles at all unless freckles are red and sort of weepy. Ignore the last shot—that is the security guard’s arm and not mine and that is why there are no rashes on it.
Do you think I should see a doctor?
Your friend,
Miles
Dear Miles,
Yes.
SAM GOES GREEN
The first Dave heard of it was back in the fall.
He heard from his friend Dennis, who was in town working on a Patsy Cline project. Some guy was recording an album of Patsy Cline covers—note-for-note instrumentals, no vocals. The fellow had hired Dennis to play bass. They were working nights to save money, which meant Dennis had the afternoons to kill. He started dropping in to the Vinyl Cafe.
By the end of the week, Dennis, who has an eye for a deal, and not a lot of restraint once he has spotted one, had bought a Sun recording by Johnny Cash called The Songs That Made Him Famous, and a Best of Otis Redding, and the Red Beatles, and Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On, and The Many Moods of Charlie Louvin.
On Friday he was working his way through the cheap bin at the back of the store—Vinyl’s Last Stop—when he whooped, making Dave look up from behind the counter. Dennis was holding an album in the air and swaying back and forth. “Merle Haggard’s breakthrough record,” said Dennis.
“That shouldn’t have been in there,” said Dave when Dennis brought it to the cash. He didn’t really mind. It was nice having Dennis around.
And that’s when Dave heard. That Friday, from Dennis.
“Jake’s going out again,” said Dennis. “He’s rounding everyone up.”
“You’re kidding,” said Dave.
“He called last night,” said Dennis. “Wanted your number.”
Jake James was the front man for Jake and the Apostles. Dave had met him the afternoon the Apostles opened for Jefferson Airplane.
“I thought he was going to be the next big thing,” said Dave.
“Everyone did,” said Dennis.
It turned out Jake had stage fright. It turned out every time Jake got a break, something would happen. He would get sick. Or blow his voice.
Or not show up. Get the time wrong. Something to mess it up.
“He’s going to call,” said Dennis. “He said you promised.”
It took a week, maybe two. Jake didn’t call; he dropped by the store. When he walked in, Dave held his hands up in the air. He didn’t make Jake ask. Jake walked through the front door, and Dave held up his hands and said, “I’m in.”
“It’s just a week,” said Jake. “You could bring Morley.”
And that’s why Stephanie came home for spring break. Dave was road managing Jake James’s week-long comeback attempt, Morley was along for support, selling product and keeping things even, and Stephanie came home to look after Sam.
“He’s not old enough to stay alone,” said Dave. “We’ll pay you.”
Stephanie didn’t have plans anyway. It worked out well for everyone.
The night before they left, Dave and Morley finished Sam’s room. They had been working on it for a couple of weeks, upgrading it from a little boy’s room. There was a new bed, a new desk, a new rug. The final step was new paint— Moonraker, a shade of yellow between Springtime and Lantern Light.
The yellow paint was making Morley blue.
“You don’t understand,” she said one night. She had a red bandana covering her hair, a paintbrush in one hand and a tiny piece of blue plastic in the other. “You don’t understand,” she said again, holding out the plastic piece. “All this is over. Forever.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” said Dave.
Morley sighed and dropped the little piece of plastic into a set of rolling plastic drawers. “It’s a tail stabilizer for a Sigma 6 Dragonhawk.”
The night before they left, Morley took Sam out to buy sheets for his new bed. He chose flannel Ninja Turtle sheets. Morley was beaming when she got home. “Just when you have given up hope,” she said.
“Did he buy them in earnest or irony?” asked Dave.
“Don’t want to know,” said Morley.
Morley and Dave left on Friday morning.
“We’ll be back next Sunday,” said Dave. “We’ll call every night. Six o’clock.”
“Fun, fun, fun,” said Sam under his breath as he and his sister watched their parents pull out of the driveway. Given their past experiences under similar circumstances, this was a stunning flash of optimism.
When Stephanie was thirteen and babysitting her little brother for the first time, she had made Sam, who was about seven at the time, spend the entire afternoon cleaning her bedroom. At sixteen, she’d invited someone over—Sam never knew who—and he had been sent to his room with a video, a family-sized bag of chips and strict instructions not to come out for the entire evening.
Something about their relationship had changed. It was nothing either of them had done. It was just the relentless tides of breakfasts and dinners, of socks and underwear; time tumbling them the way the ocean tumbles glass—smoothing the sharp edges, rolling the hard green of impatience into the emerald softness of love. It was just the work of the ocean and the laws of the family asserting themselves.
Since she has been away at school, Stephanie’s appetite for bugging her brother has … dissolved.
“We’ll go out for dinner,” she said. “There’s a place I want to show you.”
It was the way she said “we” that Sam noticed.
“I’m going to meet Becky,” she said. “She needs to buy a dress. I’ll call you later. We can meet.”
There, thought Sam. She did it again.
Then Stephanie gave Sam her cellphone number, but nothing else. No instructions or even advice.
He liked this. This was cool. He felt grown-up and independent. They should have sent Stephanie to university years ago.
Sam spent that Saturday morning amusing himself, and annoying Arthur, the dog, with his Nerf gun. Peter Moore came over in the afternoon with his new video game. Murphy came over too. They played for six hours.
Dave phoned at six. “The boys can stay for dinner. You could order pizza,” he said.
Then he added, “The healthiest choice is the one with the grilled vegetables and no cheese.”
“We’ll get that one, for sure,” said Sam, rolling his eyes. “Can we have it with steamed broccoli?”
After Peter and Murphy left, Sam stayed up watching DVDs. Stephanie didn’t seem to care when he went to bed. Or whether he took a bath. Or what he ate. He stayed up past midnight on Saturday. Later on Sunday.
On Monday, at the end of library class, Mrs. Atkinson asked Sam to stay behind.
“Are you feeling okay?” she said.
“What?” asked Sam. Sam happened to be feeling on top of the world.
“You don’t look well,” said Mrs. Atkinson. “I thought I would ask.”
Sam shook her off. He felt fine. As he bounced down the hall he was thinking, Mrs. Atkinson is weird.
Then it happened again. After lunch. In between periods four and five, Mr. O’Neill stopped him in the hall and asked him the same thing.
“Are you feeling okay? You look a little sallow.”
“I’m fine,” said Sam. He didn’t say anything about Mrs. Atkinson. But it was strange. Twice in a day. It made him wonder.
He went to the boys’ room and peered at himself in the mirror. He looked fine. But after school, they were playing ball hockey in Peter’s driveway, and Peter said, “What’s the matter with you?”
And Sam said, “What do you mean?”
Peter said, “You look green.”
Sam asked Stephanie that night.
“Do I look okay?”
“Your jeans are too baggy,” said Stephanie. “You should get a job and get decent jeans. When I was your age, I was buying my own jeans.”
“Jeans are supposed to be baggy,” said Sam, looking at
his legs dubiously.
“Not like that,” said Steph.
When his parents called, Sam wanted to tell them what Mrs. Atkinson had said about him looking bad. But he didn’t want to worry them—especially his father, who had a tendency to overreact.
“Before you go to bed,” said his father, “check the oven and make sure it is off. Also the back door. Make sure the back door is locked. And don’t light any candles. You’re not lighting candles, are you?”
“No,” said Sam. “I’m not lighting candles.”
“What about your sister?”
The next morning they had gym first period: basketball. Skins versus Shirts. Sam was a Skin. After five minutes Mr. Reynolds pulled him onto the sidelines. “You look a little green,” said Mr. Reynolds. “You’d better sit out.”
Sam went into the boys’ room and looked in the mirror again. It wasn’t just his face. It was his whole chest. He spun around and peered over his shoulder at his back. He felt a rush of anxiety. Something was wrong. It was like he had a tan, but weird. He changed mirrors, and it was the same. It was his ears and his cheeks too. It was like he had a bruise all over his body. But different. Brighter. Sort of greeny grey. Maybe he wasn’t feeling so good.
When gym was over he tried to brush it off.
“It’s just the colour of my skin,” he said. “You shouldn’t judge someone by the colour of their skin.” The truth was he was feeling worried.
When Sam’s parents phoned at supper, Dave said, “Before we left, I meant to check the smoke alarm and I forgot. Will you check the smoke alarm? There should be a little light flashing every ten seconds. If it’s not flashing every ten seconds, call us on Mommy’s cell.”
“I’m fine,” said Sam.
Obviously he wasn’t fine.
“You do look a little green,” said Stephanie later that night. “Do you feel okay?”
The truth was he didn’t feel okay. The truth was he was feeling tired. The truth was he was getting a headache.
“I have a headache,” he said.
“Take off your shirt,” Stephanie said. Sam stood in front of her with his shirt off.
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