The Vinyl Princess

by Yvonne Prinz

  He looks at me like he knows I’m full of crap. He turns around and surveys the empty store. “There’re two people in here—oh, wait, I think one of them works here. There’s one person in here and he’s talking on a cell phone.”

  I hold my ground. “Look, I just can’t do it, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Turntable’s broken.”

  “Oh.” He scratches his cheek. His fingernails are bitten to the quick. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

  “No. There’s one next door at the Café Med.”

  “Is it clean?”

  “No.”

  “Are you always this unpleasant?”

  That’s a good question. Am I? Am I mad at this guy because he’s not M? “Are you always this obtuse?” I respond.

  “Can you hold on to these while I go next door and possibly contract a life-threatening disease off a toilet seat?”

  “No problem.” I take his LPs and watch him leave. He almost clips M, who’s just walking in the door, in the shoulder. My heart starts to thump. As M walks past me he gives me that same half smile. I’m paralyzed. I try to force my mouth into a smile but I’m so nervous that I think I probably look like I just came from the dentist and the novocaine hasn’t worn off yet. He walks over to the used rock CDs and looks around a bit; then he walks back over to me. My heart cartwheels into my throat.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  His calm blue-green eyes stay locked on mine as he digs through the front pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, hang on.” This is the first time he’s spoken to me. I commit it to memory—Sorry, hang on. Three little, beautiful words—an apology—sweet. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and unfolds it. He reads from the paper. “Yeah, um, I’m looking for a Joe Strummer CD. It’s called Streetcore.” His voice is deep but just a touch on the feminine side, with a hint of a somewhere-else accent. He pronounces every letter of every word like someone who didn’t go to public school. I gulp him in, his face, his hands, his hair, his eyes, as much of him as I can store in my brain for consumption later.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, it’s great. The last thing he did before he died.”

  “Uh-huh. So, do you have it?” His eyes lock onto mine again; my heart leaps back into my throat.

  “We should. Let me have a look.” I walk out to the used rock CDs with M trailing behind me. I’m acutely aware that he has a full view of my ass. Now he’s standing next to me, breathing the same air as me, his shoulder lined up next to mine. It’s all I can do not to lean into him. I quickly flip through the section and locate the CD almost immediately. I hope he doesn’t notice that my hands are shaking. Will he be dazzled by my Joe Strummer–locating abilities? Probably not. I hand him the CD, resisting the urge to “accidentally” touch his hand with mine. He flips it over and reads the back. Is he buying it for someone else? A girl? Or dare I hope that he’s stalling so he can keep me here next to him?

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  “It’s great.” Is great really the only adjective I know?

  Then he looks me in the eye and out of nowhere he says, “Hey, you wanna get a coffee later?”

  I freeze. “Do I want to get a coffee later?” Think. Respond. Do something. “Uh, yeah, sure.” I unclench my hand from the CD bin in front of me, where it’s turning blue.

  “What time you off?”

  “Uh . . . five.”

  “Okay, where would you like to meet?”

  I think fast. Not next door—everyone knows me there. Somewhere a little farther away, somewhere quiet. “You know the Bateau Ivre?”

  “Not sure that I do.”

  “It’s just up the street, that old house. Next to the grocery store.”

  “Perfect, five then.”

  He brings the CD up to the counter with him and I ring him up. He seems to be watching my hands with interest. Are my hands unusual? I’ve never thought so. Maybe he’s a hand guy. Maybe girls’ hands drive him insane. Or maybe he’s not sure what to say now that he’s asked me to meet him. He takes a twenty from his slim wallet and gives it to me, his eyes finally on my face again. He does look a bit nervous. Imagine that: M is nervous over me. I open the register and get his change.

  Meanwhile, Annoying New York Guy has reappeared on the scene. He stands there twitching, impatiently waiting for me to finish with M, who seems not to notice him at all. I rack my brain for something clever to say. I come up blank.

  I slip one of my fanzines into the bag as I hand it to him. “Have a nice day,” I say. Have a nice day? Kill me now.

  “Thanks, you too. See you later.” He smiles at me, a real smile this time, dazzling and unguarded, and walks out. I stand there, watching him leave. The guy I just made a date to see later.

  “Hello?” says Annoying New York Guy, tapping the counter impatiently with his skinny fingers.

  “Hi.” I look at him, uninterested.

  He points next door with his thumb. “Everyone in that café is bipolar.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I get my LPs?”

  “Sure.” I grab the stack and hand it to him. I want desperately for him to go away so I can relive the last five minutes and mine it for something salvageable but he’s not going anywhere.

  “Are you okay? You look a little shaken up.”

  “No. I’m fine. Are you going to take those?”

  “Can I put them on hold and think about it?”

  “We hold merchandise for twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s not very long.”

  “No. It’s not. But then, you’re not buying a yacht.” I grab a bag and slip his LPs into it. “Name?” I ask.

  “Zach. Z-A-C-H. Short for Zachary.”

  I write his name on the bag with a Sharpie and put the bag in the hold bin under the counter.

  “Okay, so I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you be here?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Allie.”

  “Allie, like Alexandra?”

  “Alberta. Long story.”

  “What, like the song . . . ‘Alberta, Alberta, where you been so long’?”

  “Nope, longer story.” I’m not really interested in discussing the origins of my name right now and my face tells him so. I wonder why M never asked my name.

  “Oh. Hi, Allie, I’m Zach.”

  “I know.” I point to the hold bin. “Remember?”

  “Right.” He stands there for a moment, looking at the magazine rack in front of him. He takes one of my fanzines out of the rack and flips through it, reading.

  “Who’s the Vinyl Princess?”

  “Some girl who used to work here. She quit, though.”

  “She must have been cool.” He folds the zine in half and sticks it in his back pocket. “Well, bye, then.” He saunters out of the store like a guy with no particular place to go.

  The phone starts to ring and I grab it. I imagine M saying, “Hey, I’m sorry but I have to cancel our date.” But it’s not M; it’s Kit. I exhale.

  “Hey. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Guess who was just in?”

  “M?”

  “Yup.”

  “Really? Did he ask you out?”

  “Yes! I’m meeting him for coffee later.”

  “Oh, my God! What are you wearing?”

  I look down. “Uh, my brown sweater.”

  “The pilly one?”

  “Yeah, and my black jeans.”

  “Jesus, you want me to bring you something?”

  “Won’t that make it look like I’m trying too hard?”

  “Yeah, probably. Let’s not mess with his presumption that you shop at Goodwill.”

  “Shut up.”

  “So, I got an appointment with that plastic surgeon.”

  “Where is he, Silicon Valley?”

  “Funny. No, he’s in the city, on Market.”

  “Does he know how old you are?” I watch Aidan walk past me o
n his way to the Cave. When I’m on the phone he doesn’t feel obligated to even look my way.

  “I told his receptionist that I was eighteen. I’ll deal with the truth later. But will you come?”

  “I don’t know. When?”

  “Friday, two p.m.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind me expressing my views and opinions on the way.”

  “Look, it’s just a consultation. No big deal.”

  I sigh. “All right. But let’s have some fun afterward, okay? Maybe we’ll go to Haight Street or something? It’s my day off too, after all.”

  “Sure, fine.”

  “Have you heard from Niles?”

  “No, but I drop-kicked a box of his shit onto his front porch this morning. I heard the coffee mug he made me for my birthday smashing. I’m sure that sent a message.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “‘Here’s your shit, asshole. And some of it’s broken.’”

  “Good one. Hey, I gotta go.”

  “Okay, call me later; I want to hear everything.”

  “’Kay, bye.”

  I hang up and start sorting through some LPs that Laz bought over the last few days; I need something to do to keep my mind off my coffee date, and this is my very favorite part of the job because I get to cherry-pick all the good stuff before it hits the bins. But this particular stack is joyless for me. It’s all seventies soul and funk with some completely predictable eighties rock thrown in. I price it quickly and drop it into the bin to be filed into the sections. I leave it there as though there’s actually a person who might come along and start filing it. As though that person isn’t me. Bob comes out of the office looking almost happy. He’s in a better mood now that things have quieted down on the avenue. Several days have passed with no reports of any more robberies and it looks like the siege may be over.

  “Al, I’m going to the bank,” says Bob. He’s wearing a cowboy hat that looks like it’s been run over a few times and an old Neil Young T-shirt from the Rust Never Sleeps tour. He could also use a shave and probably a shower. This is Bob on a good day.

  “Sure. Is Dao coming in today?” I ask.

  “No. Her mom’s visiting from Thailand. She’s taking her to Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  I can’t imagine why someone from Thailand would want to see Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s basically a bunch of overpriced tourist traps selling souvenirs of San Francisco that were made in China. You can get a snow globe of a San Francisco cable car but you’d be hard-pressed to find an actual fisherman on Fisherman’s Wharf. A morbidly obese couple from Texas with seven fat kids would be a lot easier to spot.

  “Okay. See ya later.”

  Bob walks out into the sunshine with what almost looks like a spring in his step. He stops to talk to Jimmy, the incense salesman. I can see them out there, arms waving, discussing the finer points of being an avenue merchant. When he finishes up with Jimmy, he’s still got Precious, who sells jewelry, Celeste, who sells glass water pipes, and Sonia, who does henna tattoos, all of whom Bob will stop to chat with. It’ll be at least an hour before he makes it to the bank. It takes Dao five minutes.

  Later, on a whim, when Aidan skulks past me (slight nod, almost inaudible hello) on his way out to lunch, I slip back to the Cave and put a VP zine on his wooden processing table. Maybe I’m looking for his approval, but maybe I want him to feel a sense of belonging, like, Hey, you’re not the only whacked-out vinyl collector out there; come and join me. I don’t bite.

  Then I go back to freaking out about how I’m going to be sitting across from M in a matter of hours, drinking coffee, getting to know him.

  Chapter 10

  I arrive at the café a couple of minutes after five. He’s sitting at a small table waiting for me. He smiles again when he sees me and I sit down across from him. The waiter, a regular Bob & Bob’s customer, a classical vinyl collector, takes my order after exchanging a few pleasantries. M already has a cappuccino in front of him.

  “Sorry. I’d have introduced you but I don’t know your name.”

  “Joel.”

  Joel? “I’m Allie.”

  “Fancy coffee place you picked, Allie.” He sips his coffee.

  I look around at the high ceilings and the old wooden floors. A pleasant Vivaldi violin concerto plays quietly. “I like this place when I need to get away from the store and hide. Is it too much?”

  “No, I like it. It’s very peaceful.”

  Joel has an accent but it’s not Southern, more like Eastern but not New York. I can’t place it. He doesn’t sound like anyone else around here, that’s for sure.

  “So, where are you from, Joel?”

  “Oh, here and there, mostly there. I was born in New Jersey, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “What brings you all the way out to California?”

  “I have a buddy out here, a guy from back east, and he said he could set me up with a job and I just thought I’d come out and try it for a while.”

  “What kind of job?”

  A couple, a shapely Latina and her boyfriend, come into the café and take the table across from us. Joel’s eyes linger on her until her boyfriend notices and glares at him.

  “I do maintenance at the graveyard on Piedmont; you know it?”

  “Sure.” Everyone from around here knows that graveyard; it’s enormous. “You like it?”

  “It’s okay. Mostly I just ride a lawn mower around and around the gravestones till I’m dizzy.” He laughs.

  The waiter puts my coffee down in front of me.

  “You don’t mind all the dead people?”

  “Nah.” He watches me stir a packet of sugar into my coffee. “Hey, I like that store you work at; it’s cool,” he says.

  “Yeah, I like it too.”

  “You been there long?”

  “Two years.”

  “Wow, you must run the place. Is this your first job?”

  “Yup.”

  “I heard about the robberies. Are you freaked out about them over there?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “I would be.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I got robbed once.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. One of the craziest jobs I ever had was back in Jersey working at a cool old bowling alley for a guy named Giovanni. It was right on the Jersey shore. I was pretty young too, but Giovanni trusted me; he loved me like a son. Man, I never worked so hard in my life. Every morning, before we opened the doors, I was supposed to take the bank deposit from the night before out of the old safe and over to the bank across the street. One morning, I’m walking across the street with the money and I get jumped from behind. I never knew what hit me, never even saw the guy. I went down hard right there on the pavement, in the middle of the road, passed out cold. When I woke up the money was gone and there was a puddle of blood under my head. Here, I’ve still got the scar.” He pulls his hair back to show me. It’s a faint crisscross, about two inches long. I resist the urge to run my finger over it.

  “That’s brutal. Why would Giovanni let a kid do something so dangerous?”

  “He liked having breakfast with his family in the morning before he came in, and I had to get the change for the cash drawers. Anyway, it was a safe neighborhood. I was just unlucky, I guess. The upside was that I got to bowl for free anytime and eat all the pizza I wanted.” He stops for a second, considering something. His face darkens. “That place was like home to me, a lot better than my real home.”

  I’m about to ask about his family but then I catch myself—too early for personal questions. I quickly change directions. “My boss doesn’t really trust anyone with money. He’d take it home and stuff it in his mattress every night if he could. He does all the deposits himself. No one even has the combination to the safe. It’s a drop safe.” God, could I sound any duller? Next thing you know I’ll be sharing the California employee tax structure with him.

  “I’d trust you with anything. You’ve
got one of those faces.”

  “One of what faces?”

  “The kind you can trust.”

  “I never thought of myself that way.”

  “The minute I saw you, I knew you were that kind of person. It’s all in the eyes.”

  He watches me with his cool blue-green eyes. I become self-conscious and look away. I’ve noticed now that he has a calm way of taking things in. It’s unnerving for someone like me, who has to react to everything. In a stolen glance here and there, I absorb him: His shoulders are narrow but he’s wearing a black tailored shirt that flatters his build. Something on a silver chain, a medallion of some sort, dangles just inside the first button of his shirt so I can’t tell what it is. His jeans are worn but, again, flattering, and they fit just so, and he’s wearing a scuffed pair of dark brown work boots. He has an expensive haircut with just a hint of sideburns. I realize that some thought went into this look. None of it is accidental. He wears a slim, tasteful silver watch on his wrist. My own collection of bangles and assorted woven leather bracelets looks cheap and ridiculous in comparison.

  I excuse myself to the ladies’ room and lock the bathroom door behind me, and I look at my face in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed. I apply lip balm vigorously and try to smooth my ill-fitting sweater. God, it looks like something Shorty and Jam wouldn’t even bother with. I rake my fingers through my hair and take a good look at myself. The improvement is minimal.

  When I arrive back at the table, Joel is on his cell phone. He flips it shut and lays it on the table. “Sorry, just checking my messages.”

  I smile and shrug. What I wouldn’t give to hear those messages.

  “So, you work every night, Allie?”

  “No, not every night.”

  “We should go out sometime. See a movie or something.”

  “Yeah, we should.” Is he asking me out on a real date?

  We talk some more, mostly small talk. I start to relax and I even laugh at some of his stories. He seems to have hundreds of them and he tells them in a way that makes you hang on every word. They often feature hilarious situations he’s been involved in where he admits that he probably should have known better and then he laughs softly. His life is vastly more interesting than mine but he has a way of looking completely engaged when I speak. Eventually, the waiter drops the check on the table. Joel picks it up and looks around.