Records in the Basement

Records in the Basement

     by Doug the Record Man

    My old man she ain’t what she used to be

    Ain’t what she used to be

    Ain’t what she used to be

    My old man she ain’t what she used to be

    Early in the morning

When Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody’s gonna jump for joy. So sang Sandra under her breath. Twelve years old, she’d been listening to her aunt’s vinyl records in the basement. Her dog at home would be reluctantly nibbling at his dry dog food just about now, at eleven o’clock. The Brady Bunch reruns would be on if she were at home. 

     Avery’s family car next door would have arrived after breakfast to take him out. Syringe knew the time of day even if he wore no watch, somehow tallying in his mind the flight of minutes so precisely that he hit the mark within two or three each time. Their house one street over needed painting, and because his father drank, they didn’t have any mother. Their teacher this year made them do homework every night and the way it worked was that she spanked someone once a week at the front of the class, on the hand. She did not actually spank these weekly children, but told them that this is what they used to do in schools not too long ago and asked for volunteers the first time. No one offered until she promised them that it would not hurt, and she smiled to comfort them into doing the responsible thing and raising their hands. And it did not hurt. She used a ruler with card stock wrapped around it twice so that it only felt like a carton hitting your hand. Children liked the game of pretending to be done harm. 

(To be continued)