DeeDee inherited her brother’s extensive collection of vinyl records after his overdose death. That was all she wanted even though he’d left her everything he owned in a wholly illegitimate “will” scribbled in the back of some coffee-stained graphic novel found by his bed. Bruce would understand, she thought, handing the apartment keys to the guys from the clutter removal company.
And even if he didn’t, so what? He was dead.
That collection consisted of some 3,000 LPs. Some, even many, were in pristine condition but most had been played to the point that they were essentially skinny black Frisbees. Moreover, there were duplicates because Bruce would play a record until it was garbage and then buy another copy and do the same thing.
DeeDee sorted through the collection and found 27 copies of “Sergeant Pepper”, 19 copies of “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan”, and — inexplicably — 9 copies of the original stage score of “Oklahoma”.
“I didn’t know you loved vinyl so much, Dee.” Sylvain sipped his tea.
“Jesus Christ, would you look at this?” DeeDee held up a copy of “Swing, Swing, Swing” by the Boston Pops Orchestra. “Hell, who cares about vinyl anymore?”
“So?” Sylvain looked around at the piles of LPs spilling over every surface of the room.
“I have my reasons.” DeeDee liked Sylvain ok, but trust? Not so much.
“Darling, you’re in a mood! Waiter, two more Scotch and sodas, chop-chop.” Sylvain let DeeDee settle. Others might see tension but Sylvain recognized homicidal rage. He waited.
DeeDee sucked down three strong drinks and still sat glowering.
“How was the auction then, Duckie Dee?” Sylvain knew he was poking at a landmine but Philip would be here in twenty minutes with tickets to “Company”. No time for drama, honeypie.
“Another one, please.” DeeDee could nab a waiter’s attention better than anyone Sylvain knew.
“What happened?” Sylvain could risk DeeDee’s volcanic temper. Usually.
“So the sleeve said “Thirty-one Symphonies Regarding Time”, right? And it was still in its shrink-wrap, right?” The drink arrived, number four but who’s counting, and DeeDee inhaled it in one long pull.
“One of the last known copies of that fake cover containing an album of never-before discovered bootlegs by Frank Zappa. Shrink-wrapped, dammit! Pristine! Worth easily $25,000!”
Here was Philip, early as usual. Sylvain waved him over and then turned back to DeeDee.
“That fucker. That fucking loser junkie fucker!” She ground her teeth.
Sylvain and Philip were silent.
“Somehow he re-shrink-wrapped that worthless cover. Inside a print-out of my email telling him I wouldn’t give him any more money was taped to a copy of “The Plan” by the Osmonds. Buyer would have to go and fucking open the damned thing right after the sale. Fucking idiot. ”
“And the actual album?” Sylvain asked.
“In some landfill probably. Stupid junkie.”
Philip broke the silence.
“I have an extra ticket to “Company”, Dee. Come with?” Philip smiled and Sylvain ordered more drinks. It was going to be that kind of night.
© Remington Write 2020. All Rights Reserved.
In August 2020, AleXander Hirka set himself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image is that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to his Mom and the concept is Time. In September 2020, the Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.