29. You Don’t Know What the Sound Is, Darlin’
Vietnam War scarred us all.
Every day. Every moment.
Lest We Forget.
How could we?
Summer 1985, early afternoon — the slow time. Dwayne and I are the only employees in the store. I’m fresh out of high school, he is thirty-five with a bachelor’s in history. Dwayne is tall, soft in the middle, thick glasses and a Mondale haircut — very soft-spoken and Christian in that quiet yet devout way. This is a good time of day to alphabetize the cassette wall and make new labels for the album dividers.
Dwayne outranks me so he has control of the turntable. He’s playing classical, which is within the corporate guidelines for mornings. After noon we’re supposed to be selling with the turntable, casting Mr. Mister, Marillion, ‘Til Tuesday, and Godley and Creme like musical lures for the elusive shopping fish swimming past our door. An old-timer walks in, about Dwayne’s age, but his heavy shoulders and sunken eyes add another fifteen years. He’s maybe 5’8″ but his full…
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