Collectibles, page 21
“All right, it was a date.”
“What about tonight? Is tonight a date? You got all gussied up at the gym, I see.”
Joey wore a snug viscose T-shirt and loose shorts to show off his leg day workout. Aldo usually didn’t notice. Or maybe he did?
“It can be.”
“Pour me one of what you got.”
Joey went to the open kitchen and made two fresh drinks. He could dig out the phone and call the hitter after Aldo conked out. Then he could sleep.
He returned with two martini glasses.
And nearly dropped one.
Aldo held up the green samurai helmet, positioning it on the shelf above the photo of them in Capri. “I just couldn’t leave this behind. I know it clashes with the feng shui and all that shit.”
Joey steadied the glasses. The two prongs of the helmet gouged the ceiling. The mask was like a skull, two sockets stared down as empty as he knew their souls to be.
“No, green is a good color. It brings money.”
Aldo positioned the helmet, and turned with a boyish grin. “That’s good. Because it’s all about the money, right?”
“Right.” Joey handed him a glass.
“Those two mooks made us enough. They won’t be back Sunday.” Aldo’s face was still a little red at the edges from exerting himself.
Joey would wait until later to ask about their fate. They would both sleep well tonight.
“A drink isn’t a date.”
Aldo touched glasses. “I got Angelo’s in the bag. Lobster oreganato, hot shrimp with the biscuit, calamari . . . after that workout, I was morte di fame.”
Joey smiled. “Thank you.”
“Anything for my jealous Manaleesh!”
They drank.
“So, how about we watch Road House while we eat?” Aldo sank into the couch like a yacht’s anchor. “It’s a Swayze night.”
“Come on, Dirty Dancing. It’s got a perfect plot.” And Aldo liked Jennifer Grey.
Aldo fished the containers out of the bag and opened them. The room was flooded with the scents of butter and garlic.
“I’m afraid that tonight, I’m gonna put baby in the corner. I need to watch shit blow up.”
Joey sat back and sipped his negroni. “Double feature?”
Whatever the decision, he knew they would make it work.
Devil Sent the Rain Blues (Pm 13040)
David Rachels
* * *
Just back from the south with a backseat full of old 78s are John Fahey and Nick Perls. Most notable find was a previously unknown Charley Patton record called “Circle Round the Sun” b/w “The Devil in the Water” or something like that. It has bad chips in it, is in poor condition, and is the only copy extant.
Berkeley Barb, August 12, 1966
I hear the hotel door sliding open, so I look up from my breakfast. A woman in pink platform flip-flops shuffles in with a 78 RPM record clutched in her hands. I watch the record—ten inches in diameter, black, beautiful—as it moves toward me.
The woman stares at her feet as she moves. She seems to be worried that a flip-flop will fall off, and if it does, she won’t know it if she doesn’t see it happen. She peeks up at the room long enough to spot me.
I am in the lobby of the Passport Inn in Phenix City, Alabama. For several weeks running, I have placed ads in the local newspaper announcing that today I will be sitting in this spot from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. in hopes of buying old records. I have given this notice far in advance to let the word spread and to give people time to find their old records wherever they may be, usually in a basement, attic, or garage, hidden away after the death of an elderly pack-rat relative.
The woman and her record eventually reach me. She looks up, but she doesn’t make eye contact. She stares at my nose. Nervous. She might be thirty, or she might be fifty. She’s been sunburned all her life, so it’s impossible to tell.
“Mister,” she says, “are you the one who put those ads in the paper?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. “That’s me.” I am the only person sitting in the lobby. I have a 78 RPM record displayed on the table in front of me. Who else would I be?
With a glance, I see that her record is worthless. I spy a blue Paramount label, and though most of its words are too rubbed and faded to read, I recognize “Yes! We Have No Bananas” by Frank Silver and His Orchestra with vocals by Billy Jones. The record is from 1923, and if you have a copy in good condition, you might find a sucker to give you $50 for it, but this copy has been played so much that its grooves are worn flat. The disc that appeared black from a distance is actually gray. It is worth $0.
Too many people believe that everything old is valuable, and if you tell them otherwise, they think you’re trying to rip them off, even when you don’t want to buy anything from them at all. Their disappointment fuels their anger, and sometimes things get heated. I always start off friendly and polite. Sometimes you can let them down easy.
I say, “Show me what you’ve got there.”
Then she says something I don’t expect: “Do you think anybody would mind if I had me one of them waffles?”
I wonder for an instant—foolishly, perhaps—if she already knows that her record is worthless. Maybe her only goal is a complimentary breakfast. If a free meal will make our encounter pleasant, I am willing to oblige.
“I don’t think anyone would mind,” I say.
The only other person in the room is the front desk clerk, LaTanya. My visitor gestures with her head toward the desk. “She knows me, so it would be best if you made the waffle for me. Is that okay?”
“Who knows you? LaTanya?” LaTanya is outgoing, eager to make small talk, friendly in the manner of many Southerners.
“Shhhhhhh! Don’t say her name!”
LaTanya has not looked in our direction, and my waffle is getting cold. “Why don’t you take this one,” I offer, “and I’ll go make myself another one.”
Her face lights up. Her morning has been made—at least for now. “Oh, thank you so much,” she says. “I don’t mind if I do.” She sits at the table with her back to the desk. She reaches for my waffle and pulls it to her. She studies it, makes a face, and says, “Did you put any syrup on this? Maybe it’s all soaked in?”
“I’ll get you some more syrup,” I tell her.
“Can you get me two?”
“Of course.” I continue to be accommodating because it serves my mission. Another record owner might arrive, and the vibe in this room should be sweetness and light.
I get up and go to the plastic tub of syrup packets next to the waffle maker. I take two and walk them back to my table. I hand her the syrup packets, and she says, “Go on and make your waffle now. I’ll wait.”
Of course she will.
I go back to the waffle maker, measure the batter, pour the batter, close the waffle maker, flip the waffle maker, shut my eyes, and wait for the beep.
I picture myself riding shotgun with Nick Perls and John Fahey down a country road. We feel treasure all around us, and we don’t need luck to find it. All we need are time and patience. The ghosts of Son House, Robert Johnson, and Charley Patton float above the cotton fields. I wonder how much money we have in the car. Probably not more than a few hundred bucks, if that. Nothing like the money belt I’m wearing today. In 1966, nobody was checking the internet to find out how much things were supposedly worth. If, through your own ingenuity and labor, you found a rare record to buy, then you deserved to buy it cheap because—
The waffle maker beeps.
Returning to my visitor, the first thing I notice is that she has placed “Yes! We Have No Bananas” directly on the table top, and there appears to be a drop of syrup on it. Instinctively, I gasp. All records should be protected, even if they’re trash.
I put down my new waffle and reach for the record. Gently holding its edges, I lift it from the table, and it’s too heavy. I am holding not one record, but two. I rotate the records to reveal the bottom disc. It’s another Paramount label, but this one is black. It’s PM 13040, Charley Patton’s “Devil Sent the Rain Blues” b/w “Circle Round the Moon,” that newsworthy record that Fahey and Perls found in Arkansas in 1966, but their copy, the only playable copy known to exist, was barely listenable. The copy in my hands looks brand new. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Mister,” says my visitor, her mouth full of food, “why are you crying?”
∗ ∗ ∗
Through the noise on the surface of that battered old record, that Arkansas miracle, I hear Charley Patton sing:
Good Lord send the sunshine, Devil he send the rain.
Good Lord, send the sunshine, Devil he send the rain.
I will be here tomorrow, on the morning train.
This is a standard blues stanza: a rhymed couplet with its first line repeated. Or is it? Is that first line repeated exactly, or is there an extra comma? Without the comma, we have facts: God sends the sunshine, and the Devil sends the rain. With the comma, we have an appeal to God: Please, good Lord, undo what the Devil has done—turn the weather from stormy to clear. And then that third line. Where is “here”? Is it Charley’s point of departure? (Tomorrow he will flee the rain.) Is it Charley’s point of arrival? (Tomorrow the sunshine will greet him.) It could be either, or it could be both. Or it could be either and both.
For listeners who want clarity, the second stanza clears up nothing:
You don’t know, sure don’t know my mind.
You don’t know me, sure don’t know my mind.
I don’t show you my ticket, darling, you don’t know where I’m going.
Now there is a woman. And while the first stanza refused to tell whether Charley was coming or going, the second stanza doubles down by refusing to name his destination in either case, meaning that not only do we (and the woman) not know his travel plans, but, more significantly, we do not know his “mind,” which is to say, why he is traveling, because isn’t the rain always more than just the rain?
Charley Patton toys with you.
∗ ∗ ∗
“I’m not crying,” I tell her. “It’s steam from the waffle maker.”
I put down the records on a nearby table with “Yes! We Have No Bananas” now on the bottom. I wipe my eyes, and I begin calculating what to do. How much money will get this woman to go away? If she were thrilled to get a free waffle, will $100 be more than she had hoped for? Will $100 send her running out the door to spend, spend, spend? I’ve got ten times that much in my wallet. She can drive up the price quite a bit without ever learning that I have many more thousands of dollars stashed in my money belt.
She says, “Mister, aren’t you going to eat your waffle?”
For all I care, she can have my new waffle, but I want to conclude this transaction as quickly as possible. I take a deep breath and sit at the table. I cut the first piece of waffle and put it in my mouth.
She says, “Aren’t you going to put anything on that? I’ve never seen anybody eat a waffle without butter and syrup. Butter and syrup are the whole point of waffles, right? Pancakes, too. Am I right?”
I wash down the waffle with cold coffee. “I’m on a diet,” I tell her, and then I just blurt it out: “What would you say to $100 for those two records?” I offer to buy both because I don’t want her to think that one is any more special than the other.
She says, “$100 for both? I thought they must be at least a hundred years old.”
“1923 and 1929,” I tell her, “so not quite. Technically, that means they’re not antiques, right? So $100 seems fair.”
I put more dry waffle into my mouth, and I act as nonchalant as I can. I try not to choke. I feel blood pounding through my neck.
I hear the hotel door sliding open again, and I look. A man walks in wearing a yellow pocket T-shirt and baggy floral shorts. His hands are empty.
“Hey, there!” the man calls to me across the lobby. “I have arrived with the treasure to end all treasures!”
I must keep the mood positive.
“Good morning!” I call back. “You folks in Phenix City sure are a bunch of early risers!”
“I had to get down here before you ran out of cash,” he says, and he laughs. Where are his records? In the trunk of his car? Melting in the Alabama heat?
The guy arrives at our table and says, “My name is Eugene Trainor.” He extends his hand to shake, and I oblige him.
“Oh!” the woman says, blushing. “Nancy! Nancy Franklin!” And we shake hands, too.
“Bill Bracey,” I tell them, though they should know my name from the newspaper. Eugene plops down in the chair next to Nancy. They exchange a sidelong glance, and I know that they know each other. Are they working some kind of hustle? My hopes of a quick and easy transaction with Nancy are gone.
“You didn’t bring anything?” I say to Eugene.
“Wait for it!” Eugene says. Magician-like, he produces a compact disc and puts it on the table in front of me. Some Gave All by Billy Ray Cyrus. 1992. Featuring “Achy Breaky Heart.” An album that has sold 20 million copies.
I am speechless. I would not have imagined that Eugene has something more worthless than a grooveless copy of “Yes! We Have No Bananas,” but he does.
I finally manage to say, “Wow.”
“And,” Eugene says, “the provenance!”
The provenance?
With another flourish, he produces a piece of paper, which he unfolds and puts on the table next to the compact disc. The paper contains a typed statement, signed by Eugene Trainor, that he purchased this compact disc at Peachtree Mall in Columbus, Georgia, on Tuesday, May 19, 1992, the day of the album’s release. At the bottom of the page is a notary seal.
“Can’t believe your luck, can you?” Eugene says. “With all the millions of copies of this CD out there, do you realize how rare it is to find the original from the very first day? I reckon you’re the expert, though. You of all people ought to know what this is worth.”
Nancy looks agitated. She says, “How old is that thing? Not even thirty years? My records are damn near one hundred!”
Eugene wags a finger at her and says, “But I’ve got Billy Ray! Who have you got?”
“Who cares who I’ve got? I’ve got almost one hundred years! One hundred years makes an antique! Maybe I should just wait and come back. What did you say, mister—1923 and 1929? What if I keep my records until 2029? Then I’ll be rich!”
Nancy is shouting, and LaTanya is looking in our direction.
“Look,” I say, “you’ve both brought me something amazing. How about I give you $100 apiece?”
“Sold!” says Eugene.
“Great,” I say. “Here you go.” I take out my wallet and count five $20 bills into his palm.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, folding the bills in half and putting them in the pocket of his T-shirt.
“And for you,” I say, and I begin counting bills onto the table in front of Nancy.
“Not so fast,” she says. “You mean to tell me that 1923 and 1929 are worth the same as 1992? You think I’m just some dumb redneck who can’t do math?”
Shouting again. LaTanya is heading this way.
“No, no, no,” I say, “of course not. We can all do math here. Of course we can. I’ve paid $100 for thirty-two years old, and your records are about three times that, right? So I’ll pay you three times as much, and you’ve got two records, so that’s six times as much. That would be $600. How does that sound?” I should not have been honest with Nancy, and I should not have lied to Nancy. I should not have told her that her records are nearly one hundred years old, and I should not have told her that one hundred years magically makes an antique. I was being cocky, and I’ve made a mess of things.
I’ve paid $100 for a Billy Ray Cyrus CD, so they’ve hustled me. I wouldn’t have thought they could do it, but they have. Therefore, when I hustle them, it will only be fair.
“Well, well, well,” says LaTanya, arriving at our table. “If it isn’t Nancy and Eugene. What are you two doing here? Nancy, did you just have a waffle? Isn’t that what got you arrested last time?”
I need LaTanya to go away. Every moment that passes makes this more difficult.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I gave her the waffle. It was my attempt at Southern hospitality. I was trying to fit in. You can put it on my bill if you need to.”
“Are they bothering you, Mr. Bracey? Are they panhandling?”
“You wish,” says Eugene. “We’re making some money today.” He taps on the Billy Ray Cyrus CD and says, “One hundred bucks, sister!”
LaTanya looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Nancy says, “And I’m getting $600—at least! My records are antiques.”
“Almost antiques,” says Eugene.
“Really?” says LaTanya, and her manner has changed. Nancy and Eugene have gone from freeloading ne’er-do-wells to friends of a guest, and LaTanya has gone from police mode to hospitality mode.
LaTanya steps to the table where the records are and reaches for them.
“Please don’t touch them,” I say.
LaTanya leans over to read the exposed label. “Charley Patton,” she says. “I think I’ve heard of him. My granddaddy is a blues fan. This must really be worth something, huh?”
“Not as much as you would think,” I tell her. “Nobody cares about records anymore, not even if they’re old, seeing as how you can just stream anything you want for free.”
“Hang on a second,” LaTanya says, and she begins walking back toward the front desk.
“Where are you going?” I want to know.
“Just hang on.”
“Come back here.”
I want to chase her down and tackle her.
I look at Eugene and Nancy. Eugene has picked up the provenance letter, and he is admiring his own handiwork and smirking. Nancy is watching LaTanya, clueless but curious.
