Stereo Jin

Mr Maurice Mickle

When I first met you, I was possibly eleven, maybe twelve. You were a punky sprite perched on a pile of used clothes at a yard sale.

I distinctly remember, you had the most wicked wardrobe I had ever seen. Your Iron Maiden tee-shirt featured Eddie, the skeletal mascot of the band. Every suburban mom’s worst nightmare. Somehow your attire was the epitome of cool, perfectly faded and tattered, with the sleeves cut off. I also recall your rust-colored skintight parachute pants with zippers galore. But your most noticeable feature was your fried-out frizzy blondielocks that reminded me of some runaway kid on the Sunset Strip. Of course, the entire look was tied together with a gold cross earring dangling from your left ear. You were totally awesome.

I made eye contact for a second, and you shot back a greasy smirk before you slipped under the table and disappeared into the ether.

A minute later, I noticed you leaning against a clunky, yet high-def stereo. Except for a few minor chips and scrapes, it was in excellent condition. At that exact moment, you transformed into a green gas and got sucked into the cooling vents of the stereo.

“Oh my god, where did you go? What in the world? That little dude turned into green gas! I must have this stereo!” I exclaimed to no one in particular.

Pasted on the face plate of your high-tech home, a piece of masking tape with the price of $10. What a steal!

I took a peek into my super fresh checkered wallet to make sure I had enough dough. Of course, I knew exactly how much I had before I peeled the Velcro apart; I counted every penny of my allowance back then. Luckily, I had exactly enough money to acquire you from the garage sale. It was serendipity; at least it was to me.

Since your previous owners/masters were the Maroney family, my neighbors from the other end of the block, I easily managed your transport back to my place in a few trips on my trusty H uffy.

With delicate care I set you up and plugged you in. A gorgeous electric green glow emitted from your tuner panel. Your equalizer display fluttered up and down like a pulsating staircase. I was hypnotized for hours watching the radiating aura of your LED light kit.

Your voice was so clean, so pure, echoing from the wooden chambers. I hoped you would reappear, but nothing happened, at least not for a little while. Still, I was confident you would come back one day.

Even though you were MIA for a period of time, I was content with the purchase of your home. It was all mine, my first, my very own, all-in-one stereo: receiver - turntable - cassette deck - spectacular sub-woofer speakers.

One sticky July evening as I sat in my bean bag chair jamming out to Rock the Casbah, a familiar green mist emerged from the cooling vents you vanished into months ago. Finally, you materialized once again. To my surprise, your fashion choices changed drastically from our first meeting; transitioning to a Brian Setzer rockabilly look instead.

From that day our mutual fondness flourished despite our limited conversations. We always used a telepathic form of communication to get our points across. Mainly because I didn’t want my parents to commit me to an insane asylum and for the fact you weren’t into aimless small talk. You were more of a shy muse, a brooding cool cat, a composing confidant.

Suburban summers seemed sublime in my bedroom, with only you. Especially the nights when you aided me with our ultimate mix tapes for my tween girlfriends. We spent hours planning the exact progression of the tracks and what subtle hints we needed to include, without blowing our wad on side A. You were meticulous and never let me rush the job. We made soundtracks for our own lives and ones we imagined for the girls we had crushes on in the 8th grade. Macy, Lorraine, Jenny, and Jill. Do you remember Jill? What a stone-cold fox.

After a few years I asked you to upgrade your home, and you reluctantly agreed. We traded in for a trimmed down jet-black number by Sony. Sadly, after your house got a facelift, you could no longer spin 12” vinyl. But it didn’t matter which media you spoke with, you kept me company for countless hours without exception, cooing and crooning into the late hours of the evening.

You even followed me to college and moved into my dorm room. My stereo jin, you kept the party alive and also lulled me to sleep almost every night. Living 2000 miles away from everyone we knew wasn’t always easy. Thank you for that.

Ultimately, you didn’t need a conventional home and you shed it all together. Your new flexibility made it possible for us to travel everywhere in tandem. We trekked on trains, bike paths, even to the John. We could hang out virtually anywhere on earth.

Our years together have been wonderful, but it’s been too long since I’ve seen your face. I miss you, man. You have been rather reclusive in my adult life, but I think I understand. You probably got fat too and resemble Elvis Presley circa 1976. Don’t be ashamed, come have a frosty beverage with me and let’s make an ultimate mixtape together. Excuse me, ‘playlist’ on Spotify. Just like old times.