Mustang in the Record Shop

Movies get it wrong. Books get it wrong. That’s the problem with strangers. They glance at the cover and then keep on walking, walking away with only conclusions. They move on from the movie, yes. From the book, sure. But also, from stories like this one.

I’m new to town. Bringing too much luggage to the airport, weird looks. So I got a job at the local record shop for income. It’s a small space, but they packed a lot in, and they’ve got more than just records; it’s records, books, graphic novels, movies, games, and more. That’s what the old sign above the door says, anyway. In glitching blue and orange neon.

Usually, I wake up early and walk over. It’s cold, so I wear a coat and a scarf. Quite unassuming, hands in my pockets just as a safeguard.

When I joined the record shop, people saw me quickly. Faster than the pastries disappeared from the tiny coffee stand near the store’s back. Faster than the cars that zoomed by, uninterested in our art. Things were especially bad then.

One day I stood by the door, my back to the faded wall. It had been yellow, once. Someone told me that on my first day. I had no duties to attend to at that moment, and my eyes caught sight of a man ordering coffee from our stand. A thin red novel was tucked under his arm. My thoughts wandered elsewhere. I thought of the work day so far. My chest muscles twitched a few times, but we were on good terms that morning. We could work together, for now, I hoped. The man – suddenly I saw him look at me through the reflection on the bakery case. My odd movements must have caught his eye. He frowned as I tilted my head and closed my eyes, an unconscious gesture, followed by my emotions twisting my neck sharply to the right as if there was something more interesting out the window. There wasn’t. Never was, and sometimes that could be funny. When I looked back, the man was picking up his coffee and waving to the woman at the register. He headed toward the exit, which meant he was headed toward me. I stood up a bit straighter, uncrossed my arms from their relaxed position. I pushed up my blue sleeves. I thought he would walk by. But he paused in front of me.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said. “You must be newly hired.” He held still, as if it was a challenge or perhaps a question, looking into my eyes as my chest muscles spasmed twice again. Maybe he was just confused. I held his gaze. I was too interesting to him.

“Sure is rainy out today, huh?” He had said, as if setting up a joke. I could guess what was coming as his tone shifted to quiet trenchancy. “I wonder if it could be stopped.”

The bell on the door jingled softly behind him. I let out a breath and circled until I faced the streets, reaching out to rub away frost from the icy door which remained foggy under my palm. This type of weather always made me think of the Pan Am Clipper and the KLM aircraft when they collided in Tenerife. But this wasn’t March 27th. That man was just a stranger. Whatever it meant, I watched him disappear into the cold drops.

The man got something wrong. I saw it on the lanyard he was wearing. He works for a software company, meaning steady paradigms and the predictable. That man doesn’t know the force of a river. A force like mine, which swiftly changes course before even I know its direction. Even if I could stop the rain somehow, he wouldn’t know. That isn’t a man who works with the rain.

Warren sits at the front desk, working the cash register. He used to be wary of me but quickly realized that I don’t bite or anything. Now we’re friends. Warren looks around alertly when new customers walk in, hoping he’ll make an exchange. The record shop has had fewer customers recently, he said. He’s worried. He clicks his pen cap in and out sometimes. But not for long. When he’s nervous, he takes out this weird tiny old violin, places an equally small mute on it, and plays softly for the customers. Or, for the sad absence of them. It’s beautiful. It’s graceful.

“You should try the violin, Foster,” he said to me once. I just smiled.

Usually, the record shop plays quiet music. Quiet but with a steady beat, coming from the speakers in the ceiling. It hums a soft rhythm, some piano. Sabre, who helps with the customers, is often seen bobbing her head to it, just the slightest bit as she reads from behind the desk. She’s been reading more as less customers come to the shop.

“What’s the plan for today?” I’ll ask her. Or maybe I’ll say, “Did you see that new house for sale up the street that’s painted bright purple like a grape?” She’s helpful. She’s kind.

Once, I saw a woman looking through the graphic novel section. “Can I help you find anything?” I asked. She looked over at me.

“Are you okay?” she asked in concern after a moment. I tried not to be disappointed. I tried to keep control. But of course my muscles rebelled and I hunched as a spasm wracked my chest for an instant, my head held high so as to avoid the worst of the pain.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m alright, no need to worry.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’m looking -” she paused. “You know what, that’s alright.”

And then she left down the aisle.

“Why are you winking at me?” an elementary school boy once asked, crouching in front of a shelf of movie disks.

“I don’t mean to,” I told him. “Sometimes my body just does things without me. I have to work as part of a team.”

I saw a confused expression cross his face, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he pulled a movie off of the shelf, the artwork showing a cowboy on a black horse in the middle of the scorching desert sun.

I tried again. “It’s like most people got an easy mannered dressage horse as their carrier in life and I got the wild mustang.”

“Oh.” He continued to gaze down. “What’s dressage?”

He never ended up buying the cowboy film.

Warren created some flyers and posted them around town, but no new customers showed up. Sabre sent out letters to the locals in the hopes to spark some interest. No luck. My eyes rolled shut at the wrong times. My chest grew tired. My stomach hurt after I ate. Day after day fewer people came in through the front door. Or the back door. Or the windows. Not like they usually came in through the back door or windows, but at this point we were desperate. I do check the windows sometimes when no one is looking, just to make sure they are locked and nobody suspicious could potentially sneak inside. But now no one, either friend or foe, seemed to be coming from anywhere, really.

“Cereal?” Sabre offered me one morning. “We better take advantage of employee benefits while money lasts.”

“I can’t today,” I said. “The thoughts are bad right now. They make it hard to eat.”

She poured a bowl for herself, sweet grains pinging in the bottom without a rhythm. I tried to count them, but quickly failed. Sabre kept a silent wall up to protect me from any assumptions or judgments she had, but I could see the questions running through her head. I handed her a spoon.

Holly, who labels all the books and works the coffee stand, owns a dog. She brings him in every once and a while.

Chet, I believe is his name. He’s a golden retriever, the super cute fluffy kind. I’ll bend down and stroke him between the ears and he looks back into my eyes, panting in joy. I love giving him dog biscuits, and it sure brightens his day too. Sometimes my mind begins to twist the possibilities and I wonder. If I tap his head three times, no five times, will he look at me again? Will he care if I stroke his gums? Will the teeth yawn wide and destroy the threat? He gets agitated by my behaviors - the odd movements and mannerisms that should belong to something other than myself. He stays on edge.

Some days my wild mustang doesn’t follow me. Sometimes customers don’t laugh, don’t try to aggravate me, aren’t afraid or skeptical, or don’t ask for someone else. Sometimes others are curious or have open conversations with me. They try to understand instead of seeing me as just a show or a cheap laugh like some closed loop circus jester. Those are the very best.

On other days, I feel like rusty gears. I feel like I’m being twisted by invisible forces within. I feel as if numbers are alive, pulling me left and right and having me keep track of too many things at once. I tap, I twist, I knead the strings of the world. I flood with heat and scorching pain. My anger revolts as I struggle and nothing comes of it, like a car engine running dry. I am cut off from speech and I can’t breathe anymore. Trapped and imprisoned within a painful disgusting throbbing slab of meat, only a marionette, and dressed up in shame.

I was getting breakfast on my walk to the record shop one inky morning. My uncle had just called, and those conversations never went well.

“I want the - wink - the bagel with the - spasm, wink - I want the - the, the, the, - I meant - the the the the the - I want the bagel sandwich - eye roll - please. Simmons cimmaron turkey, got it?”

“I think you’ve got a touch of an issue there, my friend,” the waiter observed after a moment, reaching down for a fresh bagel.

“Yes,” I gasped. “I apologize.”

They had to say it.

“Foster, we’ve been losing too many customers. We might go out of business. Funds are getting tight. No one comes to the record shop anymore.”

I looked between Warren, Sabre, and Holly.

“You’re going to say it’s probably because of me,” I said. They nodded, shrugged. None of us were quite sure what to do.

I worked in the back for a time after that. All the while I was thinking hard, trying to puzzle out how we could save the record shop from going out of business. I was flipping through some sheet music books the day it finally hit me.

I ran over to Warren. “Get your violin!”

He looked at me, puzzled. “What?”

“How about if you play outside to attract customers?” I suggested, the words rolling off my tongue. “You know, live music. And while they listen they can browse the record shop.” His eyes lit up. He reached down and grabbed his instrument before calling out - “Sabre, Holly, get over here as soon as you can! Foster struck a gold mine!” He lowered his voice. “I better go practice.”

“A gold mine!” I echoed back in excitement as Warren leapt up towards the door in enthusiasm. “Twenty gold mines! Twenty!”

“You bet on it!” Warren shouted over his shoulder. The plan might just work. But I had another idea.

“Foster Fisher. Tell us about the place where you work.”

I looked around at the interview team. They looked at me. I ignored the dark walls. I didn’t care about the pressure, not really. I looked down at the microphone. “It’s called the record shop. We sell every format of story-telling that exists: books, movies, graphic novels, the like. Records too, obviously. We also sell music and baked goods. But now we’re about to shut down from a lack of funds.”

“You’re here today trying to spread the word about the shop, correct?” the reporter asked. “Trying to save it from bankruptcy?”

“Yes.” I looked up. “Art is losing its value, and we want people to know how important stories are. How music can change your day. How shows can inspire, if you only give them the chance. Our prices aren’t bad and we’re local. Please, stop by when you can.”

“Mr. Fisher, why do you think people just aren’t interested in art anymore?” The reporter asked, leaning forward in the way that a heron would, right before stabbing its beak into a frog.

My chest pushed inside of me, and I warned it to be quiet. But the mustang reared. It never listens to me anyway. “People like art, I believe,” I said, pushing my voice louder. “But many times, they can’t recognize it for themselves.” I rubbed my hands. “People say they want to read the unique, the daring, and risky pieces. They want to write them and publish them for the world to see. Something new, something exciting and bold. They can say it all they want. But I find hardly anyone is brave enough to step forward and attempt to speak the truth.”

We stood outside. Warren played tiny violin, no mute. Holly sang as best as she could, which is fairly well. Sabre was our drums on the materials we had. And I played the small xylophone from the kid’s corner, making up melodies that worked well most of the time. I was in the school band an age ago, until I realized that I liked making up my own songs better than playing the classical stuff. People soon heard about the interview I did on the radio, and stopped in to buy our media. We improved our playing. People walking past noticed, in a good way. The two contributing factors came together into a solution. And most things returned.

A busy shop. The record shop, full of customers. Sabre waves at me as she leads a young girl to the science fiction shelf. Warren chats with the locals, and Holly is busy keeping the little ones in line. I walk through the non-fiction section and see a girl, maybe in middle school, holding a book open. The pages are covered with pictures of orcas. Of seaweed. Of hail on the ocean. Of chickens and horses and iguanas. It must be National Geographic.

I walked up to her. “Are you finding everything alright?” She nodded and turned around to face me. “You, do I know you?” She looked up as if searching her memory, shaking her head after a moment. “Anyway. This book has the most wonderful pictures.”

“You like biology?” I asked. I looked down for a moment to disguise my face as I winked.

“I love nature,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis. “Zebras. Thunderstorms. Rain in the mornings. All the crazy rain in this town washes up the coolest treasures.”

I smiled to myself as she turned back to her book. “I can see it all from atop my horse,” she said. “I like to ride at the nearby stable. Everything’s prettier up there. I can see the hills.”

“What does he look like?” I asked. “Your horse. What is he like?”

“He’s all black,” she said, closing the Geographic for a moment. “He’s a fast horse, really fast. He dodges barrels and obstacles and jumps like there’s nothing else in the world. He’s a mustang.” She grinned helplessly, using her hands to gesture. “Insane awesome mustang. We even won some ribbons once! He’s the best horse of all.”

“I think so too.” I smiled back at her. “I’ve always liked wild mustangs.”

Noa Upfeld