Skip to: Site menu | Main content

snippet six

2007-03-09

Since giving up my route, my bank account was dwindling, so just after the first of the year I took a three night-a-week job at a local record store, agreeing to the paltry wages with the understanding that, once the weather broke, I was never, not ever, to be scheduled any days except Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings. I learned the ropes quickly there and soon became the official used record buyer for the store.

They actually scheduled appointments for me, and would not buy records from people except during the hours I worked. All night long., in people would come, old shopping bags bursting at the seams full of used vinyl. One week I bought sixteen copies of the White Album from sixteen different sellers. I was surprised so many people wanted to sell that particular album since I considered it one of the finest ever recorded.

I came to feel like the place was my little fiefdom and I probably came off as a bit of a prima donna. Soon, I made some connections with a couple of people who did estate sales around town. Not wanting to bother with records, sometimes they’d sell me entire collections of old records for a buck or two. This was great, since every collection, it seemed, contained a few valuable discs, but since the record store; called Boogie Moon by the way; didn’t deal in used classical records, easy listening or any other genres other than rock, R and B and a little country, I found myself in a position to sell the valuable ones I’d come across on my own. I’d place ads little ads in collector magazines promising “a surprise” record as a bonus if they bought whatever I was advertising. This ploy worked well and allowed me to rid myself of some of the chaff with the wheat.

The owner, a short little cigar-smoking guy around forty named Maury, got a kick out of my entrepreneurship and refused any money from my side work, even though it was wholly derived from his business.

“You thought of this, not me.” He’d say. “What do I know from Mozart?”

He did allow me to buy him a sandwich every now and again on the nights I worked. There was a little sub-shop down a couple of buildings down from Boogie Moon run by and old italian guy named Dave, whom Maury loved dearly; they’d grown up in the same neighborhood; and he loved Dave’s subs even more than Dave himself. “I’m addicted,” he’d say sheepishly apologetic, palms out, head tilted. “What can I say?”

So the store smelled like a strange combination of cigar smoke, vinyl and salami, and I never broke Maury’s rule of paying more than a dollar for any used record, no matter what. Some? We only gave a dime for, and others I’d reject out of hand. I made a sign I hung over my little station. “Feel free to bring me Donnie and Marie albums but don’t expect me to pay for them.” This offended a few people but it got some laughs too, and so I’d change the artists’ names every week or two. There were a few friendly bets amongst regulars about who’d next be on “Paul’s shit list.”

On my side of the store, the used side, there were some healthy profits being made.

“It’s not what you can sell something for; something will only bring market value, not one penny more. You remember that. The money is made when you buy something, because you own something right? You already made your profit.”

-The gospel according to Maury.

Link to This | Back to top

Spirited Minikin (2007-03-09)
Okay. This is like the sixth time I've attempted to write a comment but I keep getting distracted. Not like it's going to be any different or more profound than the others...LOL...but whatever. This snippet was great. My favorite one yet to be honest. You are an incredible writer. I just want to read the whole darn thing! :) Sincerely, Your #1 Fan aka Spirited Minikin aka Shaynie

Wedge (2007-03-09)
Sounds like it was a fun place to work. There used to be a record shop in my area - Bill's Records and Tapes, and Bill would always be working there, and always had a cigarette in hand. He was a real character.

[ Back to top ]

Created with ShoutPost