Chapter 6 #3
“I'm sure she’s not that annoying,” I defend the girl even though I haven’t met her.
“You’ll change your mind if you meet her,” Dean says sarcastically.
We pull into a small side parking lot near the record shop.
On our way around the corner, Dean feeds the parking meter some quarters.
We approach the shop side by side. I stop to peer into the front window.
There are large, leafy green plants in the display, with the name RONNIE’S RECORDS in big, swooping red painted letters.
When we walk in, we’re welcomed with warmth. The bell chimes on the door, and a large, burly man greets us at the front counter. I wonder if he’s Ronnie. I follow Dean to the back, unwrapping my scarf and taking off my hat and gloves.
There are records on the walls, and rows and rows of displays.
The last time I was in a record store was before Andy’s death, probably for a signing for his record, many years ago.
I stop in front of a display labeled “NEW RELEASES”.
The display is filled with names I don’t recognize, maybe the only one I know is Taylor Swift.
I lose sight of Dean and on a whim, I wonder if they have Andy’s record in stock.
I wander around, past the Pop Rock to Classic Rock, to finally the section labeled in scrawled handwriting on posterboard, FOLK ROCK.
I flip past records from Bon Iver, Caamp, Father John Misty, Iron & Wine, …
and then, in between The Lumineers and The Mountain Goats is Andy McKinney’s Madeline.
I never got used to seeing the album cover photo plastered everywhere—from a Times Square billboard to Rolling Stone Magazine to my own home.
It was a photo of the back of my head taken on our wedding day, where I have my hair plaited in a braid, and done up with baby’s breath flowers.
It was the most beautiful I’ve ever felt, and I’m glad no one can really confirm if it is me or not since they can’t see my face.
I read the tracklist on the back.
MADELINE
ANY MAN WHO IS NOT AFRAID
MORE THAN THIS
IF THE TIDE TAKES THE COAST
FAULT LINE
LAST TIME
I WAS HER LOVER
It’s a short record, maybe fifty minutes at the most, but each song was agonized over and written carefully.
I was away at college for most of the time Andy was writing, but I was there when he recorded it in a small studio in Portland.
A recording of Andy singing Madeline went viral online, and he became a success in what seemed like practically overnight.
We found him a publicist. There was the Good Morning America appearance.
A small tour on the West coast sold out small venues and theaters, and so they scheduled an Eastern tour, with five shows ending in Maine.
He teased a second album that was never released.
His album got nominated for am award, but of course he was dead well before then and he won posthumously.
His cult following kept growing well after that.
I have about ten copies of this record stored away and don’t really need another one, but still, I take it out of the bin, and tuck it under my arm. Since Andy died, I haven’t touched a single one, even though this was made for me. Seeing my wedding photo here makes me sad, but not in a teary way.
I feel so far removed from that person on the cover, and buying this copy feels like an act of defiance. That maybe somehow I am still her, the woman on the cover. I finished mourning Andy a long time ago, but I never stopped mourning myself.
I look up, and see Dean just a few paces away from me, thumbing through jazz albums. He has a record tucked in the crook of his elbow. I walk over to him, holding the album out for him to see.
“Want to know a secret?” I ask.
“What?” His voice is gentle and soft, not rushed and harsh like it usually is.
“That’s me.” I point to the picture.
“It looks just like the back of your head.” Dean’s face breaks out into a grin, certainly because it’s painfully obvious it’s me in the photo to him. The smile lines on his face are generous and worn in, and they make him seem more human than I ever thought possible.
“There used to be so much drama online about who this photo was of. It was me the whole time.”
“I’m sure.” Dean looks back to the jazz albums.
“It was on my wedding day,” I tell him, and that gets his attention.
“How does that make you feel?” Dean asks.
“It makes me feel exposed.” I admit. “Knowing that a million people have seen this picture. But I told Andy he could use it.”
“How does that make you feel?” Dean breaks into a smile again, pulling out a Frank Sinatra album.
“Hey, now. You’re not my therapist,” I laugh, tucking my album under my arm.
“But I could be,” Dean offers, holding out his own album for me to look at.
“I don’t think so.” I take the album from him, looking at a dazzling Frank Sinatra, complete with fedora hat. “Is this what you’re getting?” I ask, handing it back to him.
“I think so. Are you getting that?” Dean asks me.
“I think so,” I nod. “It’s a gift from me to you.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
We make our way to the checkout counter, and I pay for both of the records as Dean promises to buy me coffee afterwards at the shop next door.
While Dean waits by the door, Ronnie places the records in separate paper bags and hands me both with the receipt.
I thank him kindly. Dean goes to feed the parking meter while I go next door and order two cafe au laits.
I know I shouldn’t drink too much coffee—it always makes my chest hurt and my anxiety worse, but I’m craving something bitter. I sip on it slowly as if it’ll make a difference. I watch Dean come into the shop, looking around for me, and when he spots me, his face lights up.