My favorite part about working at a record store were the conversations with fellow employees about music. These could get heated and evolve into passionate arguments. Once we were trying to define punk rock. Travis, an Elvis Costello fanatic said, “Punkers can’t play instruments. Their songs only have two or three chords.”
“Wrong,” Bad Luck Benjy said. Benjy was lead singer in a band called Tetraplegic. He considered himself an authority in all things punk. “Should I Stay or Should I Go has four chords. Don’t tell me the Clash aren’t punk.”
“They’re not, they’re pop,” Travis shot back.
“The Clash is punk as fuck,” Benjy said.
Ricky, the angry Vietnam Vet, interjected. “The Clash are reggae posers. They stole from Jimmy Cliff and Peter Tosh.”
“That proves they’re punk,” Benjy said. “Punkers steal.”
Dave Selznick, the store manager, was more pragmatic. “If we sell it in our store, it’s not punk.”
This was true since Music Plus was a Top 40 retail outlet dedicated to Billboard 100 music. We carried two Clash albums in the store, London Calling and Combat Rock. These were approved by our corporate overlords which by definition meant they weren’t punk. We didn’t carry Sandinista!, the Clash’s 1980 triple album meaning this might actually be punk.
We all agreed that a true punk band needed a great punk name like Dead Kennedys, Circle Jerks, Bad Brains, Sex Pistols, Black Flag or Butthole Surfers. Some non-punk performers had “punk credentials” like Lydia Lunch, Richard Hell and Nina Hagen. Travis said Elvis Costello qualified as punk but Benjy objected.
“Elvis Costello’s a mod poofter.”
“He’s more punk than you,” Travis shot back.
“You wouldn’t know punk if it hit you in the face.”
Our only true punk option in the store was the Ramones. For some reason, this slipped past our corporate sensors. Maybe it was because the band wore leather jackets and jeans, a wardrobe favored by our bosses. Or maybe it was because they were from New York where the corporate offices were located.
We were only allowed to play one Ramones song in the store: “Blitzkrieg Bop.” With lyrics like “Hey ho, let’s go,” I grew to hate this song. But compared to the anodyne hits of the day from Madonna, Wham, Bryan Adams, Huey Lewis and Kenny Loggins, the Ramones were at least punk-adjacent. In a world where MTV was doing its best to kill modern music, sometimes all we had were bad choices.
•••
I knew something was screwy when store manager Dave asked about my weekend. “You do anything fun?”
He said this with a tainted smile, lips pressed in the center and angled at the corners as if he’d bitten into something sour. Dave didn’t socialize with the underlings. He was a corporate suck-up whose goal was to maximize store profits in the hope of being promoted to an executive position. The fact he was asking about my weekend triggered my motion sensor alarm.
“I went to the Renaissance Fair,” I said. “I ate a turkey leg and did some axe throwing.”
“Sounds fun,” Dave said. “You should’ve invited me.”
The thought of hanging with Dave outside work was disconcerting. He was a control freak, an uptight micromanager who monitored every second of our workday. He timed our speed restocking CD bins or how long we spent in the bathroom. During one morning staff meaning he said, “Fun is the enemy of productivity.” For him to ask about my private life was way out of character.
“What’s up with Dave,” I asked Suzie the bohemian Deadhead.
“I think he has a girlfriend,” she said.
“No way.”
“Yes way. He asked me what kind of flowers to bring on a second date.”
In the six months I’d worked at the store, I’d never heard anything about Dave’s dating life. I didn’t think he was gay, he seemed more asexual. The staff spent hours speculating on the type of woman who’d subject herself to Dave’s dull disposition and halitosis. Was she young, old, cognitively challenged? Ricky posited she must have a neurological condition. “That explains the wheelchair ramp outside.”
Assistant manager Don corrected him. “Ever hear of the Americans with Disabilities Act?”
“Socialist garbage,” Ricky said.
As the days passed, Dave came in each morning happy and whistling. One day he told a real joke. “What did one windmill say to the other? I’m a big metal fan.” He laughed like an epileptic having a Grand Mal seizure. Alejandro, the cross-dressing Smiths fan, suggested we call an ambulance since Dave “might be having a stroke.”
Dave’s personality transformation disrupted our in-store rhythm. He’d always been our tiger outside the village, a threatening presence to unite staff in mutual fear and respect. We didn’t know how to process his newfound pleasantness.
One day Suzie said she had important news. She asked us to meet her at Earth, Wind and Flour restaurant after work. We gathered at a large table in back.
“She’s Russian,” Suzie said. “Her name’s Lyudmila.”
“Sounds like a venereal disease,” Ricky said.
“He found her in a mail order catalog.”
“That’s how I buy my shoes,” Alejandro said. He flashed a pair of shiny gold creepers.
“It’s a dating service. They show you women’s photos and you pick your date. It’s legit.”
“That’s not dating,” Ricky said. “It’s prostitution.”
“Don’t be a jackass,” Suzie said.
Suzie was the only person who could speak this way to Ricky. We all knew he had a secret crush on her, but she and Travis had been a couple since high school. This created tension between Travis and Ricky prompting Dave to schedule them on separate shifts.
“Dave told me he’s taking her to Monty’s restaurant on Friday night,” Suzie said.
“Swanky,” Alejandro said. “That’s gonna cost him a fortune.”
“He’s lonely,” Suzie said. “Lonely people do stupid things.”
“Why is it stupid to go on a date,” Travis asked. “Let him have his fun.”
“He knows nothing about her,” Suzie said.
“Maybe he’ll get lucky,” Travis said.
“It’s a scam,” Ricky said. “Soviet women come here to swindle Americans. I saw it happen in Saigon. I knew a guy who brought back a 16-year-old. A year later the guy died in mysterious circumstances. The girl’s now living with some Vietnamese mucky muck in the GI’s house.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Travis said.
“Yeah? Gimme one reason why someone would go out with Dave,” Ricky said.
The question hung over the table. None of us could answer.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Suzie said. “I’ll go to Monty’s and sit at the bar while Dave’s on his date. That’ll let me suss out the situation and see what she’s up to.”
“What, you’re just going to read her mind by looking at her,” Travis asked.
“Women know.”
“I’ll come with you in case someone hassles you at the bar,” Ricky said.
“You’re too aggro,” Suzie said. “I’ll take Travis.”
“Great, our first date in six months and we’re spying on Dave.” Travis said.
“I don’t want him to get taken advantage of.”
“He takes advantage of us every day,” Benjy said. “He’s a corporate brown-noser.”
“He’s our brown-noser and we need to look after him.”
•••
I opened the store on Saturday morning with Alejandro and Ricky. I asked if either had heard anything about Dave’s date.
“No murder reports in the morning paper,” Ricky said.
Suzie was scheduled to come in at noon. By 1:00, there was no sign of her. I grew worried and gave her a call. Travis answered.
“Where’s Suzie?”
“It’s bad man,” Travis said.
“What?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Is she coming in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure if we’re still employees.”
“What do you mean?”
“Uh, let me call you back.”
Suzie and Travis missed their weekend shifts. On Monday, Dave arrived a half hour late. He was never late. He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved or showered. He stormed past me into the back room.
The morning staff meeting was brutal. Dave was a beast again, a heartless bureaucratic thug. When Benji asked if he could take an early lunch Dave replied, “You’ll fucking eat when I tell you.”
We gave Dave ample space, aware something bad had happened. Alejandro meekly asked if Suzie or Travis were coming in that day. Dave exploded. “If you say one of their names again you’re fired.”
After work, I drove with Benji and Alejandro to Suzie and Travis’ apartment in Westwood. Travis opened the door wearing underwear and a dirty t-shirt.
“Not a good time fellas,” he said.
“We’re not leaving until you tell us what happened,” Benjy said.
“I think we’re both fired,” Travis said.
“Why?”
Travis sighed.
“Give me a second to get dressed.”
We walked with Travis to Veterans Park a few blocks away. Travis sat on a swing and filled us in.
“Friday night Suzie and I went to Monty’s and sat at the bar. She ordered a gin and tonic, I had a beer. We saw Dave and the Russian lady at a table near the window. She was pretty. Puffed-up blonde hair, low-cut gown with pearls, lots of cleavage. Suzie hated her right away. Thought she was a slut.
“We watched as the waiter brought them caviar and a bottle of Dom Perignon. Suzie grabbed a wine menu and saw the champagne was $250. This really pissed her off. You know how she gets when she’s mad. She starts growling and cursing. Before I know it she’s had three gin and tonics.
“Dave and the Russian lady keep toasting and laughing. She’s fluffing her hair, adjusting her dress. He can’t take his eyes off her. Dave ordered another bottle of champagne. The whole time Suzie’s calling her a two-bit floozy and a concubine. Then the waiter brings their food. Dave ordered pasta but the Russian ordered steak and lobster. Suzie checks the menu and sees the surf and turf is $79. This puts her over the edge.
“Suddenly the Russian chick gets up and goes to the ladies room. Suzie gets off the stool and follows. I’m sitting there, knowing Suzie’s about to lose her shit. Sure enough, the bathroom door opens and Suzie and the Russian lady burst out screaming, arms flailing, legs kicking. They’re pulling at each other’s hair, biting, slapping. We’re talking grade-A cat fight.
“I look over at Dave. He’s standing, trying to figure out what’s happening just like everyone else in the restaurant. A bunch of waiters and busboys pull the ladies apart and drag them into a back room. Ten minutes later the cops arrive and they’re both arrested.
“A policeman tells Dave they’re taking his date to the station for disturbing the peace. That’s when he sees me. Oh my God, if looks could kill. I drive to the Westwood police station and they tell me it’s gonna take a few hours to bail out Suzie. So I sit in the lobby across from Dave. The whole time he’s glaring at me like he wants to strangle me.”
“They finally free Suzie but there’s a problem with the Russian. A cop tells Dave she has a rap sheet a mile long. Fraud, money laundering, embezzlement and an expired visa. Dave wants to know when they’ll let her out. The cop just laughs and says, ‘She’s not going anywhere.’
“I felt so bad for Dave. He was a deer in the headlights, totally confused and overwhelmed. So I get up and walk over to Dave and put a hand on his shoulder. He glowers at me and says, ‘Don’t say a fucking word and don’t bother coming to work.’
“I drove Suzie home and she told me what happened in the bathroom. When she walked in the Russian lady was sprucing up her makeup in the mirror. Suzie stood there, drunk, staring. Finally the lady says, ‘Can I help you?’ Suzie says, ‘I know what you’re up to.’ Then the lady says, ‘I didn’t know they let whores in here. I thought this was a classy restaurant.’ Suzie lost it. She jumped on the Russian and started hitting her. The Russian hit back. They were screaming and fighting and well, you know the rest. The whole thing’s a nightmare.”
Benji, Alejandro and I all stared at Travis, dumbfounded. Finally, Benjy says, “I had you all wrong. You are punk rock.”
•••
For the next few days, Dave was seething. We all walked on eggshells, afraid to trigger his ire. Suzie and Travis stayed away. None of us knew their work status. Nobody mentioned the Russian elephant in the room. Instead, we referenced the situation through musical selections on the store speakers. Benjy played “Red Skies at Night” by The Fixx. Ricky chose “Back in the U.S.S.R.” by The Beatles. I played Sting’s album Dream of the Blue Turtles and turned up the volume for the song “Russians.”
The energy in the store became so toxic people started talking about quitting. That’s when assistant manager Don got involved. He and Dave were friends. He told Dave that Travis and Suzie couldn’t be fired for events that happened outside work. This would make Music Plus open to a lawsuit. He said that if anyone reported Dave’s cantankerous behavior to corporate, he’d lose his chance at promotion. This got Dave’s attention. He called a mandatory staff meeting after work.
“Most of you have probably heard about the after-hours fiasco I had with Suzie and Travis,” Dave said. “That’s why they haven’t been here for the past week. I know I’ve been tough to deal with lately. I’m sorry. I had a date from hell and you’ve all probably been laughing at me behind my back. It’s pretty embarrassing. But that doesn’t excuse my behavior.”
He made eye contact with everyone in the room. He looked as if he was about to cry.
“Starting tomorrow, Suzie and Travis will be back at work. We had a long talk and I apologized to them. I’m your manager and I know sometimes I can be difficult. But I’m a human being too and I have problems just like you. I want you to know, I’m sorry. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.”
We were all stunned by Dave’s mea culpa. We stepped forward and gave him a group hug. It was awkward and somewhat forced, but we wanted him to know we cared.
The next morning, Suzie and Travis returned to work. The staff gave them an ovation. Everyone was smiling, including Dave.
“We have something for you Dave,” Suzie said.
She reached into a grocery bag and pulled out a bottle of Dom Perignon. She gave it to Dave. He laughed begrudgingly. He opened the bottle, passed it around and we all took sips. At 10 a.m., we opened for business ready for another day of life at a retail music store.