It was 9:30 and hundreds of teen girls in lace tops and crucifix jewelry filled the parking lot. Music Plus was a Ticketmaster outlet and Madonna concert tickets were about to go on sale. This was a problem. Store manager Dave Selznick was on vacation and he’d assigned “Bad Luck” Benjy to open. I knew Benjy played a late-night punk show at the Hollywood Stardust Ballroom and was probably still sleeping. I walked to a phone at the corner of Santa Monica and Westwood Boulevard and called him. His wife Tina answered.
“Where’s Benjy,” I asked.
“He got food poisoning last night at Toi on Sunset. I’m taking him to emergency.”
“Can you drop off the keys first. We’re locked out.”
Ten minutes later, I spotted Benjy teetering through the parking lot. He looked awful. He pushed aside the Madonna wannabes and staggered toward the front door still wearing eyeliner from last night’s gig. He leaned forward and spewed a torrent of brown puke toward the Madonna clones. They screamed and covered their faces. Benjy managed to unlock the door while simultaneously barfing on the windows. The staff ran inside and watched as the once orderly ticket line dispersed into chaos.
Alejandro, the cross-dressing karaoke lover, turned on the Ticketmaster computer. At 9:59, we opened for business. A blonde teen was first in line. She put her cash on the counter and placed an order. Moments later, she held four Madonna tickets in hand. Despite the chunks of vomit in her hair, she looked ecstatic.
•••
Working at a record store wasn’t easy. We were the last domino in a long chain of musical commerce and an entire industry relied on our ability to sell music. My tenure at the store was 1983–84. These were the early days of compact discs and record execs were drooling. A typical CD sold for $18.99 while only costing about a dollar to make.
Every morning we had a 15-minute staff meeting before opening. Dave, our corporate kiss-ass manager, read notes from the head office and went over new releases for the week. New music came out on Tuesdays and Dave provided sales goals for each artist. When Purple Rain was released, we were expected to sell 50 CD’s per day. This equated to one sale every 13.2 minutes. If we met our goals, we received merch like t-shirts, hats, coffee mugs and posters. If we fell short, we lost in-store perks such as taking home promo CD’s and playing our favorite music in the store.
One morning, Dave informed us that corporate would be visiting that week for our yearly review. “Here’s the kicker,” he said. “They don’t want us to know they’re coming so they’ll be incognito. That means anyone who walks through that door could be a spy. We have to be on our best behavior. No screwing around, no profanity and only Billboard Top 100 tunes on the in-house speakers.”
“I’ll spot that rat fink,” Ricky the Vietnam Vet said. “I can smell a narc a mile away.”
“I don’t want anyone trying to smell anything,” Dave said. “Corporate is our friend. Just be professional and polite with everyone who enters the store.”
Benji and I locked eyes and smiled. We knew if we riled Ricky about the corporate snitch, something awesome would happen. That morning I approached Ricky while he stocked the bins.
“Hey Rick, how we gonna suss out the whistleblower?”
“No problem,” he said. “When I was fighting in Khe Sanh, the Vietcong always knew we were coming. We had two South Vietnamese pricks touring with us. One of ’em had to be a narc. I waited till each took a latrine break and then while he was squatting I put an M16 to his head. The first guy started crying. That meant he was cool. The second guy was stoic. He had to be the rat.”
“So what’d you do,” I asked.
“I shot him in the butt cheek. That way I could get him out of our platoon and blame the VC.”
“So you’re planning on pointing a gun at our customers?”
“Hell no, dumbass. I’ll ask pointed questions and watch how the a-hole reacts.”
“Cool,” I said.
I always wondered if Ricky was packing. He wore tight jeans without distinctive bulges but Benjy thought he might have a weapon strapped to his ankle. Either way, the prospect of Ricky confronting customers meant we were in for an exciting week.
Unfortunately, I’d miss some of the antics. I was assigned to train a new employee. His name was Ryan Bailey, a twentysomething black man with a Magic Johnson-style mustache and goatee. He had a winning smile and chill demeanor. My first job was to impart the Music Plus philosophy.
“We’re a Top 40 store,” I told Ryan. “Corporate wants us focusing on popular music like the crap you hear on AM radio and MTV. Our specialty is rock. No punk, no thrash, no goth, no hard core metal and whatever you do, no rap music. We sell music for white people with money. Got it?”
Ryan nodded yes.
“What music do you like,” I asked.
“Surf music.”
“The Beach Boys?”
“Yup. And the Ventures, Dick Dale, Jan and Dean.”
“Are you a surfer?”
“I like the R & B back beat. It makes me want to dance.”
I showed Ryan the bin categories, the special order forms, the returns section. I taught him how to work the cash register and use the price gun. I explained that we took turns cleaning the bathroom and vacuuming the carpet. He asked how we kept track of inventory.
“Dave orders the music, we put it in the bins. Once a month we pull an all-nighter to physically count stock. It tells us how much theft is happening.”
“People steal music?”
“Every day. Zeppelin IV and Sergeant Pepper top the list. Thieves go for the older stuff which is weird because it’s cheapest.”
Ryan then asked a strange question.
“Do you like working here?”
“I serve an important role in the world,” I said. “It’s my job to preach the gospel of cool tunes. Don’t tell Dave I said this but we sell a lot of dreck. People will buy their Van Halen and Lionel Richie. But if I can get them to try Echo and the Bunnymen or The Cure, I’ve done my job.”
I showed Ryan how to play music on the in-house CD system. His first choice was “Surfin’ Bird” by the Trashmen. As he bopped his head to the beat, Benji tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ricky’s got a live one.”
He pointed to the back of the store where Ricky stood beside a short-haired customer in jeans and a Sex Pistols t-shirt. We sauntered over.
“What’s your favorite Sex Pistols album,” Ricky asked in a hostile tone.
“I don’t have one,” the customer said nervously.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“What’s that one about British politics?”
“You mean Mutiny in the UK?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s it,” the man said.
“That’s not a song you fucking narc. Get out of the store.”
The man hurried to the parking lot, terrified. We watched as he walked towards a BMW.
“That’s a narc car if I’ve ever seen one,” Ricky said.
The man passed the BMW and entered a beaten 1970s Oldsmobile with a cracked rear window.
“Is that a narc car,” I asked.
Ricky slunk away sheepishly.
•••
At least once a week, Travis and Suzie had one of their epic shouting matches. They were high school sweethearts who’d worked at Music Plus since the mid-1970s. Suzie was a hippie Deadhead who yearned to get married and have kids. Travis was a perfectly-coifed Elvis Costello devotee who wasn’t ready to settle down. Their in-store fights were legendary.
We always knew when a fight was coming. Suzie would wear provocative clothing and flirt with male customers. This was her way of getting back at Travis for one of his alleged affairs. One time Suzie removed her blouse and worked in her bra. Travis was furious and took Polaroids to send to corporate. Instead of being subjected to discipline, Suzie was invited to dinner by an HR rep. She accepted knowing it would send Travis into a rage.
Their resulting squabble was awesome. Suzie coined the term “two-minute Travis” which became his in-store nickname. Travis reciprocated with “slutty Suzie,” a lame effort that made him look sexist. Suzie further infuriated Travis by defacing an Elvis Costello poster with devil horns. Travis grabbed a Grateful Dead album from the vinyl bin and snapped the record in two. Corporate kiss-ass Dave, who usually stayed neutral during these battles, became apoplectic.
“That’s a $39.99 import, you idiot. It’s coming out of your pay.”
“Happy now,” Travis yelled at Suzie.
“Getting there,” she replied.
Benjy played “Love Stinks” by the J. Geils band on the store speakers while Travis stormed into the back room. We all laughed except “surf music” Ryan who seemed confused.
“Are you guys always like this?”
“Only on the good days,” I said.
•••
During the Friday morning meeting, Dave reminded us corporate review week was almost over. “One more day and we’re in the clear.”
“What happens then,” I asked.
“We get our review and if all goes well I get a bonus.”
“How about us?”
“You get my eternal gratitude,” he laughed.
He gave Travis and Suzie the day off and he put Ricky on register so he couldn’t hassle customers. I worked the floor with Benjy, Alejandro and “surf music” Ryan. Ricky whistled and gave nonsensical hand signals whenever a “suspicious” customer entered as if he’d spotted an enemy soldier in the rice paddies. He had me surveilling a preppy Paul Weller type, a bearded Waylon Jennings fan and a middle-aged businessman at the Velvet Underground bin.
“Ain’t no way that dude’s into the Velvets. Interrogate him,” Ricky demanded.
“What should I say?”
“Ask him his favorite Lou Reed song. If he says, “Take a Walk on the Wild Side,” he’s a narc.”
Ricky’s paranoia drove everyone crazy. When my shift ended, I was ready for a day off. I asked Benjy and Ryan to join me for dinner. We walked to Feast From the East for chicken wings and noodles. Benjy asked Ryan what he thought about his first week.
“I don’t think it’s for me,” Ryan said.
“Why not?”
“You guys are too crazy. I need something more relaxed.”
He told us he gave notice to Dave. I was bummed since Ryan was a great addition to our team. Two weeks later we received our formal corporate review. It was a B-minus. Dave didn’t get his bonus. Given the Larry/Suzie fight and Ricky’s pestering of customers, it could’ve been worse.
“So who was the corporate spy,” Alejandro asked.
Dave read the report aloud.
The Westwood staff is well-versed in corporate procedure and knowledgeable about music. But they are unstable and prone to emotional outburst. In my short time in the store, I witnessed staff squabbles, customer harassment and abundant profanity. Fortunately, their love of music, team spirit and general enthusiasm overrides their rebellious tendencies. Grade: B-minus.
“It was Ryan,” Suzie yelled.
“How did I miss that,” Ricky asked. “A black man who likes the Beach Boys? Come on.”
We launched into an impromptu contest choosing songs that referenced spies and surveillance. Best song meant control of in-store music for the day. Alejandro picked “Somebody’s Watching Me” by Rockwell. Travis went for Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives.” Suzie selected “Private Eyes” by Hall & Oates while Ricky opted for “Paranoid” by Black Sabbath. Benjy was the winner with “Secret Agent Man” by Johnny Rivers.
I knew we were in for a good day.