A Dusty Tires Short Story

By Dusty Tires

An interesting thing happened to me yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. I’m running the cash register that afternoon at Howlin’ Wolfie’s Records on the strip up on campus. I had just put on Led Zeppelin IV, Side One, on the house stereo.

It always gets busy at about 3:30 p.m. because that’s when afternoon classes end. We’re on the second floor of a three-story brick building. There’s a coffee shop, bakery and deli located just below our shop on the ground floor, and the wonderful aroma of coffee and baked goods drifts up all day long. The top floor consists of fleabag apartments — I know, because I live in one of them.

Anyway, the bell on top of our door jingles and in walks these two nerdy-looking guys. I can tell they’re freshmen. Everything about them looks new and young. New backpacks, new T-shirts, new jeans, new shoes, new clean-shaven faces — and hopefully new dollar bills.

Their newness contrasts with our one-room store, which is old and dingy except for the colorful rock posters plastered on the gray walls. The building must be at least 80 years old. The coffee and bakery smell from downstairs hide the room’s musty old socks smell.

I keep looking down at the records I’m sorting, pretending to barely notice them coming in.

“Hi!” says the taller one. 

I nod in their general direction and continue sorting.

“Great choice on the stereo — Led Zeppelin,” he says.

I grunt in his direction. That’s like saying, “The snow is white,” right? Freshmen.

“Look at this place — isn’t it great?” Tall Guy says to his friend, who seems a lot more likely to leave me alone to do my job.

“For real,” says Quiet Guy in a low voice.

“I discovered this place last week,” Tall Guy says. “It’s really cool.”

Last week? This place has been here since the year before Woodstock happened, and I’ve been here since “Dark Side of the Moon” was first released, I think to myself. Some of the posters on the walls here look older than these two. Sheesh.

They both start going through the record albums, arranged around the room in alphabetical order and by genre — rock, folk, country, jazz, soul and Motown, blues, instrumental, classical, gospel, bluegrass and other more exotic varieties. We have mostly rock and a good variety of everything else. We carry mostly used records, but a good percentage of our stock is new.

The racks of records line all four walls and an island in the center of the room. I’d say the room holds at least 8,000 to 9,000 records, and more come in every day through trades. That’s one of my jobs, to sort through records and put price stickers on them. Most of them are in the $1 to $3 range. Double albums are usually $5 or $6.

So anyway, these two dudes are combing through like every single rack of records, pulling vinyl out of the sleeves and checking for dirt, scratches and warps. They open the gatefold albums and look at the artwork on the inside folds and on the posters. They read lyric sheets and liner notes written by nighttime FM disc jockeys. One of them finds the double-live album “The Last Waltz” by The Band, but eventually puts it back.

A few other customers have come and gone but these two are still at it.

Finally, I say to them, “Hey guys, you don’t have to look through everything today. We’ll be open again tomorrow.” And I think that’s pretty funny, so I laugh.

Then Quiet Guy looks at me real serious like and says, “Yeah, that’s what’s so great about this place,” and keeps on looking.

I just say, “Well, right on, man.” I mean, I can’t argue with that. I remove Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” from the house stereo and put on “Relayer” from Yes.

Tall Guy finally comes up to the register with like 15 records and puts them on the counter. Lots of Led Zeppelin along with Grand Funk Railroad, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Joe Walsh, Doobie Brothers, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Seger, John Sebastian, all good stuff.

Quiet Guy follows him and brings up 12 records. Poco, Eagles, Ozark Mountain Daredevils, The Byrds, Beatles, Paul McCartney & Wings, Neil Young, Electric Light Orchestra, Jackson Browne, more goodies.

“We’ll be back next week,” Tall Guy says.

“Yeah, we gotta go earn some more money,” Quiet Guy says.

“See you then,” I tell them. “Like I said, we’ll be here.”

I finish up at the register and look at the time. It’s almost 5 p.m. It will be two more hours before I’m off the clock. I rub my eyes and yawn. Then “Time Fades Away” from Neil Young catches my eye, so I put Side One on the house stereo.

A few more people drift in, start to browse through records, and the whole thing starts all over again. Was that yesterday? I’m not sure anymore. My mind sometimes plays tricks on me.

But what I really wanted to talk about was this – this happened last week, or maybe yesterday, I’m not sure — I got out of my car and walked along High Street. Since the years have passed, I walk with a cane these days, which is slow going.

I finally got to the old three-story brick building and looked at the sign outside. It said something about Instant Cash Loans.

I opened the door and slowly took the dimly lit stairway to the room. Boy, my knees hurt! The dusty wooden floorboards in the hallway creaked with age. The door to the old place was locked shut.

A voice behind me said, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I was just visiting a place I used to work and live. It was a record store with some apartments above,” I said, turning around.

Standing in the hallway was a tall man with a slight smile on his face. He had a gray beard and was dressed in faded jeans and a rock T-shirt.

“Oh, wow. Howlin’ Wolfie’s, right? I think it went out of business about 20 years ago.”

“Hmm, yes,” I said. “Has anything else been in here since it went out of business?”

“I think it’s been used for a few things over the years but it’s vacant now,” he said.

Looking up, I saw there was still a little jingly bell on top of the door. It was covered in dust.

“I see. Well, thank you.”

I went slowly back down the creaking wooden stairway and out the door toward my car.

“Now if it was up to me, that place would have an historical marker in front of it.” It was the same voice I had heard on the stairway.

“What?”

I turned around and faced the tall man standing on the sidewalk. In the sunlight, I realized he looked vaguely familiar.

“That old record store. It was here for what, 35 years? It survived MTV, Walkmans, compact discs, MP3 players, iPods, digital streaming, Bluetooth and who knows what else,” he said. “You were a big part of that.

“So I want to give you my thanks,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Well, you’re welcome,” I said, grasping his hand for a moment. I wanted to ask him how he remembered me, but he had already turned away and joined the sidewalk strollers along the street.

Then I looked down and saw that he handed something to me. It was a record — a lovingly used copy of Led Zeppelin IV. The cover showed an old man carrying a bundle of sticks on his back. I chuckled, because the picture reminded me of myself now.

I looked down the street and started to walk after him, but the arthritis in my knees wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t catch up.

So I went home, put the record on the stereo and turned up the volume, because my hearing’s not what it used to be. And I won’t lie to you — it still sounded pretty good. 

Read more about Vinyl Record Stores in Dusty Tires.

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