A visit to a record store in a broken town

There it was. The record store. Just up ahead, at the end of the road. If you could even call it a 'road'. More like a loosely-related collection of cobblestones, each eager for independence now at the end of their society. This was no longer a road, for none used it as a road. The record store was no longer a record store, despite the catalogue of vinyls and CDs and pathetic, money-grabbing band shirts with logos designed by a graphic designer who only took the job because she couldn't sell her paintings. The record store was no longer a record store because it was no longer used to buy records.

He walked, carefully, down the broken road, wary of the holes that thirsted for twisted ankles. The buildings on both sides of him - looming over him - were abandoned, of course. This was an historic town. Medieval. But history had no meaning now. The bomb ended history. The bombs. Plural. The record store in front of him was now as much an historical artifact as the cobblestone street and its buildings.

At the front of the store now. The sign above the door hung on a single screw. He craned his head and entered carefully, treating the sign as an icicle that could fall on him at any moment.

The floor of the store was damp. The roof had caved in in places. But all the records remained in their sleeves, the CD's in their cases, the T-shirts on their hangars.

He was after something specific. He had come a long way over the country to reach this place. He was not surprised that it was in as good condition as it was. There was no one around for fifty kilometres to take anything. There hadn't even been rats.

Walking down an aisle, he ran his hand over the tops of the record sleeves like one might in a field of grass. This music, made for ears that no longer existed, for imaginations stopped like a railway cut short.

He passed the I's - Iggy Pop, INXS, Imagine Dragons. Then the J's - Jimi Hendrix, Jay Z, John Lennon. Then the K's - Kanye West, Kiss, Katy Perry. And then he was there, at his destination. The L's. He ignored the Led Zeppelin's and Louis Armstrong's, looking for a cover he would recognise instantly. He saw the thin strip of red on the top, its colour, and his heart raced and he plucked it out and there it was.

"Shh! - The Librarians"

His brother's band. Their first and only record. It was he who had given him the idea for the band name. Something ironic, a little funny. Rockers called the 'Librarians'. His brother had laughed and said he loved it, and the rest was history. His brother was always talented, very very talented, from an early age. He could sing and play and dance and he was good at sport and he was handsome and everyone loved him, girls loved him. Three months after naming the band they got a record deal. The lead single from the album, “This Section is Off-Limits”, charted number one in the country. The other single, "We're Closing in Ten Minutes" did well in America. Not number one, but top forty.

He had never been happier for him, never prouder. His success was his success. About him he could say to the world, "That is of my stock. That is me."

His brother had been in the capital when the bomb dropped. Sometimes, in dark moods, at night, he imagined the bomb dropped directly on his brother’s head, on stage where he had been performing.

He was supposed to see him perform that day, but his wife had been in labour with his daughter on the coast where they had lived. Everyone lost someone on that day. He had lost three. The three big ones, too.

He tucked the record in his jacket and left the store clamping it down under his arm protectively. It was raining now. He walked back up the cobblestone street, where holes had transformed into puddles. Something new to avoid stepping on. He stopped. The rain droplets pattered on his Gore-Tex hood.

He turned around and marched back to the store and ignored the icicle sign and entered the store and kicked the T-shirt stand down and pulled the records down, stomping them and throwing them and smashing them. There was a guitar on the wall signed by he knew not who and he pulled it down and used it to shatter the posters on the wall. He beat the cash register until all the money had fallen out onto the wet floor where it was not destroyed because it was made of plastic.

The guitar finally snapped and he cast it away too. He stood panting in the middle of the wreckage. There was a sense of pride over what he had done. It had needed to be done. It had was wrong that this store was untouched. Apart from the small weather damage it was still ready to do business. It had needed to be destroyed by a human hand.

He took out the record from his jacket. He studied the cover, looking into his brother’s eyes. He was dressed as an archetypal librarian, sitting behind a desk with wireframe glasses on while the rest of the band around him took apart the library.

What if he had survived and was in this world wit him now? It was better he hadn’t. Here there was no music, no radio stations, no stages to perform on. It would have killed him in a deeper way. He had gone out right; flaming, historically. Death-while-playing, death while unaware of what was above, only of what was right in front.

The record dropped from his hand into the shallow floor water. The water hid his brother’s face. All that could be seen of the cover was the title in big letters, “Shh!”.

He left the store.