by Jesse Raub

I put the phone down and could still hear Donna’s voice ringing through my ear canal.

“I’m having his baby.”

I could hear a faint voice come from the handset as it sat on top of the bed stand, and then just the dial tone buzzing.  A part of me knew she’d never come back, but the other part had planned my life around her.  And I needed to strangle that part.

I put Metallica’s Ride the Lightning on the turntable, James Hetfield growing “Fight fire with fire!” at me through my muted old speakers as I rolled a joint kneeling in front of the coffee table in my shitty apartment.  I took my time, carefully folding over a corner of the paper and rolling it tight with slow, deliberate hand motions.  The phone was still buzzing in the bedroom, but I could barely hear it under the music.

Sat back in the couch, lit the joint.  Thought about what I was going to do with all the free time now that I didn’t have to put up with Donna’s bullshit.  Finish reading Moby Dick.  Quit my job washing dishes at the restaurant, cut my hair short and try to get a real job doing something in an office.  Buy some ties from Sears and really try this time.

Instead of doing any of that I flipped on the TV.  Watched a few Star Trek reruns and Law and Order. Then I fell asleep on the couch, still stoned, the record player still spinning and digging a hell of a groove into my album.

I woke up at eight the next morning, brushed the ash from the coffee table into my hands and dumped it in the sink, put the phone back on the hook, and pulled the needle off the record.  It was fucked.  I held it up in the light and looked at the gouge that had worn in at least two millimeters around the label.  I was mad at myself, but angrier at Donna.  It was her damn fault for breaking up with me.  If she didn’t, then I wouldn’t have gotten stoned and ruined my album.  And original pressings of Ride the Lightning aren’t easy to come by.

I tried to make coffee but I didn’t have any filters, so I decided to shower, trim my beard, and go out for a late breakfast.  I might have still been a little stoned because I just stood naked in the shower for thirty minutes, wet, hairy, overweight, and a little depressed.  I decided I couldn’t wait for my hair to dry before I left the house so I threw on jeans and a Motorhead t-shirt and pulled my hair up in a bun.

The place on the corner was closed so I had to walk six blocks to the coffee shop.  At least it was sunny and warm out.  Doug was working, and he gave me a free cup that I proceeded to fill at the self-serve counter.  But once I got stared at the white paper cup steaming with brown liquid in my hand, I realized what I really wanted was pancakes and fucking sausage and hash browns.

“You should go to Washington’s,” Doug said from behind the counter.

“They have breakfast?” I asked.  Washington’s was a bar we went to fairly often.  Or used to go to often before Donna.

Doug nodded.

Ten minutes later I was facedown in a plate of pancakes.  Washigton’s had bought the art gallery space next door and gave it a row of booths and hired a small wait staff.  And it was a good breakfast.  Not good enough to make me forget Donna or the ruined Metallica, but good in a way that I was discovering things to look forward to in the future.

When I left Washington’s, I saw something in the window of the across the street.  I dodged traffic, half-jogged over, and peered in.  Standing up was a mint vinyl copy of Metallica’s Ride The Lightning. Or at least the sleeve.  I burst in the door and bum rushed the cashier.

“There a record that goes with that sleeve?”

The pimply teenager nodded his head.

“How much,” I demanded.

“Fifty bucks, man,” he said, scowling.

I didn’t have the money, so I started to dig through my pockets, and that’s when I felt it.  A little velvet box.  And my mind started racing.

There she was, lying topless on the bed and laughing, plucking at strands of her curly blonde hair.  She pulls the covers up to her neck in an act of attempted modesty, but I whip them away and pull out a camera and threaten to take lewd photographs.  She laughs again, and beckons me to come closer with her finger.

We’re standing out in the rain, and she’s looking up at the moon.  I tell her that I’ve lost my job because I failed the drug test, and she turns and faces the door before saying “I cheated on you.”

We’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant, and she tells me that she’s been seeing someone else but can’t decide which one of us she’s in love with.

I’m standing in front of my dad’s coffin at his wake wearing a black suit, and I feel a hand on my shoulder.  I turn and there she is, in a black dress.  And even though my dad’s dead, all I can think about is pulling her into a closet and pulling her dress over the top of her head.

I’m standing in a jewelry store, looking into the glass counter, and pointing to the cheapest diamond ring they have.

I pull the box out and put it down on the counter.

“I’ll give you this, and you’ll give me the album,” I said.  The kid looked stunned, flipped open the box, and pulled out the LP from a drawer.  He slid it in the sleeve, handed it to me, and I walked out into the sunshine.  And even though the trade left me out about seven hundred dollars, I found it somehow hard to care.

“The Record” by Jesse Raub is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.