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Record Store Days: From Vinyl to Digital and Back Again

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Gary Calamar

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“As they carried the bags to the car, Stan looked at the stores and buttoned-up pushcarts. “How long do you suppose all of this can last?” “How long can what last?” “I mean Seventh Street and its little specialty shops and pushcarts. It’s a relic, like the Liberty Bell or something like that. They ought to declare it a national monument and preserve it.” “I don’t get you,” Ben said. “Look, they’re building houses like crazy out in the suburbs, Lower Merion, Bucks County, even South Jersey for Christ’s sakes. Young people like Mort and Tracy, ten years ago they would’ve bought a row house a couple blocks over, but they can’t wait to leave. When Mort and you and everyone else moves to the ‘burbs, what will be left? Not the pushcarts, the little shops, the people. The stores in the suburban shopping centers are an easy drive from where people are moving and you don’t have to fight for a parking space. They’re building discount department stores, too, and I bet the prices are as good as the stores on Seventh Street, maybe better. I’m telling you, ten years from now you’ll be asking where everyone went. Twenty years from now, you won’t recognize this place. Take a good look. I bet this will all be gone in twenty years.”

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“I headed for my office, but stopped when I saw my laptop on the couch. Sorrel had obviously borrowed it—again—without permission. I grabbed it, wondering what questionable site he’d left on the screen this time and making a mental note to run the anti-virus software. After taking a shower, putting on my pajamas, and fixing an ice cream sundae for dinner—yes, it was one of those days—I sat down at my desk and pulled up the web browser.”

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“And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn't seem worth starting anything. I can't settle down. I yawn, fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness.”

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“You have your orders,” Mab shouted at the guards. “To the Deeps with her.” The men led me from the great hall, taking me along a series of corridors to the back of the castle, then winding through another long corridor and into a spiraling stairwell that appeared to have no end. We went further and further down until finally it ended so deep in the ground it felt like a grave. My pulse quickened as we reached the bottom. A single dark door lay ahead.”

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