I entered the dimly-lit room, a half-spent stump of a cigarette dangling from my lips. I couldn't discern the contents of the room, beyond the mere outlines of a victrola in a far, far corner. The music was mournful--Billy Joel was singing about a lonely old man playing his lonely organ.
Suddenly, the victrola began creeping toward me. Slowly, imperceptibly, and increasing in velocity as it made its way inexorably across the room.
It stood before me, unleashing a steady barrage of now Andrea True, now Donna Summer, now Natalie Cole. The music abruptly stopped.
I was 14.
But the spindle and the needle stroking my arm alluringly, invitingly, told me that soon I would become a man.
When we woke up the next morning--she was playing "Reveille," a Dizzy Gillespie version--I lit up another butt. What else could I do? I knew I would never see her again--she was mono, I was stereo. We just weren't compatible.
I never saw her after that, but I'll never forget that walnut little victrola. (P.S.--I am now the happily married father of a clock radio.)
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