By Alex Rusch
Being a record player is a strange business. I live in a store that sells records, owned by an eccentric record collector. There are records stacked wall to wall, all staring me down as if they are wondering when I will play them. And when they do finally get to come off those shelves, get the dust blown off of them, and set upon me, I can almost hear their excitement, bursting to be relieved of their silence. I have been here for a long time. Once, all sorts of people used to come in here, browsing the shelves, until they gave out a gasp, like a child who has received the present they have been asking for all year for their birthday. They rush to the cashier and pay with some strange green papers, before marching out like they won the lottery. But now it’s just the occasional eccentric collector, like my owner. Blood hounds they are, scampering in, sniffing around until they find their prize. And out goes the record, happy to find a new friend, but unaware that they shall go back on the shelf as soon as the collector brings them home. It is nice, to be able to play music all day and to be carefree, except that you might be forced to play a song you don’t like. But the worst part, the part that makes me want to be a microwave or a newspaper, is seeing the poor records. Trapped there like prisoners in a cell, doomed to be quiet until someone buys them, collecting dust and looking sad. If I didn’t have to look at them all day, I would love being a record player. But even playing my music can’t keep my eyes from those lonely black discs. Feeling for them, stuck there while I can be free.
Being a record player is a strange business. I live in a store that sells records, owned by an eccentric record collector. There are records stacked wall to wall, all staring me down as if they are wondering when I will play them. And when they do finally get to come off those shelves, get the dust blown off of them, and set upon me, I can almost hear their excitement, bursting to be relieved of their silence. I have been here for a long time. Once, all sorts of people used to come in here, browsing the shelves, until they gave out a gasp, like a child who has received the present they have been asking for all year for their birthday. They rush to the cashier and pay with some strange green papers, before marching out like they won the lottery. But now it’s just the occasional eccentric collector, like my owner. Blood hounds they are, scampering in, sniffing around until they find their prize. And out goes the record, happy to find a new friend, but unaware that they shall go back on the shelf as soon as the collector brings them home. It is nice, to be able to play music all day and to be carefree, except that you might be forced to play a song you don’t like. But the worst part, the part that makes me want to be a microwave or a newspaper, is seeing the poor records. Trapped there like prisoners in a cell, doomed to be quiet until someone buys them, collecting dust and looking sad. If I didn’t have to look at them all day, I would love being a record player. But even playing my music can’t keep my eyes from those lonely black discs. Feeling for them, stuck there while I can be free.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.