The Vinyl Addict
Every morning, he wakes up groggy from the night before. He crawls out of bed; a sweaty imprint of his body is on the sheets. He dizzily walks to the bathroom and brushes his sour teeth. The mirror shows him his face; the addiction is now leaving dark circles under his eyes and a droopy jaw line. Leaving the toothbrush in his mouth, he props himself up against the wall with his right hand and with his left, unzips his jeans. He often accomplished multiple tasks at once to quickly return to his habit. His hand slides off of the wall and presses down lazily on the metal toilet handle. He spits the toothbrush in the sink and proceeds to the den to get his fix.
The man had become the kind of person that never left the house. His hair was never brushed his hair or changed his clothes. He was wearing the same jeans for over five weeks now and he never wore a shirt. As he walks down the stairway, he clutches onto the railing. His weak muscles were a result of inactivity—all of the days and nights spent in the den with a single lamp illuminating a dim portion of the room.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stops to look out the window. Another sunny day in Claremont is on display. His craving gets stronger as he looks out at the world. His equipment is laid out on the coffee table and he gets a rush from simply seeing it. Anxious, he makes his way to the couch and steps on an old 45”. It cracks under his feet and he collapses, gripping the tiny shards of vinyl in his hands. He takes two pieces and pushes them together to revive the title: Moody’s Mood for Love. The desperate addict grabs the scotch tape from the bookshelf and vigorously reassembles the pieces, his body aching from the lack of sleep and stress of his mistake.
With all of the shards in place, he rests the injured single in a wooden box. He remembers the day he picked it up. The dealer was sorting through a new crate when the man spotted it. He peered over his shoulder and slipped it into his messenger bag. This was when he had just started using. He came home and played it over eight times. The creative melody gave him a feeling of euphoria. He sits in the den now, trying to reinvent that feeling.
The addict flips through the dusty milk crates for another gem. Angry and depressed, he begins tossing the ones that he never had a use for. Bollywood Classics, Children’s Bedtime Stories, Kenny Rodgers. Soon, the floor is covered with shards of broken wax. He continues to dig, finding nothing to feed his craving.
He turns toward Moody’s coffin and begins to cry. He curls up on the floor and makes himself comfortable in the sound cemetery. His reaches for his equipment and grabs the small keyboard from the table. Still sprawled out on the floor with the broken pieces, he begins to find the melody. He weeps as he sings, “There I go, there I go, there. I go.”
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