I’d become conversationally familiar with most of the behind the counter employees at the store, having been in once a week or so for the past year, but there was one person I’d never had any interaction with even though I’d seen her on many of my visits. I think it was just by chance that whenever I‘d been in the store before, if she was there one of the other counter people, most of whom were older, happened to ring me up when I made a purchase. But behind the counter this day was Oola, the salesperson I’d never spoken to. In fact, until that day I couldn’t have told you her name. Oola. It was spelled out on the silver pendant that hung low enough into her décolletage that I knew I shouldn’t stare at it for too long, though that was tempting. But she also had many other points of interest that could tempt one’s gaze to linger. There was the chignon wrapped at the back of her head that had brightly colored streaks of hair held in place or randomly spiked out with what looked to be lacquered chopsticks. Then there was her semi-goth makeup and her strikingly mixed ethnic skin tones. I had a hard time approximating her age other than guessing twenties to thirties. But now, given that she was the only one working and as I was the only customer in the store at that moment that rainy afternoon, I decided to see if she could offer any advice as to which of the three records I had in my hand she might be familiar with and recommend.
I walked over and stood for a brief while expecting her to notice me as we were now separated by the width of the case with the cash register on top. I was close enough to smell a mixture of fragrances that I assumed were emanating from her, none of them displeasing. Eventually, I placed the records on the counter, which got her to glance up from her phone. I asked my question, wondering if she would recommend one album over the others, but she just looked at me quizzically like she didn’t seem to hear me or understand why I was there and looking at her. Maybe because, even though there was some modestly loud music playing over the record store’s sound system, she still had her phone earbuds in and was listening to…, I knew not what.
She popped just one of her earbuds out, catching it and leaving it hanging on a gold-colored looping earring that seemed to wind around multiple studs in that ear. As she looked at me, her eyes, which I realized I must have never directly seen before, unnerved me a bit. They were a deep, glowing, golden-hazel color that was contrasted by an unnaturally luminescent sclera that was only slightly bloodshot. I repeated my question now, with a bit of a self-conscious stammer, as I was staring at her eyes without trying to appear as if I was staring while I was attempting to determine if she had some kind of cosmetic contact covering in place that was at least partly responsible for the captivating appearance of her ocular orbs. She paused for a moment without breaking eye contact or looking at the records I’d laid on the counter, almost as if she was sizing me up or enjoying my bit of discomfort. And then the spell was broken as she looked away distractedly and said, “Oh yeah, you want to get this one.” That was when she reached below the counter and pulled out the brown paper-wrapped record.
She set the record on the counter and stared at me again without saying anything else. After a moment I realized she was probably waiting for me to ask her some questions as a prompt for her to give me any indication about just what kind of a record she was recommending I buy. I was about to do that when the bell over the record shop door gave a tintinnabulation as another customer came into the store. Like a Pavlovian Dog responding to the ringing*, Oola turned and grabbed a seemingly random record from the middle of an as-yet unsorted pile of used records, placed it quickly on top of the brown paper wrapped record, and proclaimed in a voice loud enough for all to hear, and in a tone that seemed to say, can you believe this guy, “Yes sir, one used copy of The Shaggs, Philosophy of the World. Oh, have a good time with that!” And then she added in a hushed and conspiratorial voice as she fixed me in her gaze once more, “$50, cash only for this one. Quickly.” Then she held out her hand palm up and looked at me with an expression that I read as, don’t waste my time, pay up now. I happened to have three twenties in my money clip and I pulled them out and placed them in her hand. I imagined she would do something expected at this point like put the money in the cash register and hand me the difference. Instead, she lifted her loose-fitting, lacy, gossamer, bohemian-style top with a space-themed design just enough to shove the bills down the front of her tight-fitting stretchy yoga pants. She then replaced her earbud, picked up her phone, and began tapping away on the screen as her face entertained the faintest glimmer of a smile. I stood there for a moment waiting for my change until she looked my way one last time, gave me a wink, puckered her ruby lips, raised her eyebrows, and waved with her hand in a shooing motion, clearly indicating that I should take my records and get lost.
Did that transaction seem strange to you? I was originally choosing between three albums I was unfamiliar with based on the artistic designs of their covers. Instead of getting one of those I ended up with an album wrapped in a plain brown paper wrapper. And the Shaggs LP. I got back to my car and was about to remove the wrapper to see what I’d bought when I noticed what was printed on the back of the wrapping.