|
Satori
Sounds
by Srikanth Bhat '01, Mobile, Alabama
 |
| Srikanth Bhat '01 sifted through
junk and discovered gold. |
I look at the little hut, its blue paint peeling in the corners near
the ceiling. I squint, trying to protect my eyes from the harsh midday sun.
Stepping into the store, my eyes begin to adjust to the shade, and the first
thing I notice is a Pee-Wee Herman doll eerily suspended in midair. It takes
me a second to realize that it is actually a puppet whose barely visible
black strings are stapled to the ceiling. There is no carpet, no fancy shelves,
no listening center, just rows of makeshift wooden cabinets with the LP's
arranged alphabetically. No Billboard Top 100 lists or pictures of the latest
pop sensations are posted; instead the walls are plastered with posters
and record covers. Artists adorning the inside of the store range from Pete
Townshend smashing his guitar, to Dizzy Gillespie's massive cheeks, to Jerry
Garcia strumming his banjo, singing a soulful ballad.
He sits cross-legged on the floor, an island in the midst of a sea of LP's.
There is a certain air of calmness surrounding him. He goes through the
albums confidently, knowing exactly where everything is. Approximately 5'10"
and in his early 40s, he has bronze skin that glitters in the sunlight which
streams through the windows. His long, crooked nose casts a shadow on the
floor. The weather is unseasonably warm, and he is wearing tennis shoes
without socks, khaki shorts, and a plain white T-shirt displaying the name
of his store, Satori Sounds. His dark hair is ruffled, and his eyes dart
from one end of the record pile to another. He wrinkles his forehead, trying
to decide which ones to keep and which to get rid of. I walk toward him,
nervous and quiet, not knowing whether he remembers my phone call a few
days ago. The dusty, wooden floor creaks as I step on it.
"Who's there?" He stops flipping through the records.
"It's me, Mr. Cox, Srikanth Bhat. I'm the one who called about interviewing
you."
"Oh yeah." He sighs and picks up another album. "Just wait at the counter,
I'll be done in a minute."
I wait at the counter, tapping my fingers on the dark mahogany. I lean on
the massive block of wood for 10 minutes, while he continues to rifle through
the tiny mountains of music. Finally, I muster enough nerve and try to approach
him again. I step on the rickety floor, careful not to trip on some of the
planks which dangerously jutt upward. As I come closer, he begins to look
up, but his gaze stops at my feet, and an almost annoyed look spreads across
his face. "You know, I wish you could've come some other time. I have all
this inventory to do." I say nothing, a little taken aback. "But you're
here, so let's do this thing." "I really like the store." I stammer, trying
to break the ice.
"Yeah, well what do you like so much about it?" he says, catching me off
guard.
"The floors. I like their old fashioned look. I think it's kinda cool."
"Yeah, well I've been thinking of redoing them this spring."
"Oh, they're fine as it is." I try to be reassuring.
"What the hell do you know about floors?" For the first time his small,
dark eyes lock onto me, and by the look of his clenched mouth I can tell
that he isn't very pleased. There must be a bewildered expression on my
face, because he suddenly chuckles, and the muscles in his forehead slowly
relax. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just that
I'm under a lot of pressure to get this inventory done today. I'll tell
you what, since I'm doing you a favor by being your interview guy, you can
help me sort out these records."
"All right." My wobbly legs still have not fully recovered from the bumpy
start of our conversation.
"You ever done anything like this before?"
"I worked at the library during the summer, if that helps."
"Well, that'll do for now. Yeah, and by the way, you can call me Charlie."
I sit cross-legged next to Charlie, going through the huge discs one by
one. I show him each record; he glances over it quickly and decides which
of the three bins it should go into. They are marked in order of decreasing
value GOLD, SELLABLE, and JUNK.
"Hey Charlie, what do you want me to do with this one?" I lift up a cover
with a blue tinted photograph of a black saxophonist. He looks at me in
a confused manner.
"You don't know who this is?"
"No," I reply innocently.
"I don't know what you've been listening to, but I'll bet it's nothing compared
to what this guy did for jazz." He leans over and snatches the disc from
my hands. "Son, this is John Coltrane, one of the greatest sax men ever
to live!" He points his stubby index finger at the photo. His voice takes
on the character of a country preacher addressing a simple-minded crowd.
"Someone once said that listening to Coltrane was like walking through his
head. He was so in touch with his music that expressing himself was no problem.
You know how you feel something sometimes, but you're the only person who
can really understand what's going on? Well, with Coltrane he could tell
you exactly how he was feeling, not with words, mind you, but with his music."
His eyes stop moving all around the room, and they converge on me. For the
first time I feel comfortable. I sit on the ground looking up at Charlie's
face, and I am amazed at what he has just told me.
"So what pile do I put this in?"
"Haven't you been listening to anything I've said? Gimme that!" he scolds
me playfully, and deposits the album in a huge plastic container marked
GOLD.
|
