Track [4] “Help I’m Alive”/Metric
Dad was still stewing about Eddie the next morning. I could tell. So when Velvet sent me into town on my first personal assistant mission to buy shampoo at the lake’s one true salon—Mandy’s Hair Caboose and Big T’s Barber didn’t count—I had a pit stop in mind for a gift that could turn his mood around.
When my father isn’t happy, no one is. I definitely wasn’t. And I needed him on my side right now. I wanted to be basking in the glow of future plans with Eddie, not avoiding my father’s scowl. I was going to fix it with the one thing he loved more than old cars. Music.
Specifically, old records.
“This town is a fried-chicken-bucket of charm,” Starla said, whipping the hybrid car into a packed parking lot off the Strip to let me out. “Everyone is so nice. I came into town yesterday with Norma, and in five minutes, I’d booked a job with a man who needs hip work. A sweet man, not a creep who thinks just because I’m a massage therapist, I give happy endings.”
“Rosa isn’t going to want you doing work outside the lodge,” I warned her. “Same as when we’re back in the Bel Air house. You have to get it approved in advance.”
“Everyone needs a side hustle,” Starla said, giving me a playful smile as she tossed a mermaid-dyed ponytail over one shoulder. “Besides, Rosa doesn’t control what I do during Starla Time. She doesn’t own me. Right, Frida-pup?” she cooed.
Frida panted at her from my lap and tried to lick her nose. Starla Pham was a few years older than me—twenty-one—and had been working as PA and masseuse to Mad Dog’s wife since the fall. She was in the process of getting acupuncture points tattooed all over her arms and legs. I wish I could’ve been as laid-back as she was about the house rules.
But I’d lived with the Larsens for too long. I’d seen a lot of domestics fired. Mad Dog treated his staff fairly, but he left the day-to-day management to the head housekeeper, Norma, aka Mother Superior. Norma didn’t suffer fools or rule breakers. So far, Starla had escaped her wrath, but it was easy to screw up at the lake. I should know.
I thought for sure Dad and I would be fired two summers ago after the dam incident. After all, I caused a public scene, and Mad Dog didn’t like publicity. He was very private, a man of few words—not someone who threw wild drug-fueled parties and trashed hotel rooms. He liked the lake because he could retreat here and stay out of the press. I definitely disrupted that. The local paper and TV station were all abuzz about the dam and Betty’s when I fell into the water that summer—unwanted attention for Mad Dog. But I guess he felt too sorry for me to kick us to the curb. Or maybe he just loved my dad too much. When you’re at Mad Dog’s level, it’s hard to trust people, and Dad is as loyal as they come.
“Well,” Starla said, “I say what Norma doesn’t know won’t hurt her. If I can fit in a few extra massage clients this summer, I’m going to make that cash. Transportation is the issue. Why is the lodge so far away from town? If I were Mad Dog, I would have picked a better spot.”
Since Starla and I were both PAs, we’d be sharing this car this summer… along with Exie and the junior housekeeper. We had to sign it out when we left the house. She wasn’t wrong. The limited vehicle situation and no public transportation other than the Bonanza streetcar meant a lot of juggling rides back and forth to the lodge.
As for gas, that went on the company card. I just got mine this morning. I had to log every purchase and save every receipt. I couldn’t just buy myself lunch. If any expense were unexplained, it would come out of my pocket and I’d be fired. Which meant I’d also lose my home.
Everything.
One day I wouldn’t have to worry about this kind of stuff. Maybe one day soon. Eddie needed to hurry up and get back from the Philippines so we could talk about our own place.
“Thanks for the lift,” I told Starla.
“Leo’s picking you up, yeah?”
I nodded. On his way down from the mountains. He’d taken Mad Dog and Rosa up to some guru for sunrise meditation this morning, so I had about an hour in town.
“All righty. Don’t do anything I’d do,” Starla said with a grin. “See you back at the lodge.”
I jumped out of the car and headed down the Strip with Frida. It was too early in the season for a lot of tourists, but the weather was nice, and a family in shorts and sunglasses were renting kayaks. I skirted around them and spied what I was looking for half a block down—a sign above a windowed storefront in bright gold retro lettering:
VICTORY VINYL
NEW AND USED RECORDS SINCE 1980
An institution at the lake, and one that was connected with Eddie’s family. Not the Sarafians, though. The record shop was owned by Eddie’s other grandfather—on his mother’s side, Grandfather Kasabian. When he first bought it, Victory Vinyl was just a hole-in-the-wall. Now it was run by Eddie’s aunt—Eddie’s mother’s older sister, it all stayed in the Kasabian family—and was where some of the festival bands occasionally did signings and surprise promo events. Tugging Frida’s leash, I strode toward the shop’s entrance, where a motley collection of peeling decals was plastered on a mirrored front door—Zildjian cymbals, 2Pac, Dead Kennedys, the Armenian flag.
On the wall nearby was a collection of framed regional honors. National ones too: the shop had been listed on a bunch of national Best Of lists. Next to that was an article in the San Francisco Chronicle, “Two Immigrant Families Bond Over Music.”
“Hey,” I warned Frida. “I need you to be on your best behavior. Don’t embarrass me, and after it’s over, I’ll let you gnaw on Captain Pickles, okay?” We shared a silent agreement, and I quickly set an alarm on my phone to remind me to get the shampoo—a trick I’d learned from my father, Mr. Military. Never be late when you’re working for the rich and famous.
Jangly guitars and soft, snared beats pulsed through speakers as I stepped inside the rustic shop. Wooden bins of LPs lined narrow aisles. Old linocut concert posters. High walls. A dark balcony sat above the ceiling rafters, where autographed guitars hung. Everything smelled pleasantly of musty cardboard and old plastic. That scent overwhelmed me with good feelings.
The shop wasn’t busy, but space was limited, so me and my size-five sneakers had to turn sideways to step around a couple customers intently flipping through records. I was also keeping an eye on the pup, who could decide to have a meltdown any moment and either start barking or pee on someone’s shoe.
Mainly, though, I was keeping an eye out for Pari Kasabian, Eddie’s aunt and his mother’s sister. There might be another aunt across town, not sure. He didn’t talk about his mother’s family much. Anyway, I didn’t think she’d recognize me, not with my new hair, but if she was working today, I didn’t want to be caught by surprise.
The shop’s checkout area was at the back, under the guitar-filled balcony. To the left, a willowy woman leaned on a counter near the register below a sign that said BUY, chatting with a customer—was that Eddie’s aunt? I wasn’t sure. On the right was a smaller glass display case marked SELL. No one attending that. Good. That was the place I needed to check out—where they kept the good stuff.
Dad had a massive rare-record collection, an obsession he shared with Mad Dog—a love for old vinyl. There was one rare album my dad had been hunting for a while, his Holy Grail. Rare alternate pressing of iconic L.A. punk band Black Flag’s My War. It had been my father’s favorite band since he was my age; he had signed copies of Henry Rollins’s poetry books and framed photos of them together. You’ve never seen a grown man turn into mush like my father did around Henry Rollins. He’d chauffeured a thousand stars with nary a twitch of his muscular arms, but Henry? Full-on fanboy swooning.
I was always on the lookout for his Holy Grail when I was in a record store.
As I perused the rows of album covers in Plexiglas holders, a shop attendant approached from the other side of the display case. My heart hammered for a moment, but it wasn’t Eddie’s aunt.
Not Eddie, either. Of course it wasn’t. He was on a flight to the Philippines.
But it was a boy. A striking boy, about my age.
He had a head of messy, voluminous rich brown hair and intense vibes. A couple of badges were pinned to a wrinkled black button-down layered over a T-shirt: a tiny enamel piano and a record-shaped name tag that said WRONG.
He was definitely appealing in one of those tortured and stormy ways. I mean, not that I was looking; next to Eddie, no one stood a chance. Besides, that wasn’t it. There was something underneath the surface that was hidden from me, just there but unreachable. Like a word on the tip of my tongue I couldn’t quite grasp. And that hidden thing was flipping on all the lights inside my head, which was worrisome—not in a stranger-danger kind of way. More because I didn’t want my word-pixie waking up.
He had hawklike eyes that I avoided. When I did, I found myself looking down at his hands. I’d never noticed anyone’s hands before, but his didn’t match the rest of him—long, elegant fingers that moved in an uncannily malleable way when he stretched them out, templing them against each other.
I was staring, and he’d noticed. Our gazes connected and stuck. For several moments too long. I was a fish who’d bitten a hook, panic firing through. I was caught.
Embarrassment finally gave me the strength to look away.
Words. I needed them. Come on.
“Sorry,” I mumbled while Frida pawed at the counter.
“What’s that?” He took a step closer until we were across from each other, separated by the narrow glass of the counter.
“I was looking for a certain record,” I explained. “Uh… I don’t see it. Never mind. It’s super rare, so… It was a long shot. Sorry. Thanks. Sorry. I mean… sorry.”
Good God. How many times could a person apologize? At least I hadn’t slipped up with any words. Time to abandon the quest for my father’s Holy Grail and get the heck out of here before I made a bigger fool out of myself.
But as I turned to leave, the boy spoke to me again.
“Holy fuck. It’s you,” he said in a deep, dark voice. “You’re… alive.”