“Impressive collection you have here” said Jackson to the owner of the record store.
“Feel free to look around” came a voice from somewhere behind a stack of boxes.
Jackson browsed the tiny cubby of a store, appropriately named “The Inner Sleeve”, looking for nothing in particular.
“Psst. Down here,” whispered a battered box stashed in the corner. Jackson crouched down to wipe the dust off a yellowed label.
Feeling a jolt shoot straight to his heart, fingers racing through musty LPs, suddenly there it was- “Les Annees Bechet”, #1: “Petite Fleur”.
“I’ll be damned”, whispered Jackson. No longer was he in “The Inner Sleeve”. It was Paris, 1982 in that enchanting café … what was the name?
“Café de la Paix. Yes, that was it!” he recalled. And then, in a barely perceptible hush, “Lisette”.
Slumping back against the wall, Jackson clasped the precious vinyl against his chest, caressed it lovingly with the same fingers that raced through the box just seconds before. The same fingers that released Lisette’s raven hair from its ‘pince à cheveax’ and showered it across her porcelain shoulders. The same fingers that traced her face as gently as butterfly wings – ‘ailes de papillons’ – from her widows peak to her crystal blue eyes, her nose, her blushed lips. “Just this one time” thought Jackson. Just once before returning to his insanely mundane existence in Stamford, Connecticut. Oh, for just one more taste of Lisette.
Slowly Jackson stood, a sadness like none other enveloping him. He suddenly realized he had been crying. He wound his way through the maze of boxes overflowing with records that were meaningless to him. He had found what he didn’t know he was looking for.
“All done, sir?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, thanks”, Jackson replied. “Just this. Just this one.”
NAR © 2017