Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Trapped - Rat-a-tat-tat & Dave Buys a Coffin

Episode Date: February 23, 2024

"He was about to climb in—just for a second, just to see…" Poor Dave gets himself into some tight situations in both this week’s stories. And Jess explores the snapshots of detail that enrich them. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Today on the show, we have two stories about Dave. Two stories about getting trapped. If you listen to this podcast regularly, you may have noticed that this is a bit of a recurring theme in Stuart's stories. Dave trapped in impossibly tight situations. In a mailbox, on a treadmill, in a car, in a sewer, on a bicycle that's strapped to the top of a moving vehicle. Shall I go on? And today, Dave trapped in, well, you'll see.

I don't want to ruin it for you. We're going to get down to it right now with this story. I want you to pay attention to the beginning of this story. The opening scene, the one you're about to hear, the one in Kenny Wong's cafe, is so great. It's not an important scene. It doesn't drive the plot in any way, but it drives character. It's one of those scenes that makes me feel like I'm there with them. It makes me feel like I know them. It's a little snapshot that beautifully illustrates Kenny, Dave, and Carl Lobier and their relationship. Does that ever happen to you in real life? The snapshot thing?

Do you ever kind of take a little snapshot, either an actual photo or just a snapshot in your mind that perfectly captures where you're at in the moment? I try to do this. I don't always succeed, but every once in a while, there's a moment that happens either with a friend or with my husband or especially with my kids, a little moment that somehow encapsulates where we are as a family or as a couple or as an individual. And I stop and I think to myself, this is so us. When I experience something like that, I try to take a little picture, not an actual picture, but a mental one. I close my eyes. I realize this is weird. I close my eyes and I sometimes even go, you know, like when I make a little camera sound. I'm trying to capture the moment. I'm trying to remember. Trying, I guess,

now that I think about it, to be present. Too often we take photos of the wrong thing. So many of us are good at remembering to take photos of the big things, the birthday celebrations, the family picture at the top of the Eiffel Tower, the graduation. But really, those aren't the things that make up day-to-day life. We'll probably remember those things without the picture. And in those cases, I find taking a picture can make me be less present. I don't want to take a video of my kid's birthday. I want to be the one holding the cake and singing at the top of my lungs, happy birthday. But for the minuscule moments, the day-to-day moments, a mental photo can help me be more present. It can help me get outside of my head.

It can help me see those moments for what they really are, something that should be remembered and treasured. I've taught my daughter Eloise this, this idea of like capturing a moment and taking a picture with your mind. And every once in a while, I see her squint her face and her eyes, and I know exactly what she's doing. She's doing chick chick. She's taking a little picture. And then the other day, she did it for real. It was the most mundane of moments. It was the most mundane of moments. It was one of those, this is so us moments. I was brushing her sister's hair after tubby time. That a moment in our day, in this moment of our lives. It's a moment that feels like it'll go on forever, but it won't. My kids are four and six right now, so I still help them brush their hair,

but I won't be brushing their hair when they're 14 and 16. At least, I hope not. I was brushing Annabelle's hair, and I heard an an actual chicka-chick. It was the sound of the camera on my phone. Eloise had grabbed my phone and taken an actual photo, a photo of me brushing her little sister's hair. It's a simple picture, just me and Annabelle in our bathroom. We're in our PJs and I'm brushing her hair. A simple picture of a simple moment. And not at all the kind of moment you think to take a picture of. Because it's unimportant and ubiquitous.

It's a moment so unimportant you don't even notice it. Because it happens every single day without fail. But of course, that's exactly the kind of moment that 10 years from now, I will have wished I had captured. Because in 10 years, I will be looking back longingly at what seems now to be monotonous and boring. at what seems now to be monotonous and boring. That's not true. It's not that I think that brushing hair after tubby time is monotonous and boring. It's that I don't even think of it. I just do it without thinking. It's something I do every single night, like brushing teeth and making school lunches and unloading the dishwasher. It's just a routine that's performed every single day. But I recognize that in 10 years, I'll look back on

that time and I'll say, remember when? And now, now I have a picture of that. It reminds me of a Mary Pratt painting, a small, everyday moment captured with appreciation, beauty, and intimacy. with appreciation, beauty, and intimacy. And that's what Stuart does here with this opening scene. He paints a picture of Dave, Kenny, and Carl Lobier. He shows us a moment that exists in their everyday life. He makes us feel like we are there. He gives us a sense of who they are, what they do, and what fills their days.

It's an unimportant moment, but those unimportant moments are often the most important because they add up. This is a little moment that too often goes unnoticed. But Stuart notices it here. And now, you will too. This is Stuart McLean with Rat-a-tat-tat. Dave was at Kenny Wong's cafe. He was sitting at the counter. He was eating a bowl of rice pudding and reading the latest issue of Under the Radar. When Kenny banged through the swinging kitchen doors carrying two big paper bags, a take-out order.

Kenny stopped dead when he was beside Dave's stool and without turning to look at him, standing right behind him but staring straight ahead, Kenny said, that's your second bowl of pudding. Dave said, no, it isn't. Kenny said, it is so. You got up when I was in the kitchen and you got yourself a second bowl. Dave didn't turn around to look at Kenny. And Kenny, who was still looking straight ahead, not looking at Dave,

sounded mildly threatening. It was hard to tell if this was a game or something serious. Kenny, who was still looking straight ahead, not looking at Dave, sounded mildly threatening. It was hard to tell if this was a game or something serious. If this was the Wild West, you'd be looking around for something to duck under when the shooting began. And then Dave, who had put his spoon down and was staring at his hands, said, It's not my second ball. Kenny said, it's not my second ball. Kenny said, liar. And everyone in the place stopped talking. Everyone was listening now.

And you're thinking, here come the guns. When Carl Loebier, who was sitting in a booth by the wall, piped up, Carl said, it's not his second ball. And Dave spun around on his stool to face Kenny, grinning like a school kid. See, said Dave. But Carl wasn't finished. Carl said, it's his third. An hour later, the place was mostly empty. Even Carl was long gone. But Dave was still sitting there, still reading with what looked like a fourth bowl of rice pudding in front of him. Kenny was there too. Kenny right in the middle of the cafe with his feet up on his desk. Kenny says, okay, I've been thinking about

this. I decided next Thursday is my fake birthday. Come on, says Dave. We just got through Christmas. Kenny and Dave have this thing about birthdays. I'm not sure how long it's been going. A long time. Once a year, whenever they feel like it, they're allowed to declare it's their birthday, and the other guy has to take fake birthday guy out to lunch. And give him a present. According to the rules, they can declare any day of the year their fake birthday, except, of course, if it's their real birthday, which they're not allowed to mention, never ever. They just observe their fake birthday. And that's how

Dave ended up at the mall last weekend looking to find Kenny a fake birthday present. It's something he's been surprisingly good at over the years. Dave's presents have always been, are always, unexpected in the best possible way. They have been, when they've been good, something Kenny would never have bought himself but really wanted. And when they've been great, well, when they've been great, they've been something Kenny didn't have a clue he wanted. But once he got it, wondered how he had lived without it all his life.

Truth is, Kenny looks forward to Dave's fake birthday present every year. Dave knows that. And as you all know, the great difficulty with great success is the great difficulty of repeating it. Which is why Dave was feeling so much pressure at the mall last weekend, wandering around, looking for inspiration. He stopped to get himself a coffee. He was standing at the coffee counter, pouring a creamer into his takeout cup when he spotted the pet store,

which is when Dave remembered the greatest present that he had ever bought. It wasn't for Kenny. It was for his son, Sam. It was Christmas time, and Dave had been standing at the very same coffee counter trying to do what all kids dread, trying to come up with a present that wasn't on Sam's Christmas list. And that's when he spotted the pet store. Perfect, he muttered. So perfect, he walked right in without taking his coffee with him. So perfect, he forgot his coffee on the counter. He was thinking something simple as he walked through the door, thinking goldfish or maybe turtle.

And then he wound around one of the aisles and he bumped right into Rat Man. Guy standing there in the middle of the store holding two rats in his hand and there was one on his shoulder. And Dave's heart started to pound. Dave is terrified of rats. Phobic even. Ever since the morning when he woke up on Vincent Furnier's couch with a rat perched on his chest. How was Dave supposed to know it was Vince's pet? When Dave woke up, the rat was finishing off a piece of pizza that Dave had been working on when he dozed off. But that was way, way back. Way back before Vince got famous and changed his name.

All Dave remembered was waking up and staring into those beady little eyes. He'd never gotten over it. Just the thought of rats creeped him out. He'd lie in bed at night listening for them. Morley eventually got used to it. And then she got tired of it. The furnace would bump on and Dave would lurch awake. Did you hear that, he'd ask, shaking her.

Don't worry, sweetie, she'd say, rolling over. It's only a rat. Morley was right. She was. The rat thing had gotten out of hand. The little seed of fear planted on Vince's couch so many years ago had overtaken Dave. Every strange noise felt like a threat.

At some crazy level, Dave believed that there was an army of rats mustering somewhere and at any moment, probably at night, was going to corner him in some small dark place. He knew he was being crazy. He knew he had to get over this. Dave stared at the rat man. There was a group of boys Sam's age gathered around him. Each boy was holding a rat. Maybe buying a nice, clean pet store rat would help. Sam would love it, and maybe Dave could learn too. The idea horrified him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Five minutes later, Dave was walking out of the pet store with a five-pound bag of cedar shavings and a small cardboard box. The gift-wrapped lady was an older woman.

She was wearing a red reindeer cardigan, snowman earrings. It took Dave 15 minutes and $20 extra to convince the lady to wrap the rat. When he got to his car, he checked to make sure the air holes in the gift wrap were still open. Then he placed the wrapped rat on the back seat. The chewing started a few minutes later. Dave adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see into the back. The box was moving around on the back seat. It looked like a wind-up toy.

And there was a small pink nose popping out of the paper. The rat was chewing its way to freedom. Dave stepped on the gas. He had to get home quickly. He covered a block and glanced back in the mirror. Now he could see a nose and whiskers. A block later, an entire rat face. And then, then there was no rat at all. All there was was a great empty hole in the box. A hole in the box and a rustling under his seat. This was Dave's worst nightmare.

Traffic was slowing up ahead. The brake lights on the car in front of him flashed. Dave was so preoccupied he almost missed them. He looked up and he forgot about the rat and he stepped down Exactly. There was a loud squeak, and then Dave felt something rip into his ankle. He looked down, and he saw the rat's tail disappearing under his seat. He pulled over to the curb, and he jumped out of the car, and he stood there for a moment not knowing what to do. There was no choice. He knew that. If he was going to face his fear, this was the moment. Dave spent the next 10 minutes scrambling around his car back and forth from front to back, grasping and lunging like he was playing a game of squash. Eventually, eventually he got it. Eventually Dave was sitting in the front seat

holding the quivering rat. Rat was quivering, Dave was panting, and the box was finished. Now what? Dave settled on the only sensible solution, the trunk. There was plenty of room in the trunk. He got out of the car, keys in one hand, rat in the other, and he placed the rat beside a box of old records and he closed the trunk. He wasn't that far from home. And what else could he do? He pulled away from the curb. But he was anxious.

What if the rat was getting bounced around? What if the crate of records slid over and crushed it? Halfway home, Dave pulled over again. When he opened the trunk, he couldn't see a rat anywhere. The only thing worse than having a rat loose in your trunk was losing the rat in your trunk. It could be anywhere. Dave shut the trunk quickly and felt a wave of dread. He was parked on the side of a residential street, not far from his own neighborhood. He was parked by the curb in the dark spot between two streetlights.

Now, there are in the trunk of any car the size of Dave's. Even under the best of conditions, there are a lot of dark spots, a lot of nooks and a lot of crannies, not to mention rags and cans and half-full boxes of records, lots of places where a rat could disappear. Probably the rat was hiding. He had to find it. He looked down the street anxiously. There was a man at the

end of the block walking a dog, but there weren't any rats in sight. He stood by the trunk again and stared at the mess of his life. Why were these things always happening to him? Why wasn't his trunk better organized? Okay, thought Dave. This is it. Get a grip, a systematic search. Work from one side to the other. And it was while Dave was leaning in on the curb side of his trunk, shifting boxes around, that it occurred to him that the rat could just as easily be on the other side of the trunk

and could just as easily, while Dave was looking here on this side, make a break from over there on that side. And without pausing to think about what he was doing, acting rather than thinking, oh yes, Dave climbed into his trunk. No rat was getting out of his trunk unless he let it out. He reached up and he pulled the hood closed behind him. His first thought was, I probably shouldn't have pulled that quite so firmly. He reached up in the sudden darkness and he pushed against the roof with his hand. Okay, he said, deep breath. Lots of people get locked in their trunks.

He was going to be fine. He wasn't going to die, just as long as he didn't panic. Two minutes later, Dave was thrashing about, yelling and pounding on the roof of the trunk. He was lurching around in the darkness like a load of laundry. It was Christmas Eve. The street was almost empty. An eight-year-old boy and his mother were walking on the opposite side of the road.

I think, said the boy pointing at Dave's car, I think there's a body in that trunk. I think the body is talking. The mother reached out for her son's hand. Inside the dark trunk, Dave stopped his pounding. The mother listened. She didn't hear anything. That's it, young man, said the mother. No more TV for you. And they disappeared down the sidewalk.

Inside the trunk, Dave was trying to get a grip. Think, think, think. His cell phone. He had his cell phone with him. Why hadn't he thought of that? He squirmed around so he was lying on his back. It was frighteningly dark. He was horribly cramped, but he had his phone. He worked it out of his pocket and he flipped it open. The trunk was bathed in a dim gray light. That was better. He could deal with this. And then Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there was something staring at him. He was trapped in a trunk and all he could see were a pair of beady eyes staring at him.

They were just like those pizza eyes and they were getting closer. He was going to be eaten alive just like that piece of pizza. In his panic, he threw the phone. Okay, where was the phone? Get the phone. Okay, he had the phone. Who was he going to phone? He certainly wasn't going to phone Morley. wasn't going to phone Morley. The police, he had phoned the police. The call didn't go as smoothly as you might expect. You try explaining to a police dispatcher that you locked yourself in the trunk of your car because you've climbed in there looking for a rat. It would have made things a lot easier if Dave knew what street he was on. He knew the general vicinity. The police sent a car.

They turned on their siren and drove around the neighborhood. I hear it, said Dave glumly. It sounds like you're a couple of streets over. Marco, said the cop. Polo, said Dave glumly. Of course, there's nothing like a siren to attract a crowd. When Dave emerged from the trunk, he was clutching the rat like a child's toy.

And sure enough, there was a crowd watching from the sidewalk, three of them young women. As Dave climbed out, he heard one of the young women say, Hey, isn't that Stephanie's dad? The crowd soon drifted away, and Dave stood there by his car, the rat quivering. Dave brought it up to his face and blew on its head. The rat nuzzled Dave's neck. It was sort of cute. He certainly wasn't going to put it back in the trunk, and the cop wouldn't let Dave drive home with a loose rat in

his car. Well, said Dave, the cop gave Dave and the rat a ride home, but he made them sit in the back behind the barrier. As they pulled into the driveway, Dave could see Sam peering at them through the living room window. Dave leaned forward in his seat, and he tapped on the barrier lightly. Hey, he said to the police officer, can you do me one more favor? The next morning, Sam was so excited about Dave's present that Morley could barely get him to open any of his other gifts. His father had given him a rat. And not just any rat.

As Sam told everyone, his dad had given him an official, licensed, certified police rat. official, licensed, certified police rat. And it was delivered by a squad car, by a real police officer with a badge. It was the perfect gift. And that's what Dave got Kenny for his birthday this year, a rat like Sam's. This time he bought a cage, too. He gave it to Kenny at lunch. It's an official police rat, he said. Kenny said, what do I want with a rat? I run a restaurant. Sit down,

said Dave, smiling. I'm going to tell you about it. It's a long story. Thank you. Marco, Polo, hilarious. That was the story we call Rat-a-tat-tat. It's a story that was inspired by my own phobia of rats. But that is a whole other backstory for a whole other podcast, because right now, we have to take a break. Welcome back. I told you we had two stories for you today. Two stories about Dave getting trapped.

Time for the second one now. This is Dave Buys a Coffin. Time for the second one now. This is Dave Buys a Coffin. Billy London called Dave at the Vinyl Cafe at lunchtime. Any other Monday, Dave might have missed his call, but not this Monday. This was a Monday in the middle of February, middle of February, and it had been snowing all day. No one had been in the store for a couple of hours because no one was out.

And who could blame them? Dave wasn't about to go out. So when Billy phoned, Dave was sitting in the comfy red chair by the cash, his feet propped on a milk crate, cup of soup balanced on the arm of the chair. Dave was multitasking. Listening to a new vinyl album, a tribute to Gordon Lightfoot and Neil Young, recorded by a couple of Canadian bands, The Unintended on one side and The Constantines on the other. And while he's listening to the album, he was reading Under the Radar,

a music magazine from L.A. When the phone rang, he scooped it up and he said, just a minute. Flipped up the arm on the turntable and he picked up the phone again. Billy, he said, long time. What's up? Billy got right to the point. Billy said, Aunt Ginger died on the weekend.

You're the only guy I could think of phoning. I thought you'd want to know. Dave said, huh. Billy said, yeah. And then neither of them said anything. Dave broke the silence. Dave said, did she make it? She must have made it. Aunt Ginger wasn't Billy's real aunt. She was a family friend of some sort. She had a house in Rosedale and lived there alone and when Billy slipped into Canada in 1968 dressed like a priest, she invited Billy to stay with her. Billy moved in and he stayed for the better part of seven years or kept his stuff there anyway. Billy played sax and Billy was on the road all the time. That didn't bother Aunt Ginger

one bit. She was a piece of business, as tough as nails, determined to live to be a hundred. Missed by three and a half months. 99 and three quarters, said Dave. It would have killed her to know that. How'd she die? Skiing accident, said Billy. Skiing, said Dave. Well, snowboarding technically, said Billy. If you're going to be technical. They sat together at the funeral. An altogether extraordinary affair. It was organized by Aunt Ginger's only living relative, her older sister, Muriel. Muriel sat in a wheelchair at the front of the chapel as stiff as a plank. The two sisters hadn't spoken must have been 20 years. It was Muriel who chose the reading, Dr. Phil. Muriel who chose the decorations, balloons.

And Muriel who chose the music. Muriel who knew nothing whatsoever about music didn't know what to say when the funeral director asked her what they should play. So she asked what most people did. The funeral director said that most people chose a classical piece. Muriel named the only classical piece she knew, The Flight of the Bumblebee. When the music began, everybody in the congregation looked horrified. Except Billy and Dave. Not bad, actually, whispered Dave to Billy as the piece picked up speed.

Perfect, actually, said Billy, nodding, in so many ways. The funeral was so awkward and wonderfully inappropriate that Dave couldn't stop talking about it for days. I want Zeppelin at my funeral, said Brian. Brian's a philosophy calculus major who works part-time at the Vinyl Cafe. Stairway to heaven, said Dave. It's eight minutes long and totally obvious.

Exactly, said Brian. And when they're carrying my coffin out of the church, I'm going to have Ozzy. I'm going to have Ozzy doing, Mama, I'm coming home. What about you? Never thought of it, said Dave. I don't know. Don McLean, American Pie. The day the music died, said Brian. Talk about obvious. I hate that song. Right, said Dave. I can't believe I never thought of this before. Dave was pulling on a sweatshirt. He was heading to Woodsworth's Books, barely a block away.

He didn't need a coat. How about Cat Stevens, called Brian. Cat Stevens, oh, very young. Cat Stevens, said Dave. Dave had his hand on the door handle. I'd rather die than have Cat Stevens at my funeral. I'll be back in a minute. Hi, said Dave as he wandered into Dorothy's bookstore. Dorothy had her chestnut hair pulled back in a loose braid. She was reading Gore Vidal.

Hi, said Dorothy, putting the book down, smiling. Dave picked up a leather bookmark from a box on the counter and he started fiddling with it. Listen, he said, if I died tomorrow when you were planning my funeral, what music would you choose for my funeral? Dorothy said, oh, no. What is it this time? No, no, said Dave. I'm fine. I'm fine. This is hypothetical. Hypothetically fine or hypothetically dying, said Dorothy. Come on, said Dave. I'm serious. Cat Stevens, said Dorothy. Brian phoned you, said Dave. You've been talking to Brian. Two minutes later, Dave walked into his friend Kenny Wong's cafe, Wong's Scottish meat pies.

his friend Kenny Wong's cafe, Wong's Scottish Meat Pies. Kenny was sitting at his cluttered desk halfway along the restaurant at the end of the counter. He looked up when Dave came in. I'm working on my list already, he said. They phoned you, said Dave, dropping onto the last counter stool and spinning around. Yeah, both of them, said Kenny. Here's what I've got so far. He leaned over his desk and pushed a piece of paper across the countertop. Enya, said Dave. What about Cat Stevens, said Kenny. But Dave was already at the door, his stool spinning at the counter.

Morley was standing in front of the stove, working on a big pot of chili. It's for the wake, she said when Dave walked in the back door. I have it all worked out. We're going to play dead teen songs. Leader of the pack. Last kiss. Tell Laura I love her. Unless, of course, you die in a snowstorm looking for a lost horse.

Then we'll play the one by Michael Murphy. Wildfire, said Dave. Who called? Everyone, said Morley. Later that night, as they were lying in bed, Dave dropped his book on the floor, pushed himself up on an elbow, and said, can I ask you something? Seriously? Morley was reading Real Simple Magazine. She rested the magazine on her chest. Dave said, if you died, what am I supposed to do anyway? Do you want to be buried or what? Morley said, cremated. After that, I don't care. You can put me out with a recycling. Flush me down the toilet. I'm serious, said Dave.

Flush me down the toilet. I'm serious, said Dave. Morley turned her head and looked right at him. Me too, she said. She picked up her magazine. I love this magazine, she said. End of conversation. He went to Kenny's for lunch. He sat at the counter, his usual stool at the end by Kenny's desk.

If I die, said Dave, chasing a snow pea around his plate with his chopsticks. When you die, said Kenny. Whatever, said Dave. If I die, when I die, what's the difference? Acceptance, said Kenny. Dave was in a state, no doubt about it, and the state was intensifying. On the weekend, he even talked to Mary Turlington. For more to the point, Mary talked to him, they met in the grocery store by the yogurts. Lactose-free 2%, said Mary, without even saying hello. Thanks, said Dave, squinting at the tub she handed him. That was the one. Mary always made him feel like a child. How could she possibly know more about his family's fridge than he did? Mary had moved on. I made our arrangements years ago, she said.

Morley must have told her about Aunt Ginger's funeral. Dave was looking for more of the lactose-free yogurt. Mary said, over there. Then she said, you know the three most important things about burial? Dave stared at her blankly. Mary said, location, location, location. Location, location. And so Dave bought a coffin.

It's not altogether a bad decision. It was neither the most expensive nor the cheapest coffin. Pine, but red pine. Coffin that seemed to fit his station in the world. Dave began working on his eulogy the next day at home at lunch. He got a pad of lined paper out and he worked on it at the kitchen table. He wrote his name at the top of the page, centered.

Then he skipped a line and he wrote he is and he stared at the words and then he crumpled the paper and he threw it at the garbage, missed. He was one of the most... Dave's pen hovered over the page. One of the most... He crumpled that page and bounced it off the rim of the garbage. He started again.

Born in the village of Big Darrells, son of Charlie and Margaret, and one of the most, one of the most forgiving, generous, remarkable, humble, humble. He was just finishing up the first page when the doorbell rang. Two guys in blue overalls were standing on the stoop. They looked like roofers. The bigger guy did the talking. We got your coffin, said the bigger guy.

There had been some misunderstanding. There's been a misunderstanding, said Dave. Where do you want your coffin, said the big guy. It had not occurred to Dave that he would be taking delivery of the coffin. Who did you think was going to get it, said the big guy. Dave had them put the coffin in the garage. He covered it with a couple of blankets. Thank God no one was home.

In his rush, he left the eulogy on the kitchen table By the time he remembered the eulogy He was back at work and Stephanie, home for study week Was reading it in disbelief Who wrote this crud, she said at supper Waving the eulogy in the air They obviously never met you. Give me that, said Dave.

He managed to get the coffin to the record store the next day before anyone saw it. There's a room over the store where he keeps stuff, souvenirs mostly, pieces of paper from the days when he worked in the rock and roll business. Handwritten set lists, notes, letters, snapshots, some stage clothes, all manner of stuff. An amazing collection of memorabilia. Assembled partly for sentimental reasons, but mostly because he can't bear to throw anything out It never occurred to him while he was squirreling the stuff away That it would be valuable one day

It's how he supports himself Trading and selling pieces when he needs serious money Or if someone seriously wants something He figured he could keep the coffin upstairs with his stuff Until he figured out what to do with it But you try getting a coffin up a flight of stairs by yourself. And you tell me who you would call to help you do that sort of thing. So Dave humped his coffin to the back of his store and he covered it with a blanket and he put some crates of records on top of it. And then one afternoon in March, on a rainy afternoon in March, in the middle

of a week of rainy afternoons, a week when no one had been in the store for what seemed like forever, Dave found himself looking at the coffin under the blanket and wondering what it would be like to be inside it. Not many people wonder about things like that. Fewer have the opportunity to find out. Once the thought entered Dave's mind, he couldn't get rid of it. Like I said, the store had been empty all week.

He had way too much time on his hands. He removed the milk crates of records, and he piled them on the floor. He ran his hand over the shiny coffin. It was actually a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Pine box, to be sure, but a pine box with a luster of ebony. He was just about to climb in, just for a second, just to see. But then it occurred to him that it would hardly be an accurate experience lying there in his comfy sweater and cords. Surely, when he was laid out, it would be a more formal experience.

He ran upstairs. There was a jacket up there that had once belonged to Eric Clapton. There was, in fact, a whole rack of clothing up there. A shirt Frank Sinatra Jr. had left behind in a dressing room in the Poconos. A tie that had once belonged to Paul Anka. Dave slipped off his T-shirt and put on the shirt, the tie, and Eric's jacket. And that's when he spotted Alice Cooper's makeup kit. A job worth doing, as Charlie used to say, is worth doing properly. Dave powdered his face. He looked in the mirror. He looked great.

Which is to say, he looked dead. He went downstairs. He ran back upstairs, grabbed some candles and ran back downstairs. He lifted the lid of the coffin and propped it up, checking the hinge to make sure it wouldn't slam shut. He lit the candles. He dimmed the lights. He put on some music. Etta James. At last. He crawled into the box. Tumbled into it, actually. Bum first. There was not as much room in there as you might think. He had to squirm around awkwardly to arrange himself. In fact, it was pretty cramped, but the

silk lining was smooth and soft, and there was a nice layer of padding between him and the bottom of the casket. Hey, thought Dave. Not bad. Quite comfortable, actually. Peaceful. Dave folded his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes. He didn't actually fall asleep. But he wasn't wide awake, either. He was somewhere in that foggy world between his sleep and awake, lying in the coffin with the candles flickering

at each of the corners, lying there trying to get in touch with eternity, when the front door opened and someone walked in the records door. Dave thought he had locked the door. Dave was sure he had locked the door. Hello, said whoever it was. Apparently not. Dave didn't move a muscle. Hello called the voice again. The voice sounded familiar. David called the voice. David, are you here? Mary Turlington. Mary Turlington had never been in Dave's record store. Uptight and sanctimonious, Mary Turlington wasn't interested in buying or even looking at anything that was used. Mary was suspicious of anyone who bought used goods. Mary preferred reproductions to antiques.

The moment she stepped through the door at the vinyl cafe, Mary knew her doubts were justified. It smelled funny in there, like incense or worse. There was suspicious music playing, the type of music that people play when they're up to no good. And it was dark. The place was giving Mary the creeps. Dave, she said, where was he anyway? And what did he do in this dusty, dark shop all day by himself? David, are you here? He must be at the back, she thought. Mary moved toward the back of the shop with hesitation. What could he be doing back there that he couldn't do in the open? He could be doing any number of weird and perverted things back there. She caught sight of the candles,

and against her better judgment, she walked toward the light. That's when she spotted the coffin with the mannequin in it. Just the sort of childish display she would expect of Dave. She is getting closer now, and Dave is thinking, blessed mother of Jesus. He can hear her footsteps getting closer and closer, and then he can hear her stop abruptly. Blessed mother of Jesus, said Mary. It wasn't a mannequin in the coffin, it was a body. Oh my God, thought Dave. Oh my God, said Mary. Every nerve ending in Mary's brain told her to get out of there and get out of there fast. But she couldn't help herself.

She was drawn toward the casket. Don't move, thought Dave. Don't move a muscle. But he couldn't help himself. Dave opened one eye. opened one eye. It was the eye Mary was staring at. And then the body rose out of the casket like a vampire in a horror movie. And the body said,

Hello, Mary. And then the body took a step towards her. This is how it ends, thought Mary. Vampires. Then she hit the ground. Then she hit the ground. The letter from Stephanie arrived the following week. Dear Dad, Dave got it at lunchtime.

He showed it to Morley after supper. Did you tell her to write this, said Dave? No, said Morley, I didn't. Dear Dad, Mom told me you've been worried about dying. She told me that's why you were writing your eulogy. I want to apologize for making fun of you. I'm sorry I laughed at you. I'm sorry I made fun of it. When Paula's dad died, she had to talk at his funeral. I started wondering what I would say if I had to talk at yours. I decided I would tell people about the eye patch. Do you remember all that?

I think I was about six. I don't even remember why I had to wear that stupid patch. All I remember was that Dr. Milne said I had to wear an eye patch and that I refused. Nothing was going to make me wear that eye patch. All I remember was that Dr. Milne said I had to wear an eye patch and that I refused. Nothing was going to make me wear that eye patch. I cried all the way home from the doctor's office. When we got into the house, you sat me down at the kitchen table. You pulled out two eye patches and you put the first one on over your own eye. You said we would have a deal. You said that I would wear my eye patch until Dr. Milne told me I could take it off, and you would wear yours until I told you to take it off.

I said, but people are going to look at you funny. And you said, well, if they do, I guess I can talk to you about it. You might know how that feels. Do you remember how we decorated them? I think you drew flowers on mine. I don't remember. But I remember I drew a huge, gross red eye on yours. And you wore it for a whole week before I let you take it off.

You wore it to work, and before I let you take it off. You wore it to work and when you took the car to the garage and out to dinner at the Turlington's. I can't believe I made you do that. If I had to talk at your funeral, I'd tell people a story about the eye patch, and then I'd tell them that that's the kind of dad you were, that you'd do anything for me and Sam, even if it made you look silly. I love you, Daddy. I am sorry, Steph. P.S. I don't want you to die. If you die, I'm going to kill you. Dave took Stephanie's letter to the store. He keeps it in the drawer by the

cash. He read it the other day at lunch. Sometimes when he reads it, it makes him happy. Sometimes it makes him cry. Mary hasn't been back to the store, though she has been over to dinner and all in all it was a successful evening. Dave still has the coffin. It's still in the back of the record store. There's a whole display of 45s in it. Teenage death songs. Thank you very much. applause That was Dave by the coffin.

All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one from way, way back, back when they were expecting their first child. When they were six months, Dave and Morley went with their pregnancy class on a tour of the hospital birthing rooms. Dave was, let's face it, still is, like most men, pretty ignorant about his wife's reproductive system. He thought he understood in the broadest of terms what was going on, but you know what? He didn't have a clue what was going on. It was like someone had registered him in a book-of-the-month club without explaining the rules. Dave was aware that there was a monthly mailing, but he wasn't at all clear what was sent or where it was sent from, or for that matter, where it went.

It had all been explained to him once, but whenever he tried to remember the details, all he could summon up were disconnected words, mostly nouns, mostly place names, places that sounded like stops on the Paris metro, the oviduct, the fallopian tubes. Taking everything into consideration was probably better he didn't know all the details of this book club. The only trouble was he liked reading so much. reading so much. He especially liked reading to his wife at night. And so it was while Dave was navigating this foggy sea of uncertainty that he sailed into the hospital for his tour of the

birthing center. It was all blue water until he nosed into the sterile field and he fetched up in front of the stainless steel table. Face to face with a moment of truth, he made a weak signal and tried to paddle backwards, feeling dehumanized, feeling embarrassed, feeling seasick, but mostly feeling faint. He went white and he ghosted against the delivery room wall. Morley spotted him just before he pitched over. She leaned into him and pinned him to the pale green concrete wall until three of the other fathers came to her rescue. They picked Dave up and lay him on the birthing table.

That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is a rat-a-tat-tat named Greg DeClew. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. And the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg Duclute, and me, Jess Milton.

Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.