top-list law degree and joined the Foreign Service.
The day he left the United States for his first assignment overseas was one of those spring days in Manhattan New Yorkers dream about all winter. A gentle, sweet-smelling, cool breeze mixed with a bright sun, high in a cloudless sky. Coats were unbuttoned. Jackets unzipped. People breathed deeply, smiled widely. Harryâs plane didnât leave until late in the afternoon. He had all day to walk around and say goodbye to America. He was strolling on the sunny side of 23rd Street when he spotted the little record store with a big sign in the window: REAL RECORDSâVINYL LPs. Harry had always been a real record man. His father had quite a collection. His mother saved themâall of themâfor Harry. He grew up with Jefferson Airplane, Marvin Gaye and The Mamas & The Papas. Sixties pop wasnât the only music his father liked. David Levine left his son hundreds of records, including a wide variety of jazzâOscar Peterson, Art Blakey, Count Basie and Joe Williams. Harry loved those records for many reasons, not the least of which was, they were his connection to the father he knew about, but never knew. Poor David and poor Harry. Most children who grow up without a father are constantly told by their mother, whether true or not, how much their father loved them. Harry, of course, was well aware his birth came after his father was killed. Might it be, he sometimes wondered, that the records were more important to him than they ought to be?
After Tulane, just before he left for law school in Philadelphia, Harry decided he needed a really good record player, a top quality turntable. He was surprised to find no one sold any. The vinyl LP, invented by the engineers at Columbia Records in 1948, was already a relic of the past. The compact disc, with its seductive clarity, had pushed the record to forgotten bins in old music stores. So too was the fate of the record player, the quality turntable. Harry had no use for the CD. They were surely more precise than pressed vinyl, more like how one might think the music ought to sound. But, for Harry, the CD was less than the real thing, the sum failing to equal its parts. It was cold, empty. He just wanted a turntable and was disappointed when he couldnât find a store that sold good ones. Everywhere he looked, they either had none or the little, cheap, childrenâs record players. The manager of a discount electronics superstore near the Roswell Mall told Harry there might be someone who could help him. âTry Fat Jackâs,â he said. âHeâs got a place down the block from the Historic District, around the cornerâI forget the name of the street. Look for it. If Jack is still in business, heâll get one for you.â Fat Jackâs Audio was in a small strip center, one of four storefronts. It shared space with a chiropractor, a dry cleaner and a travel agency. There was a small sign above the door, but nothing in the window. Inside, Harry found an old man sitting on a car seat ripped from a Chevy or a Ford or some other 30-year-old American car. The car seat was on the floor, in the middle of the store, surrounded by boxes and boxes of records. The old man looked to be dozing.
âIâm looking for a turntable,â Harry said.
âMiss your records?â the old man asked, looking up, wide awake.
âNo. I play them. Itâs just that . . .â
âDonât sound good enough for you?â
âYes. Thatâs right. So, Iâm looking for a good turntableâat a reasonable price. Someone told me I could find JackâFat Jackâand he might have one I could buy.â
âIâm Jack,â the old guy said, standing up and offering his hand to Harry. âWhat do you like most about your records?â he asked. Harry stood there, surprised by the unexpected and somewhat personal question, thinking about an answer. When nothing came to mind,
The day he left the United States for his first assignment overseas was one of those spring days in Manhattan New Yorkers dream about all winter. A gentle, sweet-smelling, cool breeze mixed with a bright sun, high in a cloudless sky. Coats were unbuttoned. Jackets unzipped. People breathed deeply, smiled widely. Harryâs plane didnât leave until late in the afternoon. He had all day to walk around and say goodbye to America. He was strolling on the sunny side of 23rd Street when he spotted the little record store with a big sign in the window: REAL RECORDSâVINYL LPs. Harry had always been a real record man. His father had quite a collection. His mother saved themâall of themâfor Harry. He grew up with Jefferson Airplane, Marvin Gaye and The Mamas & The Papas. Sixties pop wasnât the only music his father liked. David Levine left his son hundreds of records, including a wide variety of jazzâOscar Peterson, Art Blakey, Count Basie and Joe Williams. Harry loved those records for many reasons, not the least of which was, they were his connection to the father he knew about, but never knew. Poor David and poor Harry. Most children who grow up without a father are constantly told by their mother, whether true or not, how much their father loved them. Harry, of course, was well aware his birth came after his father was killed. Might it be, he sometimes wondered, that the records were more important to him than they ought to be?
After Tulane, just before he left for law school in Philadelphia, Harry decided he needed a really good record player, a top quality turntable. He was surprised to find no one sold any. The vinyl LP, invented by the engineers at Columbia Records in 1948, was already a relic of the past. The compact disc, with its seductive clarity, had pushed the record to forgotten bins in old music stores. So too was the fate of the record player, the quality turntable. Harry had no use for the CD. They were surely more precise than pressed vinyl, more like how one might think the music ought to sound. But, for Harry, the CD was less than the real thing, the sum failing to equal its parts. It was cold, empty. He just wanted a turntable and was disappointed when he couldnât find a store that sold good ones. Everywhere he looked, they either had none or the little, cheap, childrenâs record players. The manager of a discount electronics superstore near the Roswell Mall told Harry there might be someone who could help him. âTry Fat Jackâs,â he said. âHeâs got a place down the block from the Historic District, around the cornerâI forget the name of the street. Look for it. If Jack is still in business, heâll get one for you.â Fat Jackâs Audio was in a small strip center, one of four storefronts. It shared space with a chiropractor, a dry cleaner and a travel agency. There was a small sign above the door, but nothing in the window. Inside, Harry found an old man sitting on a car seat ripped from a Chevy or a Ford or some other 30-year-old American car. The car seat was on the floor, in the middle of the store, surrounded by boxes and boxes of records. The old man looked to be dozing.
âIâm looking for a turntable,â Harry said.
âMiss your records?â the old man asked, looking up, wide awake.
âNo. I play them. Itâs just that . . .â
âDonât sound good enough for you?â
âYes. Thatâs right. So, Iâm looking for a good turntableâat a reasonable price. Someone told me I could find JackâFat Jackâand he might have one I could buy.â
âIâm Jack,â the old guy said, standing up and offering his hand to Harry. âWhat do you like most about your records?â he asked. Harry stood there, surprised by the unexpected and somewhat personal question, thinking about an answer. When nothing came to mind,
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