he repeated it back to Jack.
âWhat do I like most about my records?â
The old man, who was anything but fatâhe looked average, quite normal in every wayâsmiled at Harry and walked slowly over to the counter beyond the boxes of records, toward the rear of the store. Harry noticed there was no overhead lighting. At least none that was turned on. Three floor lamps, one in the middle of the boxes, another by the counter where Jack was, and a third well behind him, visible through an open door leading to some sort of back room, illuminated the store. Harry wondered what kind of business this guy could do in a store this dark. He didnât see any turntables. He didnât see any equipment at all. Harry had no way of knowing Fat Jack made everything he sold, been doing it like that for decades.
âTake your time,â Jack said.
âYou know the sound you hear just as the needle touches the first groove?â said Harry, finally. âItâs only a moment. Just an instant. Itâs like the sound of someone tapping an open mike. Thatâs it,â he said. âThat sound. Thatâs what I like most about my records.â
Fat Jackâwho, it turned out, had weighed nearly 400 pounds some years earlier, and lost more than half of it supposedly by giving up fried chickenâended up making Harry a turntable. Belt driven, speed calibrated with a light sensor checking device and a manual override adjustment, separate power switches for the motor and the turntable itself, a special stylus he said he got from a special source in âBrooklyn, New York City,â even a soft landing, anti-static, removable, double-sided table cover. And he did the whole job for under five hundred dollars. Along with many of David Levineâs LPs, Fat Jackâs turntable, lovingly and securely packed, was already on its way to Turkey.
Going through the stacks in the tiny, old record store, he came upon Erroll Garnerâs Concert By The Sea . He owned it; it was not one of his fatherâs. Harry bought it in a shop in Little Five Points, in Atlanta, when he was in high school. He remembered how often he played it late at night while studying for his twelfth-grade chemistry final. He remembered closing all the downstairs doors to keep the noise, especially Garnerâs trademark grunts, from waking his mother who slept just down the hall. Heâd go upstairs to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, set himself up with his books and his notes at the small table in their living room and stay up, way past the middle of the night, studying. Putting the record back in its place, he smiled and pictured himself, once again a teenager, sitting in Mr. Kimmelmanâs classroom getting every question right while all the time hearing Erroll Garner playing in his private ear. That night, on his flight to Europe, in his sleep, he heard him again.
Just as he knew it would, a whole new life opened to Harry in the Foreign Service. From the crooked, cobblestone streets and smoky cafes of Ankara, his initial station, to the noisy marketplaces of Cairo, and amidst the grandeur of Paris, his search for himself blossomed like the dogwoods along Peachtree Road. He cut his hair shorter than most. Heâd always wanted it so he could run his hands across his head as if they were a brush. His wardrobe grew more formal and more distinctive. Unlike so many Americans in the Foreign Service, Harry bought his suits, shirts and ties in Europe. He favored the English tailors and found their merchandise to be both readily available and affordable. His personality emerged as brighter and more lighthearted than it had been while in school. The ease and comfort of his demeanor complemented his dressy appearance. He was funny, and fun to be with, ironic at times, but rarely cynical. He was well liked by just about everyone.
In Europe, where sexual liberation was neither new nor limited by age and class, Harry did quite well with
âWhat do I like most about my records?â
The old man, who was anything but fatâhe looked average, quite normal in every wayâsmiled at Harry and walked slowly over to the counter beyond the boxes of records, toward the rear of the store. Harry noticed there was no overhead lighting. At least none that was turned on. Three floor lamps, one in the middle of the boxes, another by the counter where Jack was, and a third well behind him, visible through an open door leading to some sort of back room, illuminated the store. Harry wondered what kind of business this guy could do in a store this dark. He didnât see any turntables. He didnât see any equipment at all. Harry had no way of knowing Fat Jack made everything he sold, been doing it like that for decades.
âTake your time,â Jack said.
âYou know the sound you hear just as the needle touches the first groove?â said Harry, finally. âItâs only a moment. Just an instant. Itâs like the sound of someone tapping an open mike. Thatâs it,â he said. âThat sound. Thatâs what I like most about my records.â
Fat Jackâwho, it turned out, had weighed nearly 400 pounds some years earlier, and lost more than half of it supposedly by giving up fried chickenâended up making Harry a turntable. Belt driven, speed calibrated with a light sensor checking device and a manual override adjustment, separate power switches for the motor and the turntable itself, a special stylus he said he got from a special source in âBrooklyn, New York City,â even a soft landing, anti-static, removable, double-sided table cover. And he did the whole job for under five hundred dollars. Along with many of David Levineâs LPs, Fat Jackâs turntable, lovingly and securely packed, was already on its way to Turkey.
Going through the stacks in the tiny, old record store, he came upon Erroll Garnerâs Concert By The Sea . He owned it; it was not one of his fatherâs. Harry bought it in a shop in Little Five Points, in Atlanta, when he was in high school. He remembered how often he played it late at night while studying for his twelfth-grade chemistry final. He remembered closing all the downstairs doors to keep the noise, especially Garnerâs trademark grunts, from waking his mother who slept just down the hall. Heâd go upstairs to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, set himself up with his books and his notes at the small table in their living room and stay up, way past the middle of the night, studying. Putting the record back in its place, he smiled and pictured himself, once again a teenager, sitting in Mr. Kimmelmanâs classroom getting every question right while all the time hearing Erroll Garner playing in his private ear. That night, on his flight to Europe, in his sleep, he heard him again.
Just as he knew it would, a whole new life opened to Harry in the Foreign Service. From the crooked, cobblestone streets and smoky cafes of Ankara, his initial station, to the noisy marketplaces of Cairo, and amidst the grandeur of Paris, his search for himself blossomed like the dogwoods along Peachtree Road. He cut his hair shorter than most. Heâd always wanted it so he could run his hands across his head as if they were a brush. His wardrobe grew more formal and more distinctive. Unlike so many Americans in the Foreign Service, Harry bought his suits, shirts and ties in Europe. He favored the English tailors and found their merchandise to be both readily available and affordable. His personality emerged as brighter and more lighthearted than it had been while in school. The ease and comfort of his demeanor complemented his dressy appearance. He was funny, and fun to be with, ironic at times, but rarely cynical. He was well liked by just about everyone.
In Europe, where sexual liberation was neither new nor limited by age and class, Harry did quite well with
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