“Did you get the special edition, even?” he says, staring at me while he takes a drag off his cigarette. The brand he’s picked, it’s so cheap they just printed the word ‘CANCER’ on plain white packaging. He swears up and down they’re referencing the zodiac thing, but I’m not convinced.
I nod, not quickly like an excited child, but not slowly, like the paper sleeve I’m holding is something sacred. It’s just a limited pressing of some band’s final album, I think. The joker, who is still staring at me, takes another drag before dropping the last bit on the hardwood floor and crushing it out. I hold back a wince. There goes his security deposit.
“I can give you five hundred for it.”
I almost laugh. I got it for a sawbuck at a flea market. I can’t decide who the bigger idiot is; the guy who sold it to me for five dollars or the guy who wants to give me five hundred dollars for it.
I just shrug and nod again, the same moderate, agreeable motion that makes me feel like I’m not taking this seriously enough.
“Do you mind if I listen to it first?” he lights another CANCER and inhales deep. “You know, in case?”
I would feel like a bitch if I said no, but the truth is I don’t know if it works or not and I really don’t want to lose out on a four-hundred and ninety-five dollar profit over bad vinyl.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, turning the large square in my hands. “I got another guy who was curious about it.”
“Shit,” Another drag. “Here, here’s the five hundred.” He pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, a seeming struggle since his jeans are obviously not his size. I smile serenely, the way girls do when they get their way. He steps close and I can smell stale beer and his cigarettes clinging to his flannel button-down, watch as he counts out enough 20’s to be five hundred. The kid’s living off his parent’s success, obviously. The longer I’m around him, the less I want to be around him. But he still has my cash.
“Thanks,” I say, nearly whisper. I read somewhere that men like girls with softer voices, but I’m not sure why I’m trying to make him like me. I just want his money, and maybe I’m worried that he’ll suddenly change his mind and tell me to sell to the other guy, who coincidentally, doesn’t exist. He hands me the wad of cash and I hand him the record that I fail to see as being worth nearly two month’s rent.
“No, thank you. If you find anything else, text me, okay? You saved my number, right?”
I sigh, just a little. I’m pretty sure this sale is safe. I nod my agreeable nod (which I’m considering getting trademarked) and turn for the door.
“Sure did, and I definitely will.” I tuck the cash into my bag, slinging the strap across my body.
I can hear him already starting his record player behind me, the first crackles signaling needle contacting plastic. I’m pretty sure I also hear him sob, or maybe it was a laugh, but either way he’s got some strong feelings being brought on by that twelve inch disc of vinyl.
I don’t get it, honestly, but if it makes me easy money, I suppose the hipsters can stay.
