I pretend to walk to the beauty salon, checking to make sure Mary isn’t looking before I hurry off in the other direction. I can’t risk staying in this part of the mall in case I’m seen, so I head outside to a strip of older shops across the street. None of them are there in the future—it’s a fancy food market now. I feel a pang of nostalgia as I pass the old piercing shop where I had my belly-button done. Oh! And there’s that cool alternative record store I used to visit with my friends. I was always too intimidated to go inside on my own.
I miss proper music stores. I know there are still a few around that sell DVDs and computer games alongside the latest Michael Bublé release, but they’re not quite the same.
I go inside and inhale the musty scent of second-hand albums. I flick through the shelves, thinking about music in the nineties. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins…I just can’t get excited about popular music anymore. Back in 1996, I used to wait for months for a new album to come out, and then I’d have to visit every shop in town to obtain that elusive copy, or wait until it could be ordered in especially.
I wonder what the people of 1996 would think if I told them about Spotify? Or Shazam? I still find it amazing that my phone can tell me what song is playing nearby just by pressing a button.
I chuckle to myself while contemplating whether to buy a Rage Against the Machine album just for the fun of it.
“Hi, can I help you there?”
I look up, and into the amused eyes of a grunge god. Wearing a name badge that says Kurt. Ha. It’s like he was specifically made for this place.
I’ve always had a soft spot for long-haired boys who look like they stay up all night playing guitar and drinking scotch on the rocks. Which makes me wonder why I didn’t end up with one. Actually, I know the reason. Guys like that make terrible long-term boyfriends, often being unemployed and depressed artistic types.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about technology.”
“In what way?” He appears to be genuinely interested in my reply.
“I was just wondering whether CDs will stand the test of time.” Of course I know they’re practically obsolete in just over twenty years, but I can’t say that outright.
“Probably not. If vinyl and cassettes are anything to go by, I’m betting something else will come along in the future. And probably sooner, rather than later.”
I nod. He’s more than just a pretty face.
“Do you think it would be cool if they had tiny machines that held hundreds of digital songs? Or if you could store them on your mobile phone?”
He thinks for a second. “I guess it would be more convenient than carting around a crate of vinyl or a CD wallet. But I have to admit, I’m a bit of a purist. I love how vinyl sounds.”
I smile. “Typical music store guy answer.”
“But it does sound better! Way better than cassette. Although, CDs, I’m not sure about yet.”
“I can’t tell the difference,” I admit.
“Typical philistine answer,” he teases.
“I’m sorry if I don’t live up to your musical snob standards,” I sniff melodramatically.
“Here, let me show you.” He ushers me towards a room behind the counter.
“Am I allowed back there?”
“Yes, because I’m in charge today.”
“Okay, then.” I follow him into a small room filled with floor-to-ceiling CDs and records. An old blanket-covered couch leans against one wall and a record player rests beside it.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch.
I cautiously sit down.
He shuffles amongst the shelves, looking for something.
“Is your name really Kurt?” I ask.
“Yes!” He turns around and stares at me for a second, feigning outrage. “Why? Do you think I’ve stolen Kurt Cobain’s name for the extra cred?”
“It did cross my mind.”
“I was actually named after Kurt Vonnegut. My parents were fans.”
“Ah. Slaughterhouse Five?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve read it?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say cagily. I don’t want to admit I only read it a few years ago in my early thirties and I wasn’t a fan.
“I tried to read it and couldn’t finish it. But then I’m not much of a reader,” he says. “What did you think of it?”
“It was okay, but not my favourite,” I confess.
“I don’t blame you.” He turns back to the shelves and keeps looking for something. I study his back. He has on a black t-shirt (naturally) with ripped jeans, rocking them like the cool cat he is. His hair is identical to Eddie Vedder’s in his Vitalogy days, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and touching it. He’s tall and thin and looks like he lives on cigarettes and alcohol. But who knows? He might just have a fast metabolism. He is also in his early-twenties, which is bordering on too old for sixteen-year-old me, and much too young for future me. Not that it matters, because I’m married. To an amazing, perfect man. And even if this isn’t technically happening and Kurt is a figment of my imagination, I seem to have some control over my actions, so I should act accordingly.
There is definitely something about him, though. Like he’s someone I should have known already.
He finally finds what he’s looking for and slides a record out of its protective sleeve. He checks it for dust before gently placing it on the turntable.
I love how much care he takes with this little ritual. He’s obviously performed it countless times before.
He crawls over and climbs onto the couch next to me and closes his eyes.
“Don’t you think it sounds warmer somehow?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I murmur. I strain my ears to hear the difference.
“This is Bob Dylan’s Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. It sounds amazing on vinyl. Did you know he did this whole eleven-minute track in one take at the end of an eight-hour recording session?”
“Impressive.”
I close my eyes too and open up my mind, allowing the music to flow through my brain. And then I get it. I’ve never been much of a Bob Dylan fan, but sitting here in this dingy back room in a record store seems to be the perfect place to listen to this exact song.
If I was really in 1996, this guy sitting beside me would now be in his mid-forties. And most probably unemployed and balding.
But I’m not thinking about that right now. This moment is all I care about. This little slice of time that stands all on its own. If it turns out I am actually in a Back to the Future situation, I may have just changed the universe irrevocably.
“You look so serious,” he says.
I open my eyes and face him. He’s watching me intently.
“I’m just trying to hear the difference.”
“And can you?”
“I think so.”
“Hello?” a voice calls from the shop.
Kurt and I jump simultaneously.
“I better get that,” he says, reluctantly standing up.
“Of course.”
“You can stay and listen a bit longer if you like.”
“Maybe just for a minute.”
I watch him leave and try to relax into the music again, but it’s no use. The spell has been broken.
I stay for another five minutes before sneaking out while Kurt is busy talking to a customer.
I’m out on the street when I hear him calling out.
“Hey! What’s your name?”
I turn around. “Anna.”
“You should come back another day and I’ll show you more stuff that sounds good on vinyl.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m here on weekends and then Tuesdays and Wednesdays,” he adds.
“Good to know.”
He gives me a look that makes me think he’s used to girls making more of an effort around him. “Bye, Anna.”
“Bye, Kurt.”
He shakes his head and goes back inside.
I don’t stop sm
iling all the way back to The Palace.
***
Mum and I don’t end up having afternoon tea together, because Mary took up all the available time.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Mum says as we drive back out to the main road. “Today didn’t really go according to plan, huh?”
“It’s all right. I had fun.”
“Oh, good. So you bought some new clothes?” She points to the two shopping bags at my feet. I couldn’t resist. On the way back to meet Mum, I bought a pair of strappy sandals with a slight heel, and a form-fitting stripy dress with a slit up one side. I could never get away with a dress like that in the future.
“Yeah. How was your catch-up with Mary?”
Mum pulls a face. “Horrendous. I had to hear all the sordid details of poor Wendy’s divorce. Honestly, I’m never telling that woman a single personal detail again. It would end up all over town within an hour.”
“Lucky she doesn’t have Facebook,” I mutter.
“Sorry?”
“Oh, it’s just lucky she doesn’t have a way of spreading the information faster.”
“Heaven forbid.” She glances at me and then back at the road. “So, you’re off to that party tonight?”
Party? Was I going to a party? I have a vague recollection of reading something to do with a party in my future diary before Ed interrupted me. Damn. I wish I’d had a chance to finish reading that entry.
“Uh, that’s right.”
“Is Todd going?”
“I think so. Why?”
“To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of that boy. He doesn’t treat you well.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Todd was a tool. A very good-looking tool, but a tool nonetheless.
Her face registers surprise. “Really? Then why are you dating him?”
“I don’t know. We probably won’t last much longer.”
“Oh, okay. Is there anyone else you have your eye on?”
I blush. Which is a weird reaction, but I put it down to the fact that I can’t tell her about Ed.
“Um, not really. I should probably just focus on school for a while.”
Ha. Mum’s going to think I’ve had a lobotomy or something.
Her mouth drops open. “Did I hear that correctly? Did you just say you wanted to concentrate on your schoolwork instead of boys?”
Oh God. I need to divert her attention so she doesn’t start getting suspicious.
I look back at a shopping bag in the seat behind me. “I see you managed to squeeze in a bit of shopping too.”
“Yes. I went and bought a dress for your grandmother. Actually, thanks for reminding me. I almost missed the turn-off. I thought I’d quickly drop it off on the way home.”
I freeze. “Grandma?” I say faintly.
“Is that all right?”
I almost hyperventilate. Grandma Millie died in 2003.
“Of course it’s all right. I just didn’t…never mind. I’m really looking forward to seeing her.”
“You really are acting oddly today. You’re not on drugs, are you?”
Possibly. Who knows what’s going on?
“I’m not on drugs, Mum. I probably just didn’t get enough sleep last night, that’s all.”
“Well, whose fault is that?”
“Mine. I know. Sorry.”
We pull into the driveway of the retirement village where Grandma used to live and park near the front door.
“We can’t stay for too long, because you’ll be late for work,” Mum says.
I follow her down a little path to a small villa with a pretty little garden. Grandma was always so proud of her roses.
I start to cry. I can’t help it. This is all too much.
“Hello?” Mum calls through the screen door.
Grandma appears, exactly as I remember her. Her hair is completely white and cropped short. Her skin is all crepey, but she has sparkly, vibrant eyes.
“Oh, this is a lovely surprise!” she says, opening the door and ushering us in. She gives Mum a hug first and then looks at me.
“Are you okay, dear?” She leans in and wraps me up in her arms. I breathe in her lavender perfume and cry harder.
“For goodness sake, Anna. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today.” Mum turns to Grandma. “Sorry, Mum. Anna’s very up and down at the moment. I blame teenage hormones and lack of sleep.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of emotion every now and again.” She stands back and fixes her gaze on me. “You’re fine, aren’t you, darling?”
I nod, not quite able to speak yet.
“Good. Now let me get you a cup of tea.”
“Oh, we can’t stay long, I’m afraid,” Mum says. “I just wanted to drop off a little something for you.” She holds up the shopping bag.
“You shouldn’t have.” She takes the bag and peers inside before pulling out a floral sundress. “That’s lovely, thank you. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s a gift.”
“I do have money, you know.”
“I never said you didn’t, but I thought you could use a couple of new things. I know you probably won’t be able to wear this outside right now without a coat, but when I saw it, I thought of you.”
“Well, thank you, honey. That’s very thoughtful of you. Do you at least have time for a snack? Or I can put a couple of pieces of my caramel slice in a container for you?”
“I would love some of your caramel slice,” I answer for the two of us. I want to tell her how much she inspires my future career, how every time I bake, I feel closer to her. But I can’t.
She beams. “Just a moment.”
I look around her villa. The furniture is old, but it’s well cared for. My grandmother had all her wits until the end, but she had bad knees and hips and often fell over. This retirement home allowed her to be mostly independent, but with back-up support close by. Grandpa Harry died in the early eighties, so she was on her own for a long time.
“Have you thought about what you want to do after you graduate next year?” Grandma asks me as she cuts up the slice.
“I was thinking of becoming a pastry chef,” I tell her.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Mum says, bewildered. “I thought you wanted to be a dentist.”
Oops. I’d totally forgotten that Mum and Dad tried to convince me to go into dentistry. I pretended to agree with them for a while, but I finally told them my true intentions just before I graduated.
“I think that sounds like an admirable choice,” Grandma says. She hands me a container with the slice in it. I crack open the lid and inhale.
“I’ll have to visit more often and get some practice with you.”
She laughs. “Sweetheart, all women my age used to bake like this. We were basically forced to stay at home and look after the kids, and we had to do something once everyone went to school.”
“Do you wish you’d been able to work outside the house?”
She shrugs. “I guess I never seriously thought about it. I just did what I had to do.”
Mum starts walking towards the door, looking at her watch and then me. “We should probably get going.”
I hand Mum the container of slice and then race over to give Grandma another hug. “I’m going to come back and visit again soon,” I promise her. Obviously, if this is a hallucination that won’t be possible, but it feels like the right thing to say.
“Anytime,” she says.
Mum squeezes Grandma on the arm. “Have a great afternoon, Mum.”
We head back out to the car and I climb into the passenger seat, barely paying attention to my surroundings. It didn’t even occur to me that I could see Grandma here. Who else have I not visited since 1996 because they passed away? Or even just moved to a faraway location?
“What was all that about wanting to be a pastry chef?” Mum asks, still staring at the road. I look over and see she’s trying hard to look casual.
“It was just an idea,” I say lightly. �
�Nothing’s set in stone.” This might not be real, but I still don’t feel like getting into an argument.
“Were you just saying it for your grandmother’s sake? Or have you been promising your father and I dentistry for ours?”
“I’m considering them equally,” I say firmly.
“You know dentistry will ensure financial security?”
“I do, Mum. And I promise I won’t make any rash decisions.”
“Good.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes.
I wonder if I could call in sick to work today. I say as much to Mum.
“If you’re too sick to work, you’re too sick to go to that party.”
Do I even want to go to the party? Maybe I should just stay in tonight. Or I could sneak out. But our house isn’t really designed for an easy escape. My bedroom is on the second floor and there aren’t any trees or nearby walls for me to climb onto.
I don’t really feel like working at a video store for the next four hours, but I suppose it’s the only way I can guarantee my freedom later on.
The compromises you have to make as a teenager.
FOUR
Now this feels weird.
I walk through the door and into the video shop where I used to work. Paula, one of my old co-workers, is busy serving a long line of customers.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she cries, relieved. “It’s crazy busy and Jill went home early because she started puking.”
“Is she all right?” I ask, hurrying behind the counter and ushering some of the customers over to my side.
“I think she had alcohol poisoning,” Paula says, rolling her eyes. “She’s so selfish.”
I laugh. I do remember Jill being a pretty big party animal. I’m surprised she ever showed up for work at all.
I look at the screen in front of me and feel a wave of relief. It’s just like riding a bike. You never forget.
I scan the first customer’s card and frown.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you have fifteen dollars owing on a new release you returned late a couple of weeks ago.”
“But I brought it back the next day!” he protests.
“Uh…” I quickly read the notes on the customer’s account, which suggests he’s a repeat offender. “You might have to talk to the manager about that,” I say apologetically. “You don’t have to pay any off the fine tonight, but I don’t have the authority to erase it.”
1996 (90s Flashback Series) Page 3