The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  Nothing.

  More nothing.

  Then the machine printed my chart out, and he tore the perforated edge. His eyes moved down the page, and then scaled back up again.

  Finally, he motioned for me to remove the headphones.

  “You’ve never had your hearing tested?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever had trouble hearing?”

  “Well, at school sometimes, it’s hard to hear my teachers.”

  “I see,” the examiner nodded. “Wait here a moment.”

  He left me alone in the cubicle. I stole a glance at my test results. I had no idea what the readings meant. I tried not to seem antsy or excited or scared or ecstatic or—the examiner returned with the doctor from Station One and Master Sergeant Morano.

  The examiner from the first station went over my chart with the other two.

  “No sign of congestion or infection,” he said.

  The master sergeant nodded at him, and he went back to work.

  “Mr. Bingham,” Master Sergeant Morano said, “just so we’re clear, you aren’t currently sick? No head colds?”

  “No, sir,” I squeaked.

  “And that rasp in your voice? You’re sure you’re not sick?”

  “It’s been like this since I was eleven, sir.”

  I hadn’t considered my voice could throw the whole thing off. I was sure I was screwed, sure that they’d make me come back next week to retake the test, then the next week, then the next, until they got the result they wanted.

  “We need to run the test again, to make sure the results were accurate,” the examiner said.

  “That OK with you?” Master Sergeant Morano sneered. I liked him better when he was screaming.

  “Of course, sir.”

  I put on the headphones. The machine started up. The examiner pointed at me. I picked up the response buzzer.

  Beeps. Hums. Tones.

  Loud. Soft. Ghostly.

  Once the sounds evaporated, the examiner had me remove the headphones. The machine printed out my new chart, and they held my tests side by side to compare the results. I couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other.

  Then the examiner handed both documents to Master Sergeant Morano.

  “Stand up, son,” he ordered. “You need to come with me.”

  ―

  Dad sat on a bench in the yard of the MEPS building, drinking coffee from a paper cup and chitchatting with a girl around my age, probably the sweetheart of one of the unlucky boys still inside. His face lit up when he saw me walking down the steps of the building.

  He shot off the bench and hustled over to meet me. But as he closed in, I saw the wheels in his head turning. By the time he reached me, his expression had melted into a confused grimace.

  “Where’s everyone else?” he asked hurriedly.

  I handed him a piece of paper. I braced myself as he read it.

  And reread it.

  And re-reread it.

  He glared at the 4-F stamped on the bottom right corner.

  “4-F?” he asked.

  “I guess I’m . . . I dunno, Dad. The classifications are on the back.”

  He flipped the paper over. His face grew flushed.

  “4-F,” he read aloud, “Rejected. Rejected from military service . . . for physical, mental, or moral . . . what is this bullshit, Ronnie? Rejected?”

  “They said my hearing isn’t good enough to qualify.”

  “Your hearing?” Dad barked. “That’s ridiculous! This can’t be right.”

  Dad threw down his cup, exasperated. Cold coffee splashed onto my shoes. He stormed past me, straight up the stairs. By the time I got moving he was already inside, focusing his frustration on the entrance guard.

  “That’s right,” Dad snapped, “Corporal Buford Bingham, United States Marine Corps, retired. I need to speak to your commanding officer immediately.”

  The guard disappeared into the hallway.

  “Dad,” I said softly, “come on, let’s get outta here.”

  “Not until I get this straightened out. There’s obviously been some mistake.”

  “This way, sir,” the guard called from the hall, waving Dad forward.

  Dad followed the guard into the briefing area. I couldn’t believe it—I felt like I’d broken out of prison just to walk right back in. But still, I hurried after them.

  I caught up as they turned into the medical exam room. I passed the boys currently being poked and prodded by the hypocrites of the Hippocratic Oath.

  As Dad began speaking with Master Sergeant Morano, a chill shot down my spine.

  “I understand your frustration,” I (sort of) heard the sergeant saying as I approached. “That’s why we did two audiograms, to check the accuracy of the results.”

  “But Ronnie’s never had hearing issues before,” Dad said.

  “Has he had an audiogram before?”

  “I-I’m not sure,” Dad mumbled. “I’d have to check with his mother.”

  “Boys come in all the time with undiagnosed hearing problems. Hearing loss can be subtle in day-to-day civilian life. But as you know, corporal, subtleties don’t fare will in a war zone.”

  “But he can’t be unfit,” Dad said. “My son’s a lot of things, but unfit isn’t one of them. He . . . he has to be fit. You understand? He, he—”

  Master Sergeant Morano shook his head solemnly, and Dad’s voice trailed off. He placed a consoling hand on my father’s shoulder.

  “I blame rock-n-roll,” he said seriously. “Kids play it too loud, and it ruins their ears. Then perfectly fit boys like your son come in who I’ve got to turn away. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Dad nodded. Then he started drifting back to the exit.

  Master Sergeant Morano turned to me. “I bet you like rock-n-roll, don’t you?”

  “Sir, yes sir,” I said.

  He shoved the rejection slip into my chest hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I reeled, but caught my balance before I gave him the satisfaction of falling.

  “Then don’t forget to take that with you. After all, you earned it.”

  fourteen

  Dead Flowers

  That drive home from Jacksonville was the longest ride of my life. I was relieved, of course, but not in a celebratory mood. Victory didn’t feel the way I thought it would feel.

  Instead of celebrating, I spent the drive rationalizing my disqualification to Dad, blubbering excuses. But his expression remained as stoic as the totem of a blasphemed god. He kept his eyes locked on the road. He didn’t say a word.

  Then we pulled off of the A1A and crossed the long bridge that led back to Cordelia Island. Below us were miles of marshland, which granted an incredible view of the sunset; a rainbow of oranges and purples overlaid by the purest of blues.

  “Really, I’m as surprised as you are,” I swore again. “Maybe I hurt my ears wrestling, like cauliflower ear but, like, an internal injury—”

  I saw Dad’s mouth open slightly, and his strong jaw move, but the glare on the windshield made it impossible to read his lips. I leaned over the gearshift to get a better angle.

  “Sorry, Dad, but what’d you—”

  “I SAID YOU DIDN’T LOSE YOUR HEARING FROM WRESTLING,” he yelled. “IS THAT CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU?! HUH?! ALL THAT LOUD MUSIC RUINED YOUR EARS! THOSE RECORDS . . . you and your brother . . . those goddamn records ruined everything.”

  His voice became an inaudible jumble as he swerved onto our street. His foot was still hammering the gas as he turned in our driveway. We were less than an inch from the garage door when he finally hit the brakes.

  Dad said something else, but it just sounded like a growl.

  Momma happened to be outside, drawing chalk pictures on our walkway with Ro
y. She stood when she saw us arrive, and was wiping pink chalk dust off of her hands as Dad and I approached. Roy didn’t even notice us; he was focused only on what looked to be a portrait of Wolfman.

  “They didn’t want him,” Dad told her before she could speak.

  He stormed past her, onto the porch and into the house. He didn’t bother shutting the front door behind him. Momma turned to me for clarification.

  “My hearing,” I said, moving slowly. “They said my ears are bad.”

  I handed her my rejection slip.

  “Your hearing?” she asked.

  “That’s what the 4-F stamp means. The doctor said a lot of guys have bad ears, but don’t know it until they go in for a hearing test.”

  “So, now you won’t be drafted anytime soon?”

  “Now I won’t be drafted ever, Momma. Even if they revoke deferments or do another one of them troop surges. I couldn’t join the military now if I tried.”

  She reached out and touched my ears, as if she thought her fingers held some motherly healing property. Then her hands dropped to my shoulders, and I saw the tears swelling in her eyes.

  She muttered something like a prayer. She clung to me in a death grip, and in that moment of raw relief I finally felt a sense of victory. I sniffed back my own tears and hugged her.

  The victory faded a second later when Dad came back onto the porch.

  “Where’s my bottle of J&B?” Dad hollered to Momma.

  “It’s in the cabinet, dear,” she said.

  “Which cabinet?”

  “Go on and get it, Momma. I think I’ll lay down for a bit. Long day.”

  “Yes it was,” she sighed. “But it’s over now. Lord willin’, it’s over now.”

  ―

  I locked my bedroom door and leaned against the familiar wood. I let out a gratified sigh as the absurdity of the day sank in. I felt like David must have felt as he looked upon the beaten body of Goliath and wondered what the hell just happened.

  My room was childishly innocent compared to the MEPS building. There were no death dealers here; all I was faced with was a Robinson Crusoe on Mars poster and a closet full of clothes washed and folded by my mother.

  I tried to square the contrast, but it was all too overwhelming.

  So I gave up thinking about it, went to the closet, and dug through my T-shirts. The Vinyl Underground had agreed to go radio silent all weekend to avoid suspicion. But that didn’t mean the gang was patient enough to wait until Monday to know if the stunt had worked.

  So we came up with signals. If everything went as planned, I was to hang a green shirt off of my windowsill. If it didn’t work, I was supposed to hang a red one. If the military figured out I’d tried to dodge, a black shirt would signal to them that I was royally screwed.

  On the bottom shelf of the closet, I found a shamrock- colored T-shirt from the ’66 Florida State wrestling finals. I unlatched my window and tied the shirt onto the hook like a makeshift curtain. I drank in the breeze as the wind picked up—the shirt danced in the dark. Then I tilted my desk lamp toward it for maximum visibility. Now my victory flag was flying. My bat signal was lit.

  Satisfied, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the bed. I was too tired to ignore the ringing, so I closed my eyes and let the sounds untether me from my consciousness. Then I drifted away, far, far away, for a good sweet while.

  ―

  The horrible smell woke me. It was vinegary but worse; like hydrochloric acid, or something else I’d misspell on a biology exam. The fumes were bad enough to make my nostrils burn.

  Annoyed, I crawled out of bed and went to the window—and that’s when I saw the spiral of smoke rising from the back of my house. Panic alarms flashed in my temples. Unthinking, I ran from my bedroom and went directly into my parents’ room. It was empty. I turned and headed toward the stairs, but then I noticed Bruce’s bedroom door had been left open.

  The sight gave me pause, and my brain clicked back on.

  I never left his door open.

  I walked into his bedroom and flipped on the light.

  His records were gone.

  I blinked my eyes clear. I couldn’t be seeing what I was seeing.

  I stopped blinking.

  His records were still gone. Bruce’s collection of singles—the shelves of 45s—hadn’t been touched. But all of his full-length albums had disappeared.

  I dashed out of his bedroom. I took the stairs two at a time. I nearly busted my ass when I reached the foyer, but caught my balance on the wall and propelled myself through the dining room, straight into the kitchen.

  There was Momma, sitting at the counter. I could tell she’d been crying.

  My confusion mutated into a freak out. “What’s wrong?” I panted. “What is it, Momma?”

  “Your father. He’s just . . . very upset.”

  “What’s going on, Momma? Where’s Dad?”

  She dabbed her eyes with a wadded tissue.

  “He’s in the backyard,” she muttered, “but please stay in here, Ronnie. He’s having a hard night, and it’s . . . he’s . . . Lord, he’s already—”

  I was out the back door before she finished the sentence. The backyard was dark except for the fire that was raging in our fire pit. Then I saw Dad’s silhouette, there before the flames. Memories rose in my head like embers: Dad digging that fire pit a decade ago, the year Bruce and I got the chickenpox. Bruce’s scout troop had gone camping at Osceola National Forest, but he’d been stuck at home with me. So Dad gave us a camping trip of our own—He calls us into the yard, smiling in the firelight. He holds a bag of marshmallows in one hand, two chocolate bars in the other—the inverse image of the nightmare that stood before me now.

  The fire was at least four feet high. The flames were a sickly shade of yellow. Their tips flickered an unnatural green. I’d never seen a fire burning colors like that. A bright trail of smoke curled skyward, polluting the air with its toxic stink. Wolfman ran around the yard in circles, barking at the flames.

  I noted the empty bottle of J&B Scotch on the patio table. Then I turned back to the fire, just in time to see Dad lift a crate of records above his head.

  I ran at him without thinking. “Dad! Don’t!”

  But he hurled them into the flames.

  “DAD!” I bawled in complete shock.

  He didn’t even acknowledge me. He stepped back to watch the records burn.

  I took my first look at the casualties—The Four Tops, The Shangri-Las, The Dave Clark Five, The Beatles, The Zombies, The Who—every LP Bruce ever loved was now nothing but kindling. Their sonic grooves wilted like a field of dead flowers. Dad watched, zombified. Firelight danced in his vacant eyes.

  “Dad,” I wheezed, “his records! What the hell are you doing?”

  “These got my oldest boy killed,” he said, “and they’ve turned you into a deaf-mute. So I’m doing something I shoulda done a long time ago.”

  “What are you talking about? Help me get ʼem out! Hurry!”

  “No point, now.”

  He was right. The records, the music, and the memories they held—they were dead now, gone forever. All I could do about it was cry, and I did. Hard.

  I wept there, before the fire. Dad walked back to the house.

  I heard our back door open and shut. I forced myself to wipe my eyes and chase after him. Dad stormed through the kitchen without acknowledging Momma. He simply moved around her, straight though the dining room. I caught up with him in the foyer, just as he started up the stairs.

  I’d never seen him in such a state. It scared the shit outta me.

  But still, I followed behind him. When he made it to the top of the stairs, a new burst of panic hit me—He’s getting more records! I charged up the last few steps, ducking around him to block the door just as he turned to Bruce’s room.


  A dizzy look crept over his face.

  “You best get out of my way, boy. Now.”

  “Why?” I snapped. “So you can burn more of his stuff? You, you . . . drunk fuckin’ assho—”

  He drove his hands into my chest, and my voice wheezed away.

  At first, I didn’t feel pain, or even the sensation of falling. I felt more like a spectator watching a kid who looked like me get thrown across a room and go crashing into the shelves of vinyls that lined the wall.

  When I hit the floor, the pain was there waiting. But my throbbing chest and back got little more than a brief acknowledgment, because Bruce’s entire 45 collection came tumbling down on top of me, scattering across the floor.

  I looked at the music around me, then looked back to the doorway, stunned. Dad seemed shocked as well. He stood wide-eyed and shaking, unable to comprehend his actions. I heard a faint wail down the hall—the racket must have woken up Roy.

  Dad took a step into the bedroom.

  “Son, I—”

  I recognized the vinyl beside me, it was one from the special stack. Before Dad could get any closer, I grabbed it and ripped the dust sleeve in half, then I pulled Bruce’s envelope out.

  “You wanna see what you’re burning? Here! Look! You’re burning the memory of who he was! You’re burning all that’s left!”

  He winced as if he’d been physically hurt by the sight of the letter.

  “Ronnie, please. Enough,” he moaned. Tears shimmered in his eyes.

  “Enough? Are you kidding me?”

  Dad took another wobbly step. Then, suddenly, he dropped to his knees.

  My whole world shook from that fall.

  He covered his face with trembling hands, and he began to cry. I’d never seen him cry before; it just wasn’t done in the Bingham household, not right out in the open. But now his tears came in frantic gasps, as if he was physically smothered by grief. The sight of it was a cataclysmic event.

  When he looked at me, it was as if the atmosphere in the room had changed.

  “You were the one that had what it takes, you were—”