Vinyl Stories, #1: Bruce & The Weasel

 

I was working the Brooklyn Record Riot which was taking place at Warsaw, a Polish community center and concert hall in Greenpoint, on October 27th, 2013. My table was set up in a corner of the room, with another dealer to my left and the hall’s stage to my right. Record shows are a crapshoot for many reasons, but occasionally, if you are next to a friend, even if business turns out to be a disappointment, you’ll at least laugh a lot, because, quite frankly, there is a lot to laugh at when there is a room full of record collectors. Sadly, for this record riot, the dealer to my left was not a friend. The dealer to my left was a renowned petty weasel who made a practice out of asking for a 10% discount when he shopped at your table, which was more than fair and a simple courtesy among dealers, but then would only round his totals down a buck when you shopped at his table, citing any number of reasons from “paying high for the records” you chose or, coldly stating, “that is what that record sells for.” I would have happily paid the price a “record sells for,” and sales tax too, if he’d just once said out loud, “No discounts from me because I’m a cheap weasel.” But that never happened. I was stuck with this damp flounder to my left for the next eight hours.

I had a decent day, making about $500 in the first three hours, but then things started to slow down a bit. I decided to get some pierogies from Warsaw’s kitchen and a beer at the bar, and as luck would have it, while the fork full of food was making its way into my mouth, I heard the voice.  

 

“Hey, how’s it going? I figured you’d be here. I just got here. So, yeah, how’s it going? I…uh…I just got here. Do you have The Rascals’ Once Upon A Dream?” 

Bruce was here. I knew he would be. Bruce is everywhere, like dust. Or pigeons. It’s uncanny. I could be at a movie in Manhattan, or a concert in Asbury Park, or having drinks in a bar in Boston, or on a fishing trip in Sheepshead Bay, and I’d somehow see Bruce. Not a vision, or some figment. Hard copy, Bruce. You could chalk it up to Bruce and I having the same interests. But that’s too easy, and not something I’d care to admit. It’s uncanny because I’d talk to any number of friends, telling them about a concert I attended “just last night,” and one of them would say, “Oh I was at the Mets game last night. I saw Bruce.” “But wait! I saw Bruce at the concert last night.” Neither of us would be lying. Bruce has been everywhere all at once long before the hit movie. 

 

I was at the New Orleans Jazz Fest and had been waiting all day to see Ornette Coleman. All of New Orleans was waiting. The Jazz Tent was mobbed. People were sitting two to a folding chair. They were lying in the aisles. It was the event of the weekend. I was about 15 rows back from the stage. When Ornette came out, the place exploded into an extended standing ovation. I asked my friend Dan to get my back as I stood up on the folding chair to take a photo. I zoomed in and some guy’s head was blocking most of Ornette. The standing ovation continued for a bit, and I waited patiently until the guy blocking Ornette finally turned to walk away. It was Bruce.

 

I have one picture of Ornette Coleman and three pictures of Bruce and Ornette Coleman.

Who is Bruce? He is a lover of pop culture, rock & roll, and vinyl and he is a colossal pain in the ass who has driven the last bit of sanity out of thousands of retailers and record dealers across the country. He could make Gandhi shout, “Fuck this!” You try to maintain a level of calm and tolerance because it’s the right thing to do. But he never stops. It’s an endurance test and you either lose with a headache, or lose with an ulcer. Those who are weak, lose with both. But that October Sunday, I won. I had a copy of the record he wanted.

“Why yes, Bruce. I have a beautiful original mono copy of The Rascals’ Once Upon A Dream, with the booklet. And it’s only five bucks.”

  “Oh, can I see? I only need the booklet. I already have the album. I only need the booklet. Can you sell me just the booklet?” 

  

After shot putting my pierogies across the room into the nearest trash bin, I took a swig of Polish beer and said, “No. No Bruce. You can’t just buy the booklet.”
 

Bruce was just warming up. He was playing songs from the new album, knowing full well he had “Stairway To Heaven” and “Free Bird” in his back pocket. 

 

“But I only need the booklet. I already have the album. Can you do any better? I guess I can buy your complete copy and just get rid of my copy, but no one would probably want it without the booklet.” 

 

I heard the bell ring. Was there any chance that Bruce heard the bell ring? I thought he might realize what he just said, so I waited a few seconds. I was wrong. It didn’t register. He didn’t hear the bell, so I rang it again.

  

“That’s right Bruce. No one would want it without the book, so why would I just sell you the book out of my copy, which by the way, is attached to the cover.” 

 

Bruce was silent for a few seconds, as he mulled this over. He finally said, “But I only need the booklet. Okay, I’ll think about it. Four dollars, right?” I did all I could not to smack him with a Linda Ronstadt/Nelson Riddle boxed set. But, I took a breath and said, “No. It’s five bucks.” He left my table and worked the rest of the room.

Suddenly, there was a collective gasp in the room. Just about every dealer was looking down at his phone. News had just come through. Lou Reed had died.

Remember the petty weasel to my left? He came around from his table to mine, went directly to my “R-S” box, and bought a copy of Lou Reed’s “The Blue Mask” that I was selling for $15. He didn’t ask for a discount. He just paid me and walked back to his table, where he carefully peeled off my price sticker, and put one on that said $25. He then placed it in the front of his “R-S” box. 

Weasel.

The show is now coming to an end and I start to slowly pack up, but not before Bruce returns. He starts flipping through my singles and pulls out three Squeeze 45’s with picture sleeves, each marked at $3. “I need these two, but I might have this one.” I said, “I’m packing up. Take all three for $6.” He actually said, again, “But I may have this one.” I knocked all three singles out of his hand with the lid of one of my record boxes and shoved them back into the singles box, hard enough to jam my index finger.  “Goodbye Bruce.” 

 

Unphased, Bruce asked again, “Will you take $4 for the Rascals? I only need the book.” 

I agreed. I had to. I couldn’t spend the night in a straightjacket. I pulled The Rascals out of the box just as Bruce pulled out a few records from his tote bag. “Would you trade The Rascals for one of these records?” I violently snatched the Rascals out of his hand like Kwai Chang Caine, opened the gatefold and ripped the booklet from inside the cover. “Here. You can have the booklet.”

That was one of the better Record Riots.