At least once a week a customer would come into Music Plus to buy a song they’d heard on the radio. They couldn’t remember a title, lyrics or artist. They only knew a smidgen of a chorus. On days when our manager Dave wasn’t working, this was my cue to pull a record store prank. I’d ask the customer to hum the song and then touch my finger to my skull as if scanning my cranial database. Then I’d open my eyes with a flourish.
“I got it,” I’d say.
The customer’s face would light up as I searched for the song to play aloud in the store. Fellow staff members looked on from the side, stifling laughter. They knew what was coming. I retrieved a CD from a special stash. It was the 1970 debut album from the Plastic Ono Band. I cued song number two called “Why Not” then hit play.
The song begins with a fluttering screech as if thousands of finches are being pulverized in an industrial grinder. At the 20-second mark, Yoko Ono’s high-pitched voice utters the word “why” over and over again. She sounds like a baby with colic or a yowling kitten boiled in a microwave. The sound’s the aural equivalent of nails down a chalkboard. The customer’s face would morph from hope to confusion to dismay to outright horror. They’d beg me to turn off the song.
I’d shrug my shoulders and say, “Sorry, my bad.”
They couldn’t understand how their innocent humming led to Yoko’s pernicious howls.
“Hold on,” I’d say. “Now I know what it is.”
“No, no, no, no, that’s okay,” they’d say. At that point they’d walk out of the store, disoriented and aggrieved. The end result was a lost customer but hours of entertainment for staff. It was a worthy tradeoff.
•••
In mid-1984, our record store was in trouble. Of the 60 Music Plus locations in California, we ranked in the bottom 10 percent in sales. Manager Dave Selznick told us if we didn’t increase our numbers, the store might be shuttered. For me, the job was merely a part-time college gig. To Dave it was everything. He’d slaved for years in retail hoping for a promotion to corporate. If he couldn’t reverse our sales fortunes, he’d be fired. He shared a plan during our morning meeting.
“Guys, I’ve decided to bring in a sales consultant. Tomorrow, you’ll be required to come in an hour early for a morning seminar. Attendance is mandatory. I want you to treat the consultant with respect. No monkeying around, got it?”
We all nodded in agreement but Dave’s idea pissed us off. He was implying we were the cause of slumping sales. The real reason was obvious. Our music selection stunk. Music Plus specialized in Billboard Top 100 hits, the kind of crap your mom sings in the shower. Our competitors, Moby Disc and Wherehouse, sold the same garbage but cheaper. The main reason to come to our store was the charming collection of misfits and rogues on staff. Now we were being blamed for the problem.
The next morning, we arrived en masse at eight a.m. Dave introduced us to a man named Eugene. He was in his 40s with thinning hair, thick mustache, a rumpled suit and eyeglasses kept intact with blue tape. He had a Pep Boys name tag on his chest with his name smeared in black ink. This didn’t engender confidence.
Working at a record store was akin to joining a fraternity. New faces were subjected to hazing until they proved their worth. Ricky the Vietnam Vet led the harassment. On my first day of work, he zeroed in on my big nose and called me “Schnozilla.” When he learned I was a drummer, he referred to me as “Ringo the Schnoz.” The name-calling didn’t stop until I called him “Ricky the Psycho.” This earned his respect and we became work buddies.
Eugene would only have a few minutes to prove his mettle. “Morning everyone. My name is Eugene. I’m an independent sales consultant. I’m not from corporate so I’m not here to fire anyone or report bad behavior. I’m here to offer tips on improving sales. Sound good?”
No one said a word except Dave who blurted out, “Awesome.”
“Alright, let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. When I point to you, tell me your name and your favorite musical artist.”
Eugene pointed to Alejandro, the cross-dressing pre-med student.
“I’m Alejandro and I love the Smiths.”
“You gotta love Morrissey right,” Eugene said.
“Morrissey’s a candy ass,” Ricky countered.
“What’s your name,” Eugene said pointing at Ricky.
“The last guy who stuck his finger in my face is lying six feet under the Mekong Delta.”
“Oops, sorry. Who’s your favorite artist?”
“Creedence.”
“John Fogerty, great choice. How about you my dapper friend?”
Eugene gestured to Travis dressed in his typical mod uniform: paisley shirt, thin black tie, blue blazer.
“Elvis Costello is the greatest songwriter on the planet,” Travis said.
“Your aim is true,” Eugene said, pausing for a laugh. No one cracked a smile.
“How about you ma’am,” he said pointing at Suzie.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Suzie and I don’t feel like playing your stupid game.”
“She likes the Dead,” Travis interjected.
“Shut up,” Suzie said. She slugged Travis in the shoulder. He twisted her ear.
“Ow,” Suzie yelled.
Eugene appeared confused.
“It’s okay, they’re a couple,” Dave interjected.
“How about you,” Eugene said pointing to Bad Luck Benjy, who wore sunglasses and leaned against the wall. A soft snore emanated from Benjy’s mouth.
“He’s in a heroin haze,” Ricky said.
I prodded Benjy with my elbow. He jerked awake.
“I didn’t do it, I swear,” Benjy said in a panic.
“He wants to know your favorite band,” I said.
“Richard Hell and the Voidoids.”
“That’s a new one,” Eugene said. He pointed at me.
“Peter Gabriel,” I said. “Not his Genesis stuff, his solo work.”
“Wonderful. And you Dave?”
“Huh,” Dave said, caught off guard.
“Who’s your favorite artist?”
“Clapton,” Dave said.
“Great. Now that we know each other, what are some effective ways to get customers to buy music?”
We all remained silent. Eugene pointed at Alejandro.
“How about you Alex. Can I call you Alex?”
“It’s Alejandro.”
“I have a question,” Suzie said.
“We’ll have a question period later but, okay, go ahead.”
“Why are you wearing a Pep Boys name tag?”
“I consulted for them and I guess I forgot to take it off.”
“Is that where you learned about music?”
“Sales is sales, my dear. I’ve sold everything from meat to office supplies to pet products to jet fuel. My friends say I could sell dirt to an Indian.”
“The proper term is Native-American,” Alejandro said.
“I could sell to them too.”
Eugene flashed a smile thinking he’d cracked a brilliant joke. Suzie rolled her eyes.
“Maybe you should cut to the sales tips,” Dave said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me how to do my job David,” Eugene answered, perturbed.
“Just cut to the chase, okay?”
Eugene glowered at Dave. Dave looked away, frustrated. Their dynamic was confusing. Did they know each other? Eugene straightened his posture and continued.
“How do we get customers to buy more music? What do you think, Travis?”
“We play music in the store.”
“What’s the best music to stimulate sales?”
“Thrash metal,” Ricky said.
“How about love songs,” Eugene said. “What’s a good love song?”
“‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ by Joy Division,” Suzie said glaring at Travis.
Everyone laughed.
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner or ‘Open Arms’ by Journey.”
“That’s commercial garbage,” I said.
“Commercial garbage sells,” Eugene said.
“What about angry love songs,” Ricky asked.
“Can you give me an example?”
“‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath.”
“That’s not on our playlist,” Dave said.
“We’re only allowed to play Top 40 hits,” Travis said.
“You can’t play your favorite music in the store,” Eugene asked, surprised.
“Not unless Dave okays it.”
“We play what corporate tells us to play,” Dave said.
“How does that make everyone feel?”
“Crappy,” Suzie said.
“Of course it does. You love music but you’re not allowed to play what you love.”
He turned to Dave. “Do you see what’s happening here, David?”
“If you call me David one more time…”
“Sorry, DAVE,” Eugene said. He twirled his finger beside his ear as if to indicate Dave was crazy. This was getting weird. There was animosity between Dave and Eugene but we didn’t know why.
Benjy emanated a snore. I elbowed him again. “I’ll pay you tomorrow,” he yelled.
“I have a question,” Travis said.
“Go ahead,” Eugene said.
“Is it okay to flirt with customers?”
“As long as it’s subtle I don’t see flirting as a problem.”
“How about if a customer asks you out,” Travis asked.
“That’s probably not a good idea,” Eugene said.
“I told you,” Travis said, staring at Suzie.
“How about if your boyfriend’s being a dick,” Suzie asked.
“How about if your girlfriend wears a blouse with her boobs hanging out,” Travis said.
“Can you all shut the fuck up,” Dave said.
“Is he always like this,” Eugene asked.
We all nodded.
“You’ve wasted 20 minutes talking about nothing,” Dave said. “Cut to the sales advice already?”
“When a baseball team is on a losing streak, who’s to blame,” Eugene asked looking at Dave.
“I’m not a baseball fan,” Dave said. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
“The manager,” Eugene said.
“I’m starting to like this guy,” Ricky said.
“Why do you think store sales are down, Dave?”
“It’s probably our location,” Dave said.
“Can you elaborate?”
“We’re close to UCLA but there are four record stores between us and campus. Students don’t come here anymore.”
“Those stores have been there for years. Sales started falling six months ago. What changed?”
“Well, the city forced us to add handicapped spots. Employees now take up most of the available spaces.”
“So you’re blaming the staff,” Eugene said.
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes,” Suzie said. “You always blame us and you never listen to our ideas.”
“That’s not true,” Dave said.
“Yes it is. You shot down my Staff Music Picks suggestion.”
“Because it doesn’t align with corporate preferences.”
“How about my idea for New Wave Wednesdays,” Alejandro said.
“I’m not playing Duran Duran in the store,” Dave said.
“How about my customer karaoke night idea,” Travis asked.
“This is a record store not a bar,” Dave said with frustration.
“You don’t let us take home music promos anymore,” I said.
Dave glowered at me.
“You see what’s happening here,” Eugene said. ”By not listening to your staff, you’re not empowering them to sell music.”
“They’re paid to be here,” Dave said.
“We make minimum wage,” Suzie said. “It’s barely enough to survive.”
“You chose to work here. I didn’t come looking for you.”
“A leopard never changes his spots,” Eugene said.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” Dave asked.
Eugene started laughing. This infuriated Dave. We were all confused.
“Eugene, I need to speak with you outside.”
“Here it comes,” Eugene said with a smile. “He always needs to be in control.”
“Outside now,” Dave said pointing to the parking lot.
The two men walked outside. Dave began screaming in Eugene’s face, his arms gesturing wildly. Eugene yelled back.
“Who is this guy,” Alejandro asked.
“I like him even with his porn mustache,” Ricky said.
Dave jabbed his finger a few inches from Eugene’s face. Eugene pushed the finger away and then flipped Dave the bird. Dave shoved Eugene in the chest. Eugene shoved back. Dave slapped Eugene’s face. Eugene took a wild swing. Dave evaded the punch and grabbed Eugene in a headlock. The two grappled and fell to the ground. They rolled around the parking lot, slapping and kicking at each other.
“Holy crap,” Alejandro said.
We all ran outside. Ricky grabbed Dave under the armpits and pulled him back. Alejandro and Travis pulled Eugene away. Eugene kicked Dave in the groin. Dave spit at Eugene.
“Screw you,” Eugene yelled.
“Fuck you, you balding loser,” Dave yelled back.
“Stop it,” Suzie screamed.
“Awesome,” Benjy said.
We dragged the two away from each other.
“No wonder your wife left you,” Dave yelled.
This enraged Eugene. He pulled free from Alejandro and Travis and ran to his beaten Toyota Corolla. He opened the trunk, pulled out a crowbar and charged at Dave. Benjy stuck out his foot tripping Eugene. Eugene sprawled across the parking lot, dropping the crowbar. Benjy grabbed it and walked it back to the Corolla trunk. That’s when he noticed all the music swag.
“What the hell,” Benjy said.
The trunk was packed with CD’s, cassettes, posters, hats and t-shirts. This was the record label swag that used to go to staff.
We hustled Dave into the store and locked the front door. Eugene continued screaming before driving away. Dave paced the store, agitated. He settled beside a life-size promotional cutout of Tina Turner. We surrounded him demanding answers. He came clean.
He told us he and Eugene were brothers. They’d lived together for six months after Eugene lost his job at Pep Boys and was kicked out of his home by his wife. He couldn’t find a new job so Dave funneled the store’s promotional merchandise to Eugene which he sold at swap meets. He grew more depressed. It was Dave’s idea to hire him as a consultant to bolster his confidence. Dave acknowledged the idea was misguided. He also admitted the store’s sales problems were probably his own fault.
“Ever since he’s lived with me I’ve been distracted,” Dave said. “I’ve let you all down. I’m sorry.”
Dave’s mea culpa was surprising. We viewed him as a jerk but he was trying to help a family member in distress. This was moving. Ricky put an arm around Dave’s shoulder and spoke for us all.
“You might be a sniveling douchebag but you’re okay with me.”
Store sales slowly improved. Dave implemented some of our suggestions. He scheduled Mod Mondays, hard-rock Tuesdays, post-punk Wednesdays, New Wave Thursdays and folk music Fridays for Suzie.
The biggest surprise came a few months later when Eugene returned to the store. He wore a crisply pressed suit, new eyeglasses (without tape) and had shaved off his mustache. We welcomed him like a returning POW. He said he’d found a new job at Home Depot, had a new apartment and was back on the dating scene.
Since it was Karaoke Day, we insisted Dave and Eugene sing a song together. Suzie picked the tune. We gathered around a makeshift stage in back of the store as the syncopated groove of Sister Sledge came over the speakers. Dave and Eugene, arms over each other’s shoulders, sang along to the song “We Are Family.” For the first time, they looked like brothers.