Music Plus manager Dave Selznick always came up with promotional ideas to bring new customers to the store. These included Rocker Dress-Up Day, Guitar Solo Day, Fat Elvis Day and Sexy Female Rocker Day. For the latter promotion, customers impersonated rocker babes like Stevie Nicks, Tina Turner and Pat Benatar while male customers ogled the contestants as if the record store had morphed into a strip club. The winner was a college sophomore decked out as Joan Jett with leather jacket and jeans. She received a $50 gift certificate for her efforts.
Suzie, the staff hippie feminist, was livid. “You’re a male chauvinist pig,” she yelled at Dave.
“I’m bringing in business,” he countered.
“They all look like skanks.”
“Skanks are sexy.”
“Why not just have a wet t-shirt contest?”
“I would if I could,” Dave said. “But the water would ruin the carpets.”
Dave mollified Suzie by giving her her own promotion: taxidermy day. Suzie was an amateur taxidermist who preserved and costumed dead rats as rock stars with miniature instruments. Her gothic creations included punk, heavy metal, country, new wave and soul. Unfortunately, the deceased rodents smelled like formaldehyde driving customers from the store.
Dave’s signature promotion was Dead Rocker Day. Whenever a prominent musician died, Dave played the artist’s music all day offering 10 percent off the dead rocker’s albums. Dave gloated about the number of Beatles albums he sold after John Lennon’s death.
“Lennon got me a trip to Rio,” he crowed.
Not all of Dave’s promotions were successful. After Def Leppard drummer Rick Allen lost his arm in a 1984 car accident, Dave hosted a one-armed drumming contest in the store. He placed a drum kit by the back wall while local drummers played one-handed solos. The contest was a bust though for me it was memorable since it was the day I met Robin Rosenkranz.
Robin was a young, waifish percussionist with spitfire energy. She was attractive in a tomboy fashion like my childhood crush Tatum O’Neal. On weekends, Robin busked at Venice Beach playing rhythms on paint buckets. I was a drummer too and I’d seen her on the boardwalk a few times. I was taken by her self-confidence and carefree manner.
Robin came in second place in the drumming contest. The winner was a session drummer who’d played on a few Anthrax albums. I argued with Dave that the guy was a ringer and should be disqualified. Dave thought he was photogenic with long hair and a leather vest and was eager to use him for store publicity photos.
Afterwards, I introduced myself to Robin.
“You were amazing,” I told her. “You should’ve won.”
“No big deal,” she said. “I had a good time.”
She said she’d been playing percussion for three years though she never used a drum kit. She preferred organic instruments like pots, pans and Sparkletts water bottles.
“You should work here,” I said.
“Is it fun,” she asked.
“It would be if we worked together.”
She filled out an application and Dave hired her on the spot. I convinced him to schedule us on the same shifts. Robin and I developed a kinship discussing our favorite drummers. I loved Stewart Copeland and Phil Collins. She was a fan of Tony Allen, Fela Kuti’s drummer credited with inventing Afrobeat rhythms.
Robin and I shared chicken wings at Feast From the East down the block. We talked about where we saw ourselves in a few years. I wanted to be a screenwriter. Robin wanted her own experimental music show on MTV. Since I owned a video camera, I volunteered to record her weekend gigs at Venice Beach. She accepted.
On Sunday morning, I parked outside her apartment near Canter’s Deli. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a 60ish Hasidic Jewish man with a thick white beard and glasses. He wore a yarmulke and tallit prayer shawl. I thought I had the wrong address until he invited me inside.
“Robin’s expecting you.”
The living room walls were lined with bookcases and dusty paintings of 18th-century rabbis. The man gestured for me to sit on a shabby couch.
“I’m Chaim, Robin’s father. You’re Jewish, no?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What’s your Hebrew name?”
I had no idea so I made something up.
“Nimrod.”
“Ah yes, a great warrior and king.”
Somehow I’d named an actual biblical figure. I felt like I won a carnival ring toss.
“You work with Robin selling music?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Religious music?”
“I’ve sold a few Fiddler on the Roof albums if that counts?”
“This is a joke, yes?”
“A bad one.”
“What are your intentions with my daughter?”
“I thought we’d go for coffee, maybe breakfast. We’re not getting married today, I promise you that.”
“You are a funny man. Okay, you have my permission.”
He yelled into the bowels of the apartment.
“Rivkah.”
I heard footsteps running down the stairs. Robin appeared in drab clothing. Long gray skirt, stockings, gray blouse, black canvas shoes and a gray backpack. She looked embarrassed, her gaze focused on the floor.
“You may accompany Nimrod on Yom Rishon.”
Chaim hugged his daughter then waved goodbye. Robin and I walked south on Hayworth Avenue.
“Rivkah,” I asked.
“I know, it’s terrible right.”
“My Jewdar is usually pretty accurate but I didn’t take you for a Hassid.”
“I’m not. My family is.”
The moment we entered my Toyota, Robin slid off her skirt, stockings and blouse. Beneath her Orthodox garb she wore white shorts and a faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt. She grabbed tennis shoes and drumsticks from her backpack then stashed away her drab clothes.
“You hungry,” I asked.
“I’d love a bagel and schmear.”
We stopped at Canter’s for coffee and bialys then drove toward Venice Beach. Robin scoured my CD collection. She settled on Talking Heads Speaking in Tongues and cued the disc to “Burning Down the House.” We drummed on the dashboard with our hands as the tribal rhythms pervaded the car.
I parked at the Rose Cafe in Venice. I gathered my video equipment and we headed toward the boardwalk.
“Where are your paint buckets,” I asked.
“My friend’s bringing them.”
It was early morning and we passed merchants setting up their wares. There was a dreadlocked psychic offering $5 astrology readings, an Asian man who wrote names on a grain of rice and a hippie-ish woman who stenciled henna tattoos. Robin greeted them as if they were old friends.
Halfway down the boardwalk, a stocky Latina girl with spiky black hair approached us. She and Robin hugged.
“Marisol, this is Loren. Loren, meet Marisol.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, though it wasn’t. I immediately disliked her, jealous I’d have to share my time with Robin. I could tell Marisol didn’t like me either by the scowl on her face.
Marisol wore black leggings and a corset beneath a mesh top. She sported a tarantula tattoo on her left arm and a right bicep tattoo reading “Death Comes To All.” She lit cigarettes for herself and Robin. They smoked and laughed in a touchy-feely manner.
Marisol retrieved two paint buckets and placed them upside down beside a concrete dividing wall. Robin sat on the first bucket and began playing paradiddles on the other. The morning foot traffic was minimal. This didn’t stop Robin. She drummed with passion while Marisol held a wicker tip basket.
I turned on my video camera and started recording. The tourists soon appeared. They were taken by Robin’s energy, surprised such a petite woman could drum with such abandon. I recorded until Robin took a break. She and Marisol shared a slice of pepperoni from a pizza stand. I felt like a third wheel.
“You sound amazing,” I told Robin.
“Thanks,” she said meekly. She’d become distant as if she didn’t know me.
“The video looks great. We can watch the footage later today.”
“She’ll be with me, normie,” Marisol said. “You can leave now.”
“What are you, her manager?”
“Your camera is keeping the crowds away.”
“What are you talking about?”
I pointed to the basket overflowing with dollar bills.
“This is nothing,” Marisol said. “You’re cramping our style.”
“Do you want me to leave, Robin?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” she said. “Why don’t we just catch up at work, okay?”
I felt like a pig in a synagogue, thoroughly unwanted. I slunk away, defeated.
On Monday, I returned to work. Dave led the morning meeting. We covered the standard topics: new releases, sales figures, upcoming promotions. During Dave’s recent vacation, an unknown employee had ordered a slew of punk rock CDs. These included Black Flag, Circle Jerks, Fear, Bad Brains and the Adolescents. This same person, presumably, set up a punk section in the store. This was a problem since Music Plus, a top-40 retail outlet, forbade punk rock. The bigger problem was that the punk music sold out.
“Who did it,” Dave asked.
We all knew it was “Bad Luck” Benjy, lead singer in a gloom band called Tetraplegic. He cowered in the corner trying to look innocent. Dave put a hand on his shoulder.
“I know it was you, buddy.”
Benjy squirmed.
“It’s okay,” Dave said. “You violated policy but we had our best sales month of the year. Of course if corporate finds out, we’ll both be fired. I’ll file these under special orders. No more punk. Okay?”
Benji nodded.
There was a knock on the front glass. It was Robin. She wore jeans and the same Mickey Mouse t-shirt from the previous day. Her hair was disheveled as if she just rolled out of bed. Dave unlocked the door.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry.”
“You get one warning. Don’t do it again.”
The staff dispersed to prep for opening. A small crowd of metalheads were lined up outside to purchase Motley Crue concert tickets. Alejandro, the cross-dressing Prince fan, was on Ticketmaster duty. The moment the clock hit 10:00, Dave opened the doors. By 10:10, the concert was sold out.
“I’ve been waiting since five a.m.,” a teen in a Vince Neil t-shirt complained.
“Sorry,” Alejandro replied.
“How come only three of us got tickets,” a spandex wearing fan demanded.
“Because Ticketmaster sucks,” Alejandro said.
Dave offered a 10 percent discount on all Motley Crue CD’s. This made the headbangers more angry. They threatened to trash the store. Ricky, the Vietnam Vet, appeared from the back room wielding a baseball bat.
“Listen up, you hesher motherfuckers. You have 10 seconds to leave before I unleash a Quiet Riot on your asses.”
A tall Crue fan in a leather jacket stepped forward.
“You can’t talk to us that way.”
Ricky grabbed the guy’s nose and gave it a twist.
“I’ll rip off your snout and stick it up your tailpipe.”
“Oww,” the metalhead squealed.
Ricky released the guy’s nose. The man and his metalhead friends ran away.
“Love the energy Ricky,” Dave said, “but those are our customers.”
“They weren’t going to buy anything, I guarantee you.”
I noticed Robin re-stocking the country western CD’s. She looked sullen. I approached her.
“You alright,” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“You’re great for a girl’s ego.”
“Are you mad at me for some reason?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I walked away, confused.
That morning Suzie and Travis had one of their weekly in-store fights. Suzie accused him of flirting with female customers. Travis said she was dressing too provocatively. As always, the staff took sides.
“He’s a loser,” Ricky told Suzie. “You should dump him.”
“I know,” Suzie said. “He drives me crazy.”
“If you and I were together, I’d never take my hands off you.”
“That’s not love, Ricky. That’s sex.”
“When you’re with the right person, it’s the same thing.”
It struck me that everyone on staff had some version of romantic trouble. Alejandro was lamenting his latest boyfriend gone awry. Benji and his wife were on the verge of divorce. Manager Dave had nearly fallen prey to a Russian mail-order bride scam. I added myself to the list. I was falling for Robin and it was clear she didn’t feel the same way.
This gave me an idea for an in-store promotion: Sad Love Song Day. I shared it with Dave and he loved it.
During my lunch break, I scoured the Ticketmaster computer. An upcoming show leapt out at me. I ponied up eighty dollars and bought two tickets. After work, I followed Robin into the parking lot and told her I had a surprise. I gave her the ticket envelope. She opened it.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Japanese Kodo drummers.”
“It’s next Thursday. You into it?”
“Heck yeah.”
She gave be a big hug then drove away in her yellow Volkswagen bug.
On Thursday night, I picked her up at her apartment. Her family were seated at the dinner table. Her father introduced me to his wife and Robin’s two younger sisters. He asked me to recite the prayer over the meal. I did my best to recall my old Hebrew school lessons.
“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Haolam…uh, uh…”
The family helped me complete the prayer.
“Very good Nimrod,” her father said. “Will you stay for dinner?”
“We can’t. The show starts at eight.”
“Too bad. You’re the first boy Rivkah’s ever brought home to meet family.”
Robin’s younger sisters chanted, “Rivkah and Nimrod sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” They giggled.
“Girls, you’re embarrassing your sister,” Robin’s father said.
He hugged us both then asked me to have Robin home by 11.
The concert was at UCLA Royce Hall. Robin looked beautiful in a black skirt and white top. I sported jeans and a sweater. We walked across campus toward the venue. She placed her arm through mine. A wave of warmth coursed through me.
As we neared the entrance, a gruff voice yelled out Robin’s name. We turned to see Marisol plodding toward us. She wore a black pantsuit, like a gothic femme fatale.
“Hey guys,” she said.
Robin’s face lit up. She and Marisol hugged.
“When you told me you were coming I knew I had to get tickets.”
“What a lovely surprise,” I said, doing my best to hide my anger. “What section are you in?”
“The balcony,” she said.
“Too bad. We’re in the 10th row.”
“Maybe there’ll be an empty seat next to you.”
“They’re pretty strict about seating,” I said.
We entered the hall. I checked my watch, eager for the show to start so we could ditch Marisol.
“Want a drink,” Marisol asked Robin.
Robin nodded.
“Can you get us a screwdriver,” Marisol said, looking at me.
There was no way to refuse without coming off like a jerk. I approached the bar. Ten minutes later, I returned to where I’d left them. They were gone. I saw them upstairs by the balustrade staring down at the crowd. I traversed the velvet steps and gave the drink to Robin.
“We’re guessing what people do for a living,” Robin said. She pointed to a bald man in a blue suit.
“He’s a banker.”
“Or a child molester,” Marisol added.
“That guy in the corner,” Robin said, pointing toward a 40ish man in acid wash jeans. “He’s definitely a drug dealer.”
The interior lights flashed signaling us to take our seats. Marisol shadowed us downstairs. An usher asked to see our tickets.
“We’re in row 10,” I said, “Our friend is upstairs. You think she can sit with us?”
“Sorry,” the usher said.
Robin shot me an angry glare. We entered the auditorium while Marisol stayed behind. I looked back to see her pleading with the usher.
“Why’d you do that,” Robin asked.
“I thought he’d help us.”
“No you didn’t.”
We took our seats. I could tell Robin was fuming.
“I just want to have a nice night,” I said. “You know, just the two of us.”
“How come you hate her?”
“She hates me,” I said.
“She’s my friend.”
“What does that make me?”
“If you don’t like my friends then I don’t know.”
I feared the evening was tarnished. Robin looked toward the balcony, trying to spot Marisol.
“I can’t see her,” Robin said.
The audience lights dimmed and the stage lights came up. Three shirtless Japanese musicians in black pants and white headbands took the stage. They stood behind massive taiko drums holding oversized drumsticks. They began striking the drums, slowly building to a thunderous roar.
I was overtaken by the power of the rhythms. So was Robin. She began striking her hands and feet on the velvet seat in front of her. The occupant turned and told her to behave herself. She continued, powerless to stop. He locked eyes with me, furious. I shrugged.
The man stood and walked up the aisle. He returned with an usher who shined his flashlight in our faces. Robin stopped drumming. The usher gestured for us to follow him. We obliged like sheep. As we neared the lobby, Robin sprinted into the darkness. The usher clasped my arm and perp-walked me toward the exit.
“You are being asked to leave due to disruptive behavior.”
He led me out the door.
“Your friend too.”
“Good luck finding her,” I said.
I sat on the concrete parapet and listened to the muffled sounds of the drumming. I was frustrated but glad Robin got away. An hour later, the crowd shuffled outside. Robin and Marisol were among the last to leave walking arm in arm.
“That was awesome,” Robin said smiling.
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied.
Robin and Marisol recounted the show as if I wasn’t there.
“So uh, it’s getting kinda late. We should probably go,” I said.
“Let’s get banana splits at Uncle Johns,” Marisol said.
“I promised your dad I’d have you home by 11.”
“You’re such a killjoy,” Marisol said.
“He’s right,” Robin said. “I have to get home.”
She and Marisol hugged each other. I felt like driftwood floating toward an abandoned beach. Marisol walked away while Robin and I headed toward the parking lot. The energy between us was strained. We said little on the drive home. I dropped her off and watched as her father waved goodbye to me. I drove home, disconsolate.
The next morning, Robin was late for work again. Dave summoned her to his office. Five minutes later, she left the store without looking at me. Dave said he had to let her go. The mood in the store became funereal. Dave approached me as I assembled a six-foot tall Michael Jackson display.
“I know you and Robin were friends, buddy. I had no choice.”
“Yes you did.”
“She violated my one rule. Don’t be late.”
“You have plenty of rules,” I said, angry.
I was bummed all day, barely able to concentrate. After work, I drove to Robin’s apartment. I pressed the doorbell and her mother answered.
“Nimrod. Wonderful to see you.”
“Is Robin here?”
“She’s not feeling well.”
“Can you tell her I’m here.”
She went inside then Robin appeared.
“What do you want,” she asked, upset.
“Can we take a walk? Just for a minute.”
She reluctantly agreed. We walked east on Oakwood Avenue.
“I’m sorry you were let go,” I said.
“I guess I’m not the retail type.”
“I’m going to miss you. We had fun together, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m also sorry about the show.”
“I had a great time,” Robin said.
“With Marisol. Not with me.”
“We all could’ve sat together if you came upstairs.”
“I wanted to be with you.”
“Well I wanted to be with Marisol.”
We walked on Fairfax past a kosher butcher. It was time to lay my cards on the table.
“I really like you, Robin. I know you don’t feel the same way about me but I was hoping over time…”
“…I need to tell you something,” Robin said.
She clasped my hand.
“Remember how you said your Jewdar was off, that you didn’t know I was Hasidic?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think maybe your gaydar is off too.”
She squeezed my hand and stared into my eyes.
“Marisol and I aren’t just friends.”
Suddenly everything made sense. The animosity from Marisol, the coldness from Robin. I felt like an idiot. How could I have been so blind?
“We love each other,” Robin said.
“I thought we were out on a date,” I said.
“I thought we were just hanging out, like friends.”
“Did you know Marisol was coming to the show?”
She released my hand and looked down.
“It was the only way I could see her.”
“So you made me your beard?”
“You met my family. They wouldn’t understand.”
“You lied to me,” I said. “Friends don’t do that to each other.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Robin said. “I’m sorry.”
She started crying. This made me angry. I walked away playing the part of a jilted lover. Halfway up the block, I looked back. Robin waved. I waved back aware I’d probably never see her again.
The next day, Dave hosted Sad Love Song Day. He canvassed staff for love songs that made them cry. Suzie chose “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Benji selected “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” Travis opted for “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry” while Alejandro put on Prince’s “When Doves Cry.” My pick was “I Don’t Care Anymore” by Phil Collins.
The music put everyone in a melancholy mood. Ricky lightened the mood. His song choice was “Last Rites/Loved to Deth” by Megadeth. The lead singer intoned, “If I can’t have you, no one will and since I won’t, I’ll have to kill.” This made everyone on staff laugh.
Life in a record store was definitely bittersweet.