Exile Records

Chapter 1

Jamie’s mom, Trisha. was tired. She didn’t have much fun left in her. She worked doubles at New York Bottle, came home with just enough time to shower, leave a few dollars on the counter for Jamie’s lunch, and collapse into bed before the whole cycle started again.

It broke something in him to watch her that way. Sad that her life had whittled down to work and exhaustion. Yet at the same time, he felt blessed to have her—if that made sense. What he wanted, more than anything, was to break the cycle. To give her a house where she could relax, maybe paint, maybe write, maybe do all the things she dreamed of as a girl before life steamrolled her flat.

Then a pang of guilt hits Jamie as he thinks, how long has it been since I asked her about her life?

That morning he ate cereal while she read the newspaper and drank her black coffee with a pinch of sugar.

“This Ed Koch fella,” she murmured, eyes skimming the print. “Seems like he might make a difference. My goodness I’ve never seen the country in such a bad state. Makes me sad. Did I tell you that Ricky Fabio’s young fella tried to kill himself in their garage the other day?”

Jamie didn’t know who Ricky Fabio, nor who his son was. But he humored his mom, and asked, “Geeze, what happened?”

Trisha shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of her coffee, which burned her tongue and she flinched back.  “Ouch. Goodness. Uh, Ricky says that he just doesn’t see a future for himself. Doesn’t want to end up like his old man recycling old bottles.”

“Fair point,” Jamie said, smiling. “Just kidding, mah. You know I’m proud of you no matter what you do.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” she answered, before scanning the classifieds. “You know when I was younger, watching my father go through the jobs when he came home from Korea, they were endless. A novel’s worth of jobs everyday, most with good pay and benefits. Now, there’s next to nothing and the jobs here aren’t going to keep lights on above anybody’s head. That’s why you need to go to college, kiddo.”

Jamie nodded as he took another bite of frosted flakes and wanted to tell his mom that he was barely attending school as it was. He’d been skipping more and more lately, especially since he found that record shop on Bleecker, a few months back. He’d been spending all of his time there, trying to convince Harold Atkinson, the grumpy owner, to let him work there, part-time for now, and once he showcased his vast knowledge of music across many different genres, and his salesman propensity, Harold would realize quickly how much more money Jamie could help bring in.

But Harold wasn’t interested. At least not yet.

“Listen, kiddo. I won’t be home till late tonight. Derek wants to take me out to dinner after work. I’ve said no about a hundred times, but dammit if he isn’t persistent.”

“Sure thing, Mom.” Another date, he thought, and another asshole who wasn’t going to treat her the way she deserved, Jamie thought.

“Here’s your lunch money—and a few extra bucks for the record store.” She winked at him.

He smiled. He knew how hard she worked for it. “Thanks, mom. Soon enough, I’ll be helping out with the bills around here.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Just get something good, will ya? We’ll listen this

weekend.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“It’s not that Alice Cooper, is it? He gives me the creeps.” She grinned, then broke into a line of song: You and me ain’t no movie stars. What we are is what we are. “Although I do like that song.”

“No,” Jamie said. “It’s a band called Judas Priest. They’ve got this wicked album, Sad Wings of Destiny.”

Then it was Jamie’s turn to do his best Rob Halford and belt out Victim of Changes, as his mom looked at him and rubbed her forehead.

“Good lord. What’s happened to the world?”

“Evolving,” Jamie replied.

“Devolving, me thinks.” She laughed, leaned down, kissed him on the head. “Alright, kiddo. I’m off. Those bottles aren’t going to recycle themselves.”

As she opened the door, Jamie called after her. “Have fun tonight.”

Her eyes went sad for a moment. “Oh I’m sure, I will.” She said without too much conviction, and then she was gone.

Jamie finished his cereal, and grabbed the newspaper from where his mom was just sitting. She was right, the world was in a dire state. Job cuts throughout the public sector, and a mayor who didn’t seem to give much of a shit. Jamie thought about the blackout, how him and his mom had stayed home in the dark sweating and playing board games, hoping that no one came. His mom scared to death, but wanting badly not to show it.

The newspaper was still talking about the effect of the OPEC oil embargo, fuel shortages were still spreading throughout the city, and Trisha was right, the classifieds were a sad sight.

Jamie put his bowl in the sink, and took off Delancey High, though he had a feeling he wouldn’t be staying for too long.

On the subway platform, the Guardian Angels were out in their red berets and white shirts, muscled men patrolling with a strange kind of vigilante pride. Jamie watched one of them pin a crooked-looking guy to the wall, drive a fist into his gut until the man crumpled to the filthy concrete. Justice, maybe. Or just another performance in a city that ate people alive.

Jamie shouted, “Hey! He didn’t do anything wrong, leave him alone.”

And one of the muscled men yelled back, “He pulled a knife on me kid, how about you mind your own business?”

“Consider it minded,” Jamie said, and walked on to the subway.

The train was packed and the heat was enough to turn a sane man stark raving mad..

It didn’t take long before two men fought over a seat and one flashed a knife. But nobody flinched anymore. It was just New York. The heat, the hopelessness—something had to give, or everyone would eat each other alive, Jamie thought.

He got off at Lafayette and crossed to Christopher Street, a cabbie shouting at him to watch where he was going. He shouted back that he knew exactly where he was going and pointed at the hulking brick of Delancey High. Jamie realized at a young age, that if your skin was thin, the city would kill you just for showing your face. His father hadn’t taught him much before he took off but one of the things he did say was to give back what you receive, or you’ll be receiving shit until the end of your days.

Jamie’s best friend Donny Wakeman was sitting on the steps, scribbling furiously in his notebook like always. His yellow Oxford was buttoned low at the throat, chinos pressed neat. Classic Donny—creating problems where none existed, grinding at them like life itself was a pop quiz.

“Hey, Donny,” Jamie said, slapping his shoulder and taking a seat next to him.

“Ready for another one?” Donny squinted against the sun.

“Not at all. My days here are numbered, my good friend. ”

“You’re still going on about dropping out? To what—work at Harold’s?” Donny asked.

Although they had this conversation on multiple occasions, it still boggled his mind when Jamie told him of his plans to drop out of school during their senior year. It made him frustrated and also a little sad. Jamie had once been as determined as him to get out, and now, that look in his eyes had dulled, like it had for so many.

Jamie shrugged. “That’s all I care about anyway. Music. And the girls who come looking for it.” He grinned. Donny tried to grin back but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“You’re not going to pay your mom back with minimum wage,” Donny said. “If you even get that.” Talking about the money he lifted from his mom’s purse when she was sleeping. He hadn’t done it many times, but he still felt terrible for the times that he did it. He was just so broke and tired of not having a penny to his name.

“Well, I’m not going to college. So what’s the difference?” Jamie asked.

“That attitude is the difference,” Donny said. “Jesus, how could someone so smart be so dull?”

“Don’t start with me, Donny,” Jamie said. “I’m not in the mood.” Then the bell rang, and Donny packed his stuff neatly in his bookbag and said.

“Jamie, you’re doing what you said, you’d never do.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“You’re letting the city beat the joy out of you. It has you right when it wants you. Not giving a shit.”

“I do give a shit, daddy,” Jamie said in mock anger. “I just don’t care about the same things as you. There’s more to life than sitting at a desk all day to study for sitting at more desks all day, to get a job where you sit at a desk all day and have a heart attack by the time your forty.”

Donny laughed at this. They argued a lot, but there was a lot of love there. “The way you eat, and smoke cigarettes. It isn’t going to be having the heart attack by 40, buddy.”

“Get to class you fucking, nerd.” Jamie smiled and they both laughed.

They climbed the steps together. For Jamie, it always felt like walking into prison—feet heavy as stone while Donny’s  were light because he knew where he was going. He was walking in the right direction.

In class, Jamie stared out the window and thought of CBGB, and of Harold’s record store. He didn’t know what it was about the spot, but there was something special about it. He’d been to probably every record store in the city, and he just wanted to be a part of Exile. Harold didn’t seem to love his company, but Jamie thought that there were times when he started to crawl out of his shell. Those moments, albeit brief, seemed to showcase the real Harold. And from the stories Jamie had heard through the grapevine, Harold grew up in the shadow of one of the city's most interesting people.

His brother.

Here was the backstory: Harold’s brother, Benny Atkinson, had been a New York legend. When Benny disappeared—like Hoffa—the store fell into Harold’s lap.

Harold, the balding accountant who couldn’t tell Bach from Jailhouse Rock.

But Benny. Benny had stories. Sinatra’s circle. Jam sessions with Miles Davis. Tales of playing a soprano sax solo on Bitches Brew because someone passed out and Miles needed a man on the spot. True or not, stories like that didn’t survive unless you left a mark. Benny was born in the cool, cool river. Harold? Dropped on his head at the shoreline.

But Harold was what Jamie had. Not Benny. So by virtue of inheriting a store he never wanted, but felt some kind of obligation to continue running, Harold would always be reminded of his brother and never truly step out of his shadow. This created, a grumpy middle aged man, who Donny said Jamie was in fear of becoming, if he wasn’t careful.

Back in history class, Mr. Grady droned on about the Civil War, back sweat staining his shirt from teaching PE the previous class. Which was the case for many teachers pulling double or triple duty since fifteen thousand teachers had been laid off since ’75,

At this point, Mr. Grady was just a man going through the motions.

Jamie thought: maybe everyone was somewhere else in their heads. Maybe no one was happy where they were. And he thought about his mom going through recycling bottles at that very moment, and it made him sad.

Two girls giggled in the corner—Brenda Delaney and Shelley Hansen—passing notes. Grady didn’t care as a paper airplane flew in front of his face. While the class descended into case, there was Donny scribbling like his life depended on it.

When the bell rang, Jamie told Donny he was done.

“I can’t deal with this shit any longer, man. This place is going to drive me insane.”

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Donny asked quietly. His voice carried both disappointment and relief.

“What’s the point? I’m close to getting a job with Harold. On Bleecker, right next to CBGB. Selling records. Seeing the Ramones, Talking Heads. That’s life. This isn’t.” Same tired argument from Jamie, Donny thought. He didn’t want to argue any longer, Jamie had successfully beaten that out of him.

“Nothing I could say would change your mind.”

“Smart man,” Jamie said, winking.

By the time he left school and made his way downtown, his thoughts were with his mother again—her weariness, her lost beauty, the bruises she explained away as accidents. His father’s shadow still lingered, all big laughs and bigger screams, the finger that jabbed, the disdain that followed Jamie into manhood.

Finally, the bell above the door at Exile Records rang. The smell of old vinyl wrapped around him like oxygen. This was home. This was the only place he ever wanted to be, whether Harold wanted it or not.

Chapter 2

When Jamie stepped into Exile Records, the smell of vinyl hit him like a familiar embrace. To his left stood the new release section, four rows wide, where a middle-aged man in a trench coat muttered to himself as he flipped through albums, two tucked firmly under his arm.

To the right, the rock and punk section stretched along the wall, the sections where Jamie spent most of his time. On the far side, jazz and country-western held their own space, quieter but no less important. Beneath it all, boxes of discount records and dusty 45s sat piled on the floor where, every now and then, someone found buried treasure.

At the back of the shop stood Harold Atkinson behind his battered oak desk, the same spot he always occupied. It served as an extra limb, Jamie wasn’t even sure if he’d seen his legs before. To his right, stacks of 45s formed precarious towers; behind him stretched a mosaic of old record sleeves, mostly big-band covers and Sinatra clones in tuxedos with stiff smiles. Jamie always thought the wall was more Benny’s than Harold’s—something left over from the brother who had built this place into a myth. Harold had never updated it. Jamie wasn’t sure why, because he’d changed most of the other connections to his brother.

Harold’s head was buried in the paper, his lips curled in a mutter about the mayor, crime, and a city falling to pieces.

“We need resilience. We can push through it,” Harold read. “I’d like to push through that crook's head with a tire iron.”

Jamie shook his head. Adults, all they did was read the paper and curse what they read. He never understood the logic. Put the paper down, take a breath and look at the world in front of you, not just the world in print.

The man in the trench coat dropped his albums onto the counter. Harold didn’t even look up, so Jamie stepped in and rang him through. The man grumbled about the poor excuse for customer service, and the gouging prices, before leaving.

“Ray of sunshine,” Jamie said. “So what’s up, Harry?”

Harold looked up at last, snapping from his trance. “What did I say about calling me that?”

“Not to. But I thought we were friends now.” Jamie jumped up on the counter, and put the new pile of 45s on his lap and flipped through them. Harold shooed him off like a cat jumping on the kitchen counter.

“When pigs fly, my boy.” Harold said. “When pigs fly.”

“So what’s got you losing even more hair than usual? You didn’t even notice that guy buying records.”

“Ahh, so what. Not enough come in to make a difference anyway.”

Jamie leaned on the counter, cocky grin in place. “If I can provide some youthful wisdom, maybe more people would come in if you, oh, I don’t know—acted like you gave a damn.”

Harold looked at him, his eyes above the rim of his glass,sighed, swatting the thought away like a mosquito. “It’s this.” He slapped the newspaper.”It’s right here. A world spinning off its axis.”

The headline blared: Mayor Beame Announces Further Cuts to Public Services—‘We All Must Sacrifice.’

“Further cuts to everything but his own damn wallet. You know, this Koch fella might be on the fairy side, but if he can get crime under control, I’ll vote for him twice.”

Jamie had to laugh at the men of that generation. Everything a threat to their masculinity. They hated the older generation. Hated the younger generation, and hated their own the most. Harold scanned people like a hawk, looking for a lisp, or a limp, or a laugh that was too loud, or a thank you that was too pretentious, so that when they left, he could say they were what was wrong with the state of things. And Jamie would nod, roll his eyes, while thinking you’re what’s wrong with the state of things, you asshole. Look in the mirror.

“Yeah, my ma likes him too,” Jamie said, talking about Ed Koch. “She says if Koch was mayor during the blackout, the National Guard would’ve been called in to stomp out the looters.”

“Your ma’s a smart lady.”

She was a smart lady, Jamie thought.

“Don’t touch her or I’ll have to kill ya.” He joked.

The joke caught Harold off guard and it made him laugh—really laugh. A rare sound, almost foreign in the record shop. Jamie flashed a grin, proud of dragging a human moment out of him, but Harold quickly turned back to his paper, grumbling about the store. About Benny, the brother who left him with a place he never wanted, and everyone else who had the nerve of existing at the same time and place as Harold.

“I just don’t have enough people coming in,” Harold muttered. “I’m losing money. My big brother pulling a Houdini act—what, did he think just ’cause I’m an accountant I could make money appear out of thin air?”

Jamie wanted to shake him. I’m the answer! The solution is standing right in front of you.

“I’ll bring more people in, Harr—uh, Harold,” Jamie said, seizing the moment. “I’ll bring in as many people as you need.”

“Did you hear me, kid? I’m hemorrhaging money. I can’t pay you.”

As though Jamie hadn’t offered fifty times to work for free. He had just served a customer, and Harold hadn’t even noticed.

“You don’t need to pay me,” Jamie said. “I’m here all the time anyway, let me work my magic.”

“It’s illegal to have people working here for free. A little thing called labor laws—which you might know of if you went to class every once in a while.”

Jamie wanted to say overcrowded schools weren’t teaching labor laws—they were droning on about the Civil War while gym teachers doubled as history teachers. None of it prepared anyone for real life.

“Ah, forget that,” he said instead. “I’ll just hang around like I normally do. I’ve got a buddy at school who can print posters. We’ll host events. Bring in bands. Charge a couple bucks at the door. I’ll plaster the city with flyers. And the people who come? They won’t leave empty-handed. I guarantee it.” Jamie was feeling excited now, and when he got excited he started to talk with his hands. They were moving all over the place, as he paced around the store, explaining ideas of having Jim Croce wannabees in the corner of the store, having rock bands playing out front, or like The Beatles and play on the rooftop. He had an idea of a poster of a man in exile with a sea and sand of records, he started moving records around, placing Rumors in the glass instead of Chubby Checker, and he pointed to the mosaic, and said he’d dedicate that to the guitar madmen of the 70s. Jimmy Page, Ace Frehley, Keith Richards, Joe Perry, Alex Lifeson, and he went on.

After about ten minutes, he stopped pacing and realized he was out of breath. “Just give me a sec,” he said panting, and Harold looked at him with his arms crossed, realizing that the kid was smart. A pest, sure, but someone who understood the language.

Harold studied him. “Don’t you have school, kid?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Why was school so fucking important? He thought.

“I do. But you know yourself, this city’s burning. Teachers don’t care anymore. Half of them are Vietnam vets teaching dodgeball because there’s no budget. How many times can a person get screwed by their own country while politicians call this the land of the free?” He gave a mock salute. “You know what I mean? I want to talk about music. I want to see bands. I want to be close to CBGB. This is where I belong. And when I get this place moving, you give me a real job, and I’ll stay until you’re too old and I take over. How does that sound?” Again, he was out of breath.

Harold smiled faintly, removing his glasses. “Quite a speech there, kid. You rehearse that?”

“Every night before bed.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. He did stare at his ceiling and envision himself running a jam packed record store with the coolest bands and most beautiful women. Sometimes, even Donny was in the dream, coming to the store in a suit, all worn out and tired, a suitcase, and a coat draped over it. He looked like he aged two decades in a couple of years. Jamie pictured him looking like Gene Hackman in The Conversation.

Harold almost laughed again, but one laugh per day was plenty. The smile faded, replaced by a shadow of thought. He hesitated, then motioned Jamie closer. The smell of Marlboros and black coffee lingered on his breath. He was thinking of his predicament. The predicament that followed him no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

The sins of the brother, Harold thought. Maybe their father too, who wasn’t much better.

“Listen, kid. You’re a pain in my ass. But you know your stuff, and your ideas aren’t bad.” Jamie could sense doubt creeping in at the end of that sentence.

“But?” He asked.

Harold rubbed his chin. His eyes looked heavier than usual.

“Ah, nevermind,” he said. “Forget it, kid. Go back to school.” Harold turned around.

“Oh come on,” Jamie pleaded. “You have to be kidding me? You can give me blue balls like that. You know I’m not leaving. You have a great story, I bet Benny would tell it.”

“Screw that asshole,” Harold said and turned back around, but now he was more than annoyed. Jamie realized he might have gone too far with it.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I went too far,” Jamie raised his hand. “But come on, Harry. Stop treating me like a kid. I’m 17 years old. I can handle whatever story you’re going to tell me. What are you protecting me from?”

Harold was protecting him from the worst of what the city had to offer. But he’d gone too far, he realized that. His head was confused because he could just tell Jamie to leave, but there was a part that he didn’t want to admit to himself. A part that actually like Jamie, and a part that could see the potential in a partnership with someone who knew music like Jamie did.

But that meant letting him in on his world, because Jamie was observant and it wouldn’t take long before he noticed what was going on.

Harold wiped his brow, and then he caved.

“Part of the reason I don’t want you here all the time is because of who I’m involved with. And yeah, I do think you should finish school. But I’ve gotten myself into bed with some bad people, and I don’t think you should be around.”

“You’re serious?”

Harold’s stare was answer enough.

Jamie tried to shake off the dread with a smirk. He dropped into his best Brando impression. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. Like those kind of guys?”

This time Harold didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. He just looked sad. Jamie’s heart started to race—half curiosity, half fear. He could almost hear his mother’s voice: Jamie, your curiosity’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.

“Something like that,” Harold said quietly. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you this.”

Jamie leaned in, his pulse climbing. “So how does straight-and-narrow Harold Atkinson get himself mixed up with the mob? Was it your legendary brother? Gerry, the guy who supposedly played with Miles Davis and had a four-way with Sinatra and Dean Martin? Okay, maybe I’m embellishing that last part.”

“Kid. Don’t believe everything you hear. Last thing I need is people coming in here just to ask about my brother instead of buying records. Stories about Benny don’t keep the lights on.”

“Well, did he play with Miles Davis?” Jamie pressed, dodging the mob talk, not ready to face it yet.

“According to him he did. But the story always sounded like he was drunk, saw some guy who looked like Miles Davis, and got told to take a hike. He sure as hell wasn’t on any record. I don’t even think he could play much. Maybe a little piano.”

Jamie had to admit, it was disappointing. But not the conversation he was chasing. Not now.

“Tell me more about your problem, then?” he asked, surprised Harold was opening up at all. Usually the man barely said three words. But now, it felt like a Scorsese picture—dark, dangerous, full of possibility.

Harold hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, kid. What I’m about to say stays here. Got it? I’d never tell you otherwise, but since you insist on hanging around every damn day and I can’t talk you out of it—fine. I’ll tell you, but only if you swear on your mother you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Jamie nodded solemnly. “I’m all ears.”

Harold leaned closer. “It was during the blackout…”

Chapter 3

On the evening of July 13, 1977, the world went black. Three lightning strikes, the loss of a substation along the Hudson River, one in Yonkers, and the loss of transmission lines caused the city to go black until the morning of July 14th.

The financial crisis taking place throughout the city, the heat wave, and the fear of Son of Sam still running loose led to an evening of rioting, looting, and in a couple of circumstances, death.

The terror hit over 30 neighborhoods, with Crown Heights being the worst affected. Close to 4000 people would be arrested. Over 1500 stores were damaged, over 1000 fires started. And in the midst of this was Harold, trying to protect his brother’s little record shop from looters and vandals.

“The looting on Bleecker was out of control,” Harold said. “Fires. Screaming. Women getting their purses yanked. People stomped on the ground. Stores smashed in—mostly the small ones. Your ma was right. The National Guard should’ve been there. Con Ed called it an Act of God, can you believe that? An Act of God?”

Jamie pictured the madness as Harold described it. Feeling particularly sickened by the image of a car rolling down the street in flames, and picturing if there was someone driving it, or kids in the back. The whole thought made his stomach turn.

“Anyway,” Harold continued, rubbing his jaw as if it still hurt. “I lock up, trying to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible and the next thing I know, a fist explodes against my face. I hit the ground. More fists raining down. I turtle up, ribs cracking, skull ringing. They laughed while they worked me over. A few broken ribs, a hairline fracture in my skull. And for what?”

Jamie shifted uneasily. He remembered coming into the shop not long after the blackout. Harold had looked like he’d been steamrolled, barely able to stand upright. Likely contributing to his angry demeanor.

“Then another guy with red hair hurls a garbage can through the window,” Harold said, his voice getting higher and more animated. “He strolls in, grabs records, empties the till. Thanks me with a kick to the stomach.” Harold smirked bitterly. “Real polite.”

Jamie leaned closer, hooked, and told Harold that he had a knack for storytelling, maybe he should write a book about it, and Harold continued.

“That’s when I saw it,” Harold said. “A black ’70 convertible. Wrong street, wrong night. Two guys step out and they’re like polar opposites. One tall and skinny, slicked-back hair, toothpick in his mouth, grinning like Christmas came early. The other stocky, balding, puffing on a cigar, a baseball bat in his hand.”

Jamie’s pulse quickened. He knew where this was going.

“I’d been around my brother enough, heard enough, to recognize them for what they were,” Harold said. “At first I thought they were coming to finish me off. But the tall one winks, walks straight to the thieves. Slaps the records out of one guy’s hands and beats him into the pavement. Had his mouth pressed to the curb, foot grinding down. ‘Decisions, decisions,’ he says. ‘Leave the teeth in, or make you swallow ’em?’ The kid pissed himself right there. Then the tall one yanked him up, hissed that if he ever saw him again, it’d be the last time.”

“Jesus,” was all Jamie could muster.

“Meanwhile, the stocky one, whose name was Charlie Alfonsi, swings the bat into tanother thief’s gut. Not as sadistic, but still brutal. And he’s singing: ‘Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio…’ crooning Simong and Garfunkel like he’s  Dean Martin while the kid wheezed.” Harold shook his head. “That’s how I met Charlie and his pal Ralphie—the one they call The Rat.”

Jamie grinned at the name. The Rat. It sounded like a movie villain. And Harold added that The Rat seems like an ironic name for a line of business where you’d get killed for being a rat.

“They sent the thieves crawling, then turned to me. Ralphie grinned like we’d all just played a game of stickball. ‘Mister Harold,’ he says, ‘bad part of town. You might need protection.’ Charlie agreed, said I would’ve lost more if they hadn’t shown up. I knew right away, they weren’t rescuers. They’d been waiting. The blackout gave them cover.”

Then Harold said that the blackout was a mobster Christmas. Guys parked all across the city and watched the mayhem for a couple of reasons. One, they enjoyed watching the system crumble, and two because it provided opportunity to go beat on some of the crazies and get some money at the same time. It wasn’t like they couldn’t just walk into shops and point a gun at a store’s owner's face, and say hand me the money. They could do that, and had done it, but this time the cops were running ragged, jobs cut and they didn’t know where to be because there weren't nearly enough of them to keep the city calm.

Harold’s face tightened as he continued talking about the extortion racket planned by the mafia families.. “‘We’ll keep your shop safe, you give us a cut. Simple,’ they said. I told them I was barely afloat. Charlie just shrugged—‘Then you go under.’ Said a guy would come by each week for a pickup, and he might deposit some product as well.”

Jamie leaned on the counter, eyes wide. “And you said yes?” Which he realized was kind of a stupid thing to say, because it wasn’t really a situation where you had a choice. He’d just been thrown into the dark underbelly of the city, and it was scary but he couldn’t help himself from being a little bit excited.

“What else could I do?” Harold muttered.

He remembered one more thing. Ralphie had glanced up at the sign. “Wasn’t this Benny’s old place?” he asked. Charlie had said it was. “Whatever happened to him?” Ralphie grinned faintly, winking at Harold,  as if he already knew. Then they left.

Harold explained to Jamie that if he was going to be around the store even more, and especially if he wasn’t going to school, that he’d likely see the drop off and pickups as they happened usually in the morning. He showed Jamie the selection of records behind the desk, one side had the money and the other had drugs. That was The Rat’s idea to have a place for drop offs and pickups. He thought it was quite brilliant.

Jamie looked at the records and pulled one out. Harold had cut a thin line behind the cover as a pouch and it was done with such precision, that there's no way you’d ever be able to tell. “That’s wicked, man.” Was what came out of Jamie’s mouth and for the second time since Harold started telling this story, Jamie had blurted out something stupid. He couldn’t help himself, his mind kept going back to Mr. Grady droning on with soulless eyes, and his mom bruised and battered from labour, and Donny taking notes like there was nothing else to life, and here he was, in the heart of the city.

Harold glared at him like he was crazy. “No, it’s not wicked. It’s a goddamn noose.”

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Jamie said, half-smiling, “I just gave you a plan to bring in more revenue. Who cares who you’re involved with? The city’s crawling with crime. Teachers are selling dope in high school bathrooms. You can’t escape it. Might as well use it.”

Harold groaned, rubbing his temples. “Look, kid. If you can bring people in, fine. But I don’t know when—or if—I can pay you. I want to be upfront about that.”

Jamie stuck out his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

Reluctantly, Harold shook it. “What did I just do?”

“You have just made the best decision of your life.”

Jamie hung around for a bit, asking more questions about the blackout, and his brother. Harold was talking but Jamie could tell that he was beginning to get tired of the conversation, he’d probably used up his word count for the month, just in that day.

So for a while he sat and doodled ideas for a poster. Exile Records, he thought. A good kind of exile, like when people asked what was your desert album? It could be a man on an island, records stacked on either side of him. Exile Records written in the sand.  He drew this for a couple of hours on and off as he rearranged albums, and the mosaic to feature more contemporary rockers.

He was about to leave and get Donny to help him make posters out of his drawing when the bell over the door jingled. A stocky man walked in, a record tucked under his arm. He slid the record across. Harold exchanged it for a Frankie Valli album, and there weren’t any words exchanged, until the man bumped into Jamie.

“Move it, kid.” He said, and he was gone. In and out in 10 seconds flat.

Jamie blinked. “That was just—?”

“Yeah. That was it.”

“That quick?”

“That quick.”

“Whoa.” Jamie grinned. “A real gangster. You talkin’ to me?” He slipped into a bad De Niro impression.

Harold didn’t laugh. “He wasn’t a gangster in that movie.”

“Well, whatever. Close enough.”

Jamie grabbed Sad Wings of Destiny from one of the bin. “I’ll take this. And a Frankie Valli too, for good measure.” He winked at Harold, who rolled his eyes.

“I’m meeting my buddy to get posters printed. Just a heads up, some of the events I’ll plan are for young people. You might not get it, but every age group understands money, right? Might be some characters coming into the store.”

Harold sighed. “Yeah. As long as it’s coming in. Do what you want, I guess. I feel like I’m gonna regret this.”

Jamie winked and headed for the door. “That attitude’s why it’s a ghost town in here, Harry.”

“It’s Haro—”

But the door closed before he could finish.

Outside, Jamie drifted east on Bleecker. He was heading to the subway when he noticed the man who had just entered the store slip into a restaurant called Il Monello, tucked between a cigar shop and a convenience store. Jamie decided to let his curiosity win and he crossed the street, and walked slowly by the restaurant, peaking into the window as he walked by.

Jamie saw them: a half-dozen men in three-piece suits. Ralphie, toothpick between his teeth, laughing with his head thrown back. Charlie at his side. At least, that’s who Jamie thought it was. It looked like who Harold had described in his story. There were plates of pasta steaming on the table.

One of them noticed Jamie staring. Winked.

Jamie kept walking, heart hammering.

Dangerous. The whole world was dangerous.

But Jesus, it was alive. It beat sitting in a classroom with drones and dead eyes. It beat any nine-to-five grind.

Sorry, Mom, he thought. I can’t live your life.

The city was on fire. And God help him—he loved it.