News
Cambridge Residents Slam Council Proposal to Delay Bike Lane Construction
News
‘Gender-Affirming Slay Fest’: Harvard College QSA Hosts Annual Queer Prom
News
‘Not Being Nerds’: Harvard Students Dance to Tinashe at Yardfest
News
Wrongful Death Trial Against CAMHS Employee Over 2015 Student Suicide To Begin Tuesday
News
Cornel West, Harvard Affiliates Call for University to Divest from ‘Israeli Apartheid’ at Rally
I entered the dimly-lit room, a half-spent stump of a cigarette dangling from my lips. I couldn't discern the contents of the room, beyond the mere outlines of a victrola in a far, far corner. The music was mournful--Billy Joel was singing about a lonely old man playing his lonely organ.
Suddenly, the victrola began creeping toward me. Slowly, imperceptibly, and increasing in velocity as it made its way inexorably across the room.
It stood before me, unleashing a steady barrage of now Andrea True, now Donna Summer, now Natalie Cole. The music abruptly stopped.
I was 14.
But the spindle and the needle stroking my arm alluringly, invitingly, told me that soon I would become a man.
When we woke up the next morning--she was playing "Reveille," a Dizzy Gillespie version--I lit up another butt. What else could I do? I knew I would never see her again--she was mono, I was stereo. We just weren't compatible.
I never saw her after that, but I'll never forget that walnut little victrola. (P.S.--I am now the happily married father of a clock radio.)
Want to keep up with breaking news? Subscribe to our email newsletter.