New member
- Eddies
- 190
"This place then. Records?" Ghost asked. "Yeah old ones, better than the mass produced junk they shove down your throats now." Lefty's engine roared its last before it stopped. He got off Lefty's bike at the entrance and looked at the alley steps, turning back to see his old friend. "Not coming?" Ghost asked again "Not today, this is where you dream for a while." Old Lefty grinned wide and rode off into the dust.
Ghost had no idea what he was talking about. He shrugged, then walked down the steps behind an old bookstore into the dark. The door with a half-lit sign buzzed to read The Last Vinyl Record Bar. He pushed it open, and almost immediately, the outside world ceased to exist. Aged whiskey hit him first, soaked into the wooden floors, the lingering bite of cigars, and something even older. The dust of forgotten records, or maybe that was the music, a warm sound he couldn't describe. Covering the sterile outside world in a warm blanket.
Clinking of glasses and the steady hum of conversation, people forget themselves here. He saw different gangs sitting not a table apart, and nobody cared, because this place didn't exist. It was a place out of time. Wood shelves barely held the weight of classic vinyl records, like ancient books waiting to be pulled out. Many were worn on the outside, their sleeves yellow or peeling. Some were locked behind glass, almost like new.
But nothing about this place was random or chaotic. From the famous posters of long-gone artists to the choices of drinks, smokes, or the selection of music being played, there was care in every bit of it. A bluesy melody spun on the turntable behind the bar, curling its own way through the smoke.
Rolling a cigarette in his fingers, the bartender nodded without a word. People didn't introduce themselves here—they just sat, blended in, and disappeared for an hour or two, however long life would let them. No deals and No contracts. Just life for a little while.
"Blackout Manhattan." Speaking like he didn't want to break the silence, the bartender poured the rye whiskey, vermouth, and a touch of blackberry liqueur. Bold, bitter, and aged for extra punch.
Now he understood. Lefty hadn't sent him here to drink. He'd sent him here to remember.
Some things weren't lost. They were just waiting to be found.