It was terrible.

The record player swirled, sending its crackle and hiss down the aux cord connected to my white, on-ear headphones, and frankly, I wish it hadn't. Laying atop my navy blue comforter, my hands cradled the back of my head itching to inch upward and rip off the music. There were no lyrics in the LP so far—just incoherent combinations of various instruments in different keys. Either that, or they’re just all off-tune.

I had run home as fast as my caucasian legs could carry me, backpack slapping against my back and white sneakers pounding the pavement. I think the soles melted a little bit. The summer was heating up way too fast and I was drenched by the time I got to our little apartment on Kessler and Hampton. Into the complex. Up the stairs. Fumble the keys. Through the door. It was somehow almost as hot inside.

“Hi Mom bye Mom!” I yelled as I passed her reading in the recliner, standing fan strategically positioned in the corner between the TV and Grandma’s accent table holding Great-Grandma’s ceramic pattern table lamp. It looked like Mom was still working her way through Das Kapital. She was going through a bit of a Communist phase, less to adopt the ideology, though, and more to “increase her awareness.” Last month it was The Power Broker and the month before that it was rabbinic literature.

She looked up in surprise but only called after me in her sing-songy voice, “Don’t forget! One hour. The Dinner. Wait is that a Betty Bar—” The slam of my door cut her off and saved me from venturing into precarious territory.

From there it was: Toilet. Shower. Rinse. Lather. Rinse. Cold rinse. Scrunch. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Cold rinse. Dry. Flush. Scrunch. Scrunch. Hairdry. Scrunch. Boxers. Bed.

Clean and comfortable, I pulled the vinyl out and plopped it on the record player atop my starboard nightstand. My headphones were already plugged in, so I put a small towel over my pillow and spread my wet, curly locks out behind me, then I tilted the box fan in my window so it’d further blow dry my long hair whilst I listened to the album. The first sound was an eerie note struck on an electric guitar and what followed felt wrong. It was wrong

Bass slipping.

Drums offbeat.

Trumpet blaring.

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The keyboard recital of an eight-year-old in the background.

It was kind of like “Trashin’ the Camp” from Tarzan if Terk wasn’t there to orchestrate the chaos and the gorillas weren’t sentient. My disappointment was unreal. After all the trouble I went through to obtain the vinyl it was a kick to the cajones. The sound was bad abstract art at best. A stale french fry underneath the passenger seat at worst. You couldn’t even call it music. Yet, as I lay there with my eyes closed, images flashed in my mind. A tree. A palm tree. A coconut falls gracefully and rolls down the beach toward the ocean. The tide picks it up and teases it out to sea. No, come back, coconut.

I clicked the volume down to off then got up and got dressed. I kept catching myself casting longing glances at the record player. I knew it was like checking the refrigerator for the fifth time in the middle of a long June afternoon, but maybe it’d get better. Maybe it needs a second listen. Maybe my bad attitude was just negatively manifesting psychosis and I misheard what I’d just listened to because I subconsciously didn’t believe I deserved anything good. I sat on the edge of my bed, clicked the volume, and put the headphones back on.

A red, red macaw—

Nope, it just sucks.

I ripped off the headphones and threw them against the bed. It was silly to be mad, I know, but it was the one thing I was looking forward to this summer. One last link to my friends before I left for the Southwest and before they left for college, but I couldn’t even be given that. I was leaving everything and everyone I knew to go stay with a man I knew nothing about. I don’t blame him for not knowing, but that also doesn’t mean I have to care for him in the slightest. We didn’t care for each other for 18 years, why start now? Anger started to boil within me. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, “blew out the candle,” counted to five, and released my breath. Then I said a quick prayer and feeling calmed down, I stood up and slipped my white sneakers back on. The soles were much more worn than I remembered. They had to at least last me until my birthday in August.

I shot Robbie a text. There was a long string of blue he had yet to reply to thanking him profusely and calling him things like GOAT, King, A1 since Day 1, etc. I shot him one more text, “Bro, have you listened to it, yet? I’m lowkey surprised…”

Three dots appeared immediately and he responded, “Dude, I know!! His best one yet!!! Anutha one hunna babyyyyy. Toni the roni has done it again” with the praise hands, 100, star eyes, and sunglasses emojis. He then hearted all my previous messages.

Either Robbie somehow got more sarcastic in the last hour and was making a weird joke or I was completely missing something. I went to double-check the vinyl but it looked exactly like the picture Robbie had sent me that morning. I wanted to get to the bottom of it, but at that moment Mom called for me. It was time to go.

I shot Robbie back a few question marks and pocketed my phone.

It was time for The Dinner.