Record Store (What's That?) Employment, Forgotten Refrigerators, and That Cutout LP - Part I

I was one of those fortunate teenagers that never worked fast food. I had friends that worked everywhere from McDonald’s to KFC, but for me donning a little paper hat and asking if you’d like fries with that order was pretty unappealing. I mean if I couldn’t find after-school employment anywhere else, and was desperate enough, I might ask a buddy, ala the scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High to pull some strings for me, but thankfully it never came to that. Beginning at 16, I worked at a bakery that specialized in bagels, a pharmacy stocking shelves and delivering prescriptions, and a stint at a record store that put me at the very top of the after-school job food chain.

Some of the readers might be lost by the description of a record store. Back in the dark ages (prior to circa 1984), music was commercially available in four general mediums: record album, cassette tape, 8-track tape, and single song (45 rpm). The place where one would go to purchase these relics was a record store.  Most record stores were cool; ours wasn’t, but our direct competition was, although none of our competitors would’ve ever considered us competition. There was the behemoth Tower Records, which was always a treat to visit. There was Licorice Pizza, a kitschy little local chain whereby the name made total sense and they had a head shop element to their offerings. There was also iconic Rhino Records, so close to our store that we could hit their front door using a 10" record album as a frisbee.

Our store, in Van Nuys, was part of a small, family-owned chain of four stores in southern California. Two of the stores were just south of LAX; two were further north. The proprietors, a couple from the backwoods of West Virginia, had a nice little business going until divorce reared its ugly head. Their divorce split up the four stores with the husband taking the successful stores south of LAX, and the wife taking the unsuccessful Van Nuys and Goleta shops. While the Goleta store was in a quaint village setting right outside the gates of UC Santa Barbara, the Van Nuys outlet was smack dab on gritty Van Nuys Boulevard, forcing us to deal with the cruisers, the homeless, and a dizzying array of young rip-off artists taking their five-fingered discounts on seemingly a weekly basis.

After several months of part-time employment, I was given a 10 cent per hour raise (I’m in the money now!) to be the shift manager, which meant I had to conduct closing procedures once the doors were closed for the evening. The owner, we’ll call her Deena, was an affable gal, who rewarded my loyalty to the store with quite a bit of record company swag. The record company sales reps would typically bring her movie passes, concert tickets, and cool promotional materials, and she would hand it down to a few of her favored employees. Her only request was that we play, in store, the promotional “cutout” albums the rep would leave us upon their sales calls. Once the cutouts were no longer fresh and in vogue, she would gladly give them to us providing that it wasn’t a big seller, and therefore not needed for further promotion.

Being a 16-year-old kid with a real passion for rock and jazz music, I couldn’t have had a more perfect job. Truth-be-told, I probably would’ve paid Deena to let me hang out in the store! The double-takes I’d get when classmates that didn’t know me personally would enter the store and see me behind the counter were classic. Friends begged for a recommendation for employment or at the very least an introduction to the owner. Not sure where the teenage job pecking order starts and ends, but I can attest that working at a music store was a different stratum than fast food. Your friends are jealous, you get to blast music while you work, and you can complete your shift without smelling like grease. I had it made!

I prided myself on balancing the books each closing. I guess the accountant in me took hold early. No evening was different from any other. I’d balance the books, place the receipts in an envelope, documenting it and locking it in the office safe. I’d be gone by 10:30 pm. Typically Deena would either pick up the receipts later in the evening or first thing in the morning.

One late afternoon as I entered the store to begin my shift, I was greeted by a co-worker with a clownishly disturbed facial expression. She was attempting to get my attention as Deena had told her to send me her way as soon as I arrived. I walked back to the office, finding Deena looking as if she had simultaneously lost her best friend and her dog had died. The following exchange took place:

Me: Hi Deena, you wanted to see me?

Deena: I can’t have days like this!

Me: Days like what?

Deena: Days where we are missing $300 from the @#$%^ cash register!

Me: I don’t understand; today?

Deena: Last night’s receipts were $300 light.

Me: That’s impossible. I balanced it to the penny!

Deena: Well, it’s exactly $300 short!

Me: I oversaw the shift and I can tell you that no one here stole from you, and, we certainly couldn’t have given that kind of money away in bad change.

Deena: This is a disaster! Are you certain no one could be ripping us off?

Me: I’m at the register most of the shift, so yes, I’m certain……………………. are you accusing me……….?

Deena: No, not saying that, but as the shift manager you need to be accountable.

I was extremely bothered by the conversation. I know that our margins were tight and we are losing the battle to the competitors, but I found it hard to believe that any of the evening employees (there were 3 of us) were responsible for the missing money, and I knew without any resolve that the receipts left in the safe were spot on. I went about my job, warned the other 2 to steer clear of Deena, and was happy to have the shift end. Rather than balance that evening’s receipts, I left it for Deena to do.

The next day, a Saturday, I was scheduled for an 8-hour shift opening the shop. When I arrived, Deena was holding court with a few employees from her ex-husband’s store (they still bought product as one entity, so there were lots of inventory transfers back and forth between the 4 stores), laughing it up and seemingly having a grand old time. Appeared to me she had gotten over the $300 loss fast. As soon as she saw me enter the store she motioned me back to the office. Oh no I thought, more lectures on accountability and oversight. Preparing for the worst, she greeted me with a warm smile.

Me: You OK?

Deena: Doing great. Remember that discussion we had last night about the missing $300?

Me: Yeah

Deena: I know who took the money!

Me: Really, Who?

Deena: I did. I completely forgot that I took exactly $300 out of the cash receipts to buy a new refrigerator for my home.

Suddenly working at a record store felt as greasy and dirty as working at Taco Bell. In the span of a single day she had failed to recall something as significant as removing $300 from her business’s cash receipts. What could possibly top this? I didn’t want to find out. For every feel-great-about-your-job moment I had, there was a moment like the refrigerator fiasco. The best was when the manager of the Goleta store, who was a blood relative of the owner, threatened me with great bodily harm because of a tongue-in-cheek complaint I directed to a Warner Brothers sales rep. who was visiting us. His rationale for wanting to pound me was his belief that based upon what I said, all of Warner’s music distribution empire, which included labels such as Warner Brothers, Reprise, Atlantic, and Geffen, would be banned from our stores. Imagine the likes of Warner’s making such decisions based upon an alleged flip comment from a 16-year-old that was directed, and accepted as a JOKE!

The prestige of working at a record store no longer quenched it so I moved on to another part-time gig, this time at a general merchandise warehouse, which would see me through my first two years of college. No hard feelings though; I actually feel somewhat indebted for not only the experience, but a major debt for musical discovery.

 That debt that I owe the record shop was the forcing of the staff to play the promo LPs in store. Had it not been required and enforced, I would’ve NEVER encountered a record album so obscure, yet so beautiful that I believe in some way, shape, or form my life would be somewhat different had I never heard it. The LP, Last Stage for Silverworld by Kenny Young has been a constant in my life since I first heard it in 1973. And I literally mean from the first listen, as I was nothing short of mesmerized upon hearing the opening note of the LP.

Part 2 will discuss the greatness that is Last Stage for Silverworld. Stay tuned!