Achy breaky my ass...

I get a stereo/CD player. It has a remote control and a cassette player that looks like it is wearing jaw-limned headgear between the oversized sub-woofers. It is my first stereo. I have nothing but cassettes. I have been listening to nothing but Depeche Mode and the Cure. I think about Dawn Michelle and purchasing the Freddie Mercury CD for her last summer even though she didn’t realize until after I made the purchase for her that she didn’t own a CD player, even though she is the most erudite individual ever I have met.

 The stereo was close to 200 dollars. I bought it for less than 150 at Best Buy in Evergreen Terrace where my father drops off his film top be developed.

Dad seems pleased that his son possessed the financial acumen to save the money over the summer. Dad smiles every time he sees his son tithe during church.

 

My sisters are looking at the CD player like it is the coolest thing they have ever seen. Unlike a cassette there is no interior grinding when the music is fast forwarded or rewound. CD’s arrive in a stiff-skyscraperesque cardboard case. The disc itself is palm sized and spherical; one side is completely shiny and offers an apt reflection of facial features when seriously perused.  The other side normally contains faux-art, the title of the band and track titles. Using my plastic remote control the CD player pops open in almost reptilian fashion. The moment the disc is inserted and the top is closed the disc begins to oscillate and hiss. The totality of self-contained tracks digitally flash across the gray monitor on the top of the stereo. Using the remote control I press play with my thumb allowing a one to flicker three times before more hissing, before the song begins.

“And for your first CD I got you a present son,” My dad says reaching into the best Buy bag, handing me a package.

When I look at it I think it is a joke.

“Billy Ray Cyrus?”

 

“Yeah, Achy-Brakey heart. I know you kids are into C and W these days.”

My father inexplicably refers to country music as C & W for Country and Western.

I detest country music. I’ve never liked country music. I hated country music when my Uncle was listening to Garth Brooks and picked my cousin and myself up from MUSIC MAN practice last summer.

Dad tells me that Billy Rae Cyrus is coming to the civic center in December and maybe Patrick and myself might want to go.

“Dad, you must be kidding?”

I seriously think he is. A look of deflation floats across his face.

“You don’t like it?”

“Dad, I hate country music. I can’t stand country music. I’ve never enjoyed country music. Have you ever heard me listening to country music."

Dad continues to look sad. I swear I hear him whimper. My siblings are laughing.  Dad says that he wanted to get me something really nice. Something I would really like and that would be memorable since I saved all summer to purchase my CD player.

“Look, I’m sorry. Thank you dad. It’s a really cool gift. I can’t wait to play it.”

Dad says no. he reaches into his wallet. Even mom in the kitchen addresses her husband by the name of Lancelot's mentor and laughs.

“Here, here’s ten bucks. Go to that music store in campus town you like and purchase something you will enjoy.”