“Kind of, yeah.”
He seemed to know his way around. He led me to a display of vintage record players, all with a tiny white price sticker on one corner.
“Have you been here before?” I asked, looking at the different models.
“It’s a small town,” he said in way of an answer. “I’ve been to most places.”
“Do you know anything about record players?”
He bent down to examine the options, then pointed to a little suitcase player with built-in speakers. He rattled off some specs (that I didn’t understand at all, all about something called RPMs and platter weight), the conclusion being: get this, it’s a good one.
“Are you kind of a genius?” I asked as he handed it to me.
“What do you mean?”
“All these college courses, all this random knowledge. Like, who knows this much about record players?”
“I guess I read a lot,” he said.
“About record players?”
“About lots of stuff.”
“Do you ever sleep?”
“Once a week I try to take a little nap,” he said, smiling, sliding past me to the checkout. Em was already there, talking to a very bored-looking twentysomething proprietor about the records she’d just bought. The shopkeeper’s features were androgynous, and they wore a small pin on their lapel that listed their preferred pronouns “they/them/theirs.”
“Do you like vinyl? Did you go to school around here? Do you like working in a thrift store?” Em asked rapid-fire.
“Yes I do,” the shopkeeper responded to Em’s questions in order. “Yes I do. No I don’t.”
I put the record player on the counter.
“Forty dollars!” Em said, reading the price. “That’s a steal. Seriously. It’s like you’re stealing from this store, Lottie!”
Abe dragged Em away from the register as I paid. Sam came up beside me; the shopkeeper smiled when they saw him.
“Hi, Sam.”
“Hi, Zen.”
“Is your name really Zen?” Em called as Abe all but pushed her out of the store.
“Sorry about her. She can get a little enthusiastic,” I said.
“Actually, I’m used to it. Thrift stores make people oddly energized,” Zen said.
“Zen, this is my friend Lottie,” Sam said. “Lottie, Zen.”
Zen extended a hand over the counter and smiled at me, and I got the feeling that any friend of Sam’s was vouched for.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise. This is a good little machine you picked out,” they said, tapping the record player. “Forty even. No tax for Sam’s friends.” I handed them two twenties. “You guys should go down to the beach. Mikaela built another driftwood sculpture.”
“Really? Oh, we definitely have to check it out,” Sam said. “Mikaela is Zen’s partner, and she’s an absolutely amazing artist.”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Thanks for this,” Sam said.
“Anytime,” Zen promised.
“Mr. Popular,” I said, nudging Sam with my elbow when we were out of earshot.
“I told you—it’s a small town!”
We met Abe and Em in the parking lot.
“This way,” Sam said, pointing around the back of the shop. “Bring the record player.”
I grabbed the Jim Croce record out of the car, and then we followed Sam around the back of the shop to a skinny trailhead that opened up in the woods that bordered the property.
We went single file because that was the only way we could fit. Sam was first, then me, then Abe, then Em. It wasn’t long until the sounds of the ocean grew louder and the path beneath our feet turned sandy and opened up onto a small, secluded beach. We walked toward the water, and I spotted Mikaela’s sculpture immediately. It was hard to miss; it looked like a fully formed tree house in the middle of the sand. It was built close to the water and the tide had risen since its completion; the bottom two feet were underwater. And it was functional—there was a girl sitting on its small raised platform. Mikaela, I assumed. She’d made a torch out of driftwood. The fire was burning thin but bright.
“Wow,” Em said.
“This is amazing,” Abe added.
“You should have seen her last one. A giant hummingbird. I swore I saw its wings move,” Sam said. He caught Mikaela’s eye and waved to her. She climbed down a rickety ladder to greet him.
“Sam! I was hoping you’d get to see this one. It’ll be swallowed up pretty soon. I’ve already taken my pictures,” she said. Mikaela was a few years older than us and pretty. She had long hair she wore in two braids and there was dirt smudged on her face. Her hands were rough and calloused. “And you brought friends! I guess you’re not such a loner after all,” she said, winking and smiling warmly at us.
“This is Lottie, Em, and Abe. Do you have power?” Sam asked.
“Over there,” Mikaela responded, pointing. Sam took the record player from me and plugged it into a long orange extension cord. I couldn’t see where it originated.
“This is beautiful,” I said. “You made this?”
“Thank you! Yeah, it’s just something I do for fun,” Mikaela said.
“What do you mean, swallowed up?”
“The tide’s coming in, and it will get washed away. Pretty soon, actually. But I don’t use anything that didn’t come from the ocean to begin with, so it’s all just returning.”
“Isn’t that frustrating?”
“Not really. I don’t think everything has to be so permanent. There are plenty of museums. This is just for me, just for now,” she said.
“But isn’t that like creating something for the sole purpose of seeing it destroyed?” I asked. “Sorry, that sounded a little harsh—no offense.”
“None taken!” Mikaela said, laughing. “I like people who ask questions. And I don’t think that’s the sole purpose here at all. It’s just one of the inevitable outcomes of art: eventually, it will all be destroyed. Even the Mona Lisa will one day turn to dust; it will just take a little longer than my structure’s destruction. But in the grand scheme of things, in the whole bulk of time, they both exist for just tiny little blips.”
“Harsh,” Sam said.
“Structure’s Destruction! Another excellent name for a band,” Abe said.
Mikaela laughed and walked back toward the structure as the record started playing.
“Your aunt’s favorite song is on this record,” Sam said.
“Did she play it for your class too?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s where I heard it.”
The music carried surprisingly well over the water as we walked over to Mikaela’s structure.
“Will it hold us all?” Sam asked, putting his hand on a beam.
“Only one way to find out,” Mikaela said.