Pickle’s Record Store Reboot

We spent a couple of days in my hometown of Union City, Tennessee, doing Christmas with my parents and brother and his family. On the way to visit my aunt yesterday afternoon, I took an indirect path through Graham Park. I spent many childhood and teenage hours in that park, from collecting tadpoles and playing tee-ball to skateboarding and meeting girlfriends (my first real kiss came on one of those playgrounds, and it was the awkwardest thing imaginable). Every corner of Union City seems to hold some kind of memory. No matter where I drive, memories come at me with unexpected, bittersweet clarity. This onslaught of memories got me thinking about a part of my thesis where I mention Pickle’s Record Store. Many may remember Pickle’s, but I suspect just as many have never heard of it, especially those of younger generations. So here’s an excerpt in which I’m writing about the poet Rilke’s idea that we have an obligation to create meaning in the world by “saying” things. In other words, by writing about Pickle’s, I give it more life than it would have otherwise had–immortalizing it, in a sense. Poets “say” with words, painters “say” with paint, musicians “say” with their instruments, et cetera. Here goes:

“Rilke makes a compelling case for the world’s need of us: like us, it is perishing, but it has no voice with which to proclaim its existence. A thing’s existence soon ceases, and if we don’t “say” it, there will be no record it ever was here: “More than ever / the Things that we might experience are vanishing,” and they vanish because whatever resides within a thing “outgrows it and seeks new limits” (DE 9.44-5, 48). Nature lets few things outlive their usefulness. Today’s strip mall is tomorrow’s weedy outcrop. But what if people congregated inside one of that strip mall’s shops, like they used to do at Pickle’s Record Store in Union City, Tennessee, twenty-five years ago, listening to reggae, partaking in a certain substance associated with reggae (so go the rumors), and generally being the kind of scandalous cool that only kids in their late teens can be? At that time, the store’s owner was something of an icon among a contingent of Union City High School’s juniors and seniors—possibly not the kind of man many parents would want their kids hanging around, but that only fueled his anti-hero status in their kids’ eyes. The shop is no longer there. The space is not a weedy outcrop yet, but Pickle’s has been replaced. Generations of kids are growing up in Union City with no memory of the old record store. It was a unique place in a city not known for such subcultural enclaves. But it met its end, as all things must do. Nevertheless, I have performed it a great service. Here, in this same paragraph, I have transformed Pickles Record Store by giving meaning to what would otherwise be a forgotten rectangle of retail space. I’m not saying that whatever replaced Pickles has no meaning, but that Pickles has had its life extended a few years by my inclusion of it in this essay. It may not be immortality, but it is more life than it had before.

“Sharing memories of defunct record stores is a base form of transformation, I admit; the meaning created is sparse. No great contribution to the arts has been achieved. But what matters here is that the memory has been “said” at all. Pickle’s may not achieve immortality from my effort, but I know of at least three who will read this essay, and they will know that Pickle’s existed, which is more life than the store could ever have expected.”

24 November 2017 (about Thanksgiving night)

In one corner of the large, rectangular room, cousins in their twenties reconnect, while in another, the parents of those same young adults slip into the easy familiarity–brothers, sisters, and in-laws, all privy to the old jokes and family stories; thoughts of those who’ve gone on but whose presence remains, bittersweetly.

Even if I was a blood relation, however, I’m not sure the easy familiarity would come, or rather, when it does come, it never stays for long. I’m rarely at ease anywhere outside my house or the few coffee places I haunt. Over the course of my thirties, solitude became the preferred milieu, despite a fairly sociable  teenage and young adult life. I suppose it was the growth of the writer inside. You can roll your eyes at that if you want–it’s fine. I’d rather you not let me see you do it, though, for civility’s sake. Yet this is something that any artist understands: the necessary loneliness. You reach a point where you either give up the call or accept that if you’re going to accomplish anything of value, artistically speaking, then you’re going to be trudging that path alone.

It’s Thanksgiving night, and I’ve found a comfortable chair with a full view of the room.  A few settle nearby–wife, brother-in-laws, father-in-law–those who are naturally close. But across the way is an energetic demographic with whom I won’t share a word the whole night. Some of them, I won’t even make eye contact with. I wonder if they see me as the misanthrope in the corner, which is kind of amusing, but also not exactly how I want to come across. Nevertheless, we can’t control what others think, right? Everyone is friendly; everyone is thoughtful and warm–paragons of virtue, in fact. And I am content to be a spectator, thinking about my various projects, thankful for those I love and for those who love me. I am often alone, but I am never lonely.

Consumerism and Childlike Vision

Ours is a consumerist society.  When I enter the word “consumerism” into my Dictionary.com application, three definitions appear:  one concerning the protection of customers; one about the benefit of goods consumption to the economy ; and one dealing with the “practice of an increasing consumption of goods”.  All of these are represented in America, but the last definition is the one that readily reveals our unsavory side.  We are addicted to whatever is newest, best, and/or most impressive.  There is a wide-ranging impulse to buy up each technological advancement the moment it comes to rest on a retail shelf, and the lack of funds is hardly a hurdle given the surplus of financing options at our disposal. The release–or better still, the reduction in price–of a much ballyhooed product has the power to whip a crowd into a credit card-wielding frenzy.  At its most uncivil, the consumerist bent leads to violence, as evidenced by the senseless trampling at a predawn Wal-Mart a few years back (the day after Thanksgiving, no less).

 

With characteristic resistance, I try not to get taken in by the darker side of consumerism, by which I mean the reckless expenditure that has its roots in the notion that one can buy happiness.  Yet there I was on a December Sunday, strolling past a quaint Dickensian miniature village on the second floor of a department store at the Galleria mall, thinking to myself, without a bit of irony, “Hmm, that’s nice.”  Meanwhile, seasonal classics sung by assorted somebodies are falling like snow from audio speakers in the ceiling and the spicy-sweet scent of cinnamon emanates from some unknown region of the store.  A hitherto non-existent urge to part with my money begins to form, and it becomes clear how easy it is to get caught up in the consumerist moment and exit the mall with an armload of extraneous merchandise.  Is it really that big of a leap from the desktop pinball game to the latest high-definition television at a Black Friday sale?

 

There may have been no irony behind my admiration for a ceramic Christmas village, but there is a bit of irony in the fact that some of the very props used to lure unsuspecting customers into a spending stupor are those that can provide a way out of this costly conspiracy.  It is by looking at them through the eyes of a child.  By recalling the sense of wonder we had as we gazed upward at a lighted tree that seemed impossibly tall, we can lay claim to the old magic that made us fall in love with this time of year in the first place.

 

My son gazes up at our tree from time to time.  He is barely a year old, so nothing holds his attention for very long.  It was obvious moments after we put the tree up, though, that we would not be able to leave it on the floor. Arthur tends to pull down, take apart, or throw whatever is within reach.  The tree is now on a side table, with all but the lowest branches inaccessible to his two-and-a-half foot frame. Seeing his upward stares gives me a specific memory of doing the same thing.  I was a little older–old enough to have memories, obviously–but still very much a child.  I remember thinking that either chipmunks or elves lived in the center, behind the pine needles where they could not be seen.  They would run around, jumping from branch to branch, way up high and out of sight, rearranging ornaments while we slept.  This sounds like it has the potential to be scary, but it was not.  It was an imagination at play, inspired by the colorful lights and shiny garland that embellished a big tree in my family’s living room.  It was a part of the joyful anticipation of that big day that was coming ever so slowly.  Perhaps harnessing just a hint of childlike vision will help us to resist the soul-squeezing grip of unbridled consumerism.