Watch This

The flea market had become a ritual. Greg and Lydia rarely found anything, but when they did, it was heralded as monumental. They called their excursions “fossil hunting,” and many of their finds were truly relics.

Some of the vendors at the flea market were regulars and the couple barely gave their wares a glance. Their apartment only had room for a certain number of salt and pepper shakers or crocheted toilet paper concealers. They focused on the new vendors, and this week the nostalgic display in the corner captured their attention.

“This is so 80s,” Lydia whispered with reverence. She fingered a rack of fluorescent jelly bracelets.

Greg picked up a semi-inflated basketball. “Watch this,” he said, trying to spin the ball on his finger. He managed to nearly clear the trinkets from a nearby table as the ball wobbled and he shifted to center it.

As Lydia was deciding between the lime green fingerless mesh gloves and the argyle leg warmers, Greg called to her, “Remember this?” He was elbow-deep in a bin of records. He pulled an album from the stack and held it up for them both to see. The cover was a hypnotic spiral. Staring at the spiral and relaxing one’s eyes would make the name of the band appear. “This is trippy.”

“That was the first one with a ‘Tipper Sticker’.” Lydia tried to remember what had been so offensive about it. But offensive was as bound to time and place as any other concept.

Greg lowered his voice, “Playing it backward would make a demon appear.”

She laughed. “Right.”

“Seriously. That is what happened to them. To the band.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “They died because their cocaine was poisoned with strychnine or something.”

“Where do you get your information? They were torn apart, long slashes on each of their bodies. Strychnine doesn’t do that.”

He dug in his pocket for some money while she typed into her phone. She turned the screen toward him. “Google says ‘poison’.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. You really think they would publish stories about honest-to-God demons?”

She shrugged “There is nothing honest about it. Just urban legend, but you do you.”

He turned the album over in his hands, inspecting the cover from all angles. “I am getting it.”

“We don’t have a record player.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a relic. When archeologists uncover our apartment from beneath the meteorite that will crush us, I want them to find this psychedelic specimen and know that we were true connoisseurs.”

By the time they returned home, he had scrutinized every inch of the album. Each time he had a new idea about the Escher-esque cyclone on the cover. “That would be what a demon’s lair looks like, right?”

“I guess.” She tilted her head. “Looks like a demented fan with warped blades.

He nodded appreciatively. “That might be what got to the band: warped blades…something made those gashes on their bodies.”

“If you believe that rubbish.” She sighed. “It’s a shame that good old fashioned overdosing has lost its glamour.” She went into the kitchen to make them sandwiches for lunch. “Why would a band play their own album backwards?”

“Because they were in that sophomore slump. They needed another hit; they needed to keep the train rolling.” He pulled the vinyl from the cover. “Watch this,” he said as he spun the record clockwise on his finger while humming the theme song of the Harlem Globe Trotters.

“Wow. They should sell you at a flea market. Your references would be the oldest thing there.”

He began to spin it counterclockwise. “Bet I can make it play if I spin fast enough.” He gave the vinyl a few hard spins before putting his fingernail into a grove.

High decibel screeching came from the album.

“If that doesn’t call a demon, I don’t know what would.” He laughed, but she did not join in.

She felt clammy and dizzy. She began to saw through the hardened bread faster, believing her blood sugar level was dropping.

“Watch this,” he called again, spinning the album faster and making it wail with the placement of his fingernail.

“I…” She grabbed the counter with one hand, fearing she would fall to the floor without its assistance. She heard odd words coming from the record. The words were compelling; the words ordered her to do horrible things.

“Almost sounds like a chant,” Greg said, not noticing the change in Lydia. If he had, he might have been able to save himself.

The words built into a frenzy, a confusion of chaos, the verbal version of the album’s psychedelic cover. Her glowing, red eyes were focused on the knife she had been using on the bread. The chant was about the knife. It told her what to do with the knife.

“This is messed up.” Greg shook his head, believing this was all in fun.

Lydia could no longer remember who Greg was or what he meant to her. She could no longer remember where she was. Her mind was consumed with the knife and with the voices that were imploring her to use it.

The album whirled and the voices wove a powerful, insistent, and necessary story. Her hands felt far away and as if someone else were now in control of them. A part of her waged a war to keep the knife on the bread.

As the album continued to shriek, she lost the battle.

∼ Elaine Pascale