Come Together

48 hours before he died, I spent a memorable hour with Clay at a small antiques store in Wisconsin looking at records. We were killing time, waiting for his brother to catch us up on the car journey to Chicago for the flight home to England. The small Main Street shop had all the regular American bric-a-brac, plus vintage clothing, a quality collection of records, and a juke box. It poured with rain, all day.

Clay had begun collecting vinyl, and this was a lucky find because there were hundreds of records scattered around– good ones. Among them I found the first album I’d ever owned– Billy Joel, The Nylon Curtain. Only the two shopkeepers were there, and we got chatting.  When the clock ticked past their 5:00 closing, they let us stay and we all just carried on, as you do in a small town on a Memorial Day drenched in rain. Clay spent the hour learning more about record collecting and turntables, sharing a passion, and I tried on someone’s flowery maxi skirt from the 60s.  I bought a few records, an orange leather gilet (miss!) and a brand new Dale’s of Norway Norwegian sweater in an unusual heather colour for $34 (hit!). Clay bought a Father’s Day present for his dad–Lynyrd Skynyrd Band, Gold and Platinum that included Frank’s favourites: Free Bird and Sweet Home Alabama.

That visit was the last thing we ever did together, just the two of us. A week later, sitting in Clay’s bedroom at home in Surrey, I was overcome by a desperate need to hear those shopkeepers speak about Clay.  Anything at all, whatever they could remember, which was quite possibly nothing. Maybe I wanted to be back in that shop again, just as we were.  Rain pelting, killing time. What I was actually looking for, I didn’t really know. It had been just five days without Clay. I wanted to retrieve him from wherever he was.

Google Maps revealed the shop name, Google Search turned up the landline number, and a nice lady on the end of the landline gave me contact details for one of those guys from the shop. The text I sent was worded carefully and didn’t reveal the dark circumstances of Clay’s death, but any 18-year-old’s passing is tragic and alarming.  Clay died just 48 hours after we’d walked out their door. His reply moved me.

“Dear Gretchen, I am truly and deeply sorry for your loss.  I cried on and off throughout today for Clay and your loss.  I suppose this might seem odd to you coming from someone who is a near total stranger.  Your son made quite an impression.  I have met many people in my life and I’ve learned to recognize the kind and sensitive souls when we cross paths.  They shine so brilliantly and brighten our troubled world.   Even though I barely knew him I have had, and lost, many friends that he reminded me of.  I have mourned deeply every time one of those bright lights has gone out.  I was thrilled by his new-found passion and curiosity as a burgeoning audiophile and have reflected on it many times over the past week.  All of us shared such a wonderful hour that day and I had very much hoped to get to know you and Clay better if you visited again.  I would very much like to speak with you by phone soon, but need a bit of time to fully wrap my head around this before we do.  I look forward to chatting more with you in the coming days.  Grant.”

Grant. His name was Grant. What a special person to write that, to connect with  me about a kid he met once, but a kid who shared his love of music and kindness. In a telephone conversation days later, he spoke about Clay’s potential in this world. He said he’d spoken about him several times to his regular customers following our visit because he’d been pleased to see a young person pursuing his same passion for vinyl. He said he’d met thousands of people in his life who hadn’t made any impression on him, but Clay did. He used the phrase “bright light” a few times.

Finally, he reminded me that Clay had played a song on the old juke box at the front of the shop just before we left.  Yes!  Good one. That’s what I was after, that last detail. I’d forgotten.  Clay had been enchanted with the juke box and beamed a little when invited to choose a song. It was one of those old ones where you watch through the glass as the 7” record shoots out of the stack, then flips a quarter turn, drops and the needle descends, all mechanical-like. Grant said he had been trying to remember which Beatles song it was that Clay had played. He took down my address over the phone. He wanted to send me that record from the juke box, he said, because he would have trouble playing it on the ordinary days in the shop that would follow.  Was it Hey Jude? he thought. No, wait. He had the beat in his head now. Not Hey Jude. Just before walking out of the shop that day we heard the Beatles sing “Come Together.”