Aron’s Records Shop Bag. 1986.
W
hen I first moved to Los Angeles in 1986 I took a job at Aron’s Records, a hip little buy/sell/trade record shop on Melrose Avenue, specializing in rare and out-of print vinyl records. The dusty-old hangout was a dimly lit, enthusiasts-only establishment that attracted not only music lovers but, being smack-dab in the middle of Hollywood, it wasn’t uncommon to see movie stars and other celebrities perusing its record bins. For a stargazer, it was a great place to catch an autograph, though, occasionally, an overzealous fan would overstep their boundaries while in hot pursuit of a memento. One day, for example, the musician Joe Jackson was browsing the store while being tailed by a pesky autograph seeker, an employee in this case, who also happened to have a penchant for stalking celebrities. After finding his moment, the employee approached the singer, pen and paper in hand, and asked if he would give him a “quick” autograph. Mr. Jackson, clearly irritated by the intrusion, dead-eyed the poor fellow and with a sneer shot back: “I wouldn’t even give you a slow one.” This brief encounter would have lasting effects on the now, presumably, ex-Joe Jackson fan, as the comment was delivered right in front of his coworkers, who immediately bestowed upon their deflated colleague a nickname he would never live down the rest of his days working at the store: Joe Jackson.
Oh, life is cruel. But if my junk drawer museum is nothing else, my hope is that it will serve to impart the notion that objects, just like photographs, have a unique ability to trigger memories. If life is essentially the accumulation of experiences, it behooves us to remember what we've done along the way, and a good junk drawer can be a virtual time capsule. I think you will agree that the following story was worth remembering. Had it not been for a thirty-year-old plastic Aron’s Records Shop shopping bag that I found wedged to the back of my junk drawer, the whole memory might have been forgotten.
It all started the day a handsomely dressed middle-aged
women by the name of Shirley walked into the store. Attending to her, I helped find the records she was looking for, while we exchanged mild chitchat as we drifted up and down the aisles. I was immediately drawn to her. She had an old-world charm that was at once direct and sincere—a rare sighting in Tinseltown. Over the next year, Shirley and I would develop a friendly rapport with one another, sufficient enough so that whenever she came into the store or needed help over the phone, she would always ask for me, personally, to help her. I was only happy to oblige.
The following year, around Christmastime, not long before I’d left Aron’s Records in pursuit of greener pastures, Shirley had once again dropped by the store.
On this occasion, however, right after she'd left, one of
my co-workers—the Joe Jackson guy, came slinking up beside me, eager to tell me something.
“Hey, Rob,” he said in a half-whisper, “you know that
lady who comes in to see you for her records?”
“You mean, Shirley?”
“Yeah, Shirley. Well," he continued, as if giving me a tip on a racehorse, "you know who Shirley really is, don’t you?”
“Whaddya mean?"
“What I mean is that that person you’ve been dealing with is…Shirley Temple.”
“Shirley Temple?!”
“Yup. That’s Shirley freakin’ Temple! I saw someone get
her autograph once.”
Incredulous, I lowered my hand perpendicular to the floor, just above my kneecap and said, “you mean that Shirley?”
“Yeah, man! The Good Ship Lollipop. Shirley Temple!”
Well, I guessed if anyone would know it’d be Joe Jackson, our celebrity stalker.
Later, to myself, I had to admit that if Shirley really was who he had claimed her to be—that’d be pretty cool. I mean, Shirley Temple was a real legend. She wasn’t like today’s factory-made-no-talent movie
stars living off the fumes of a once Golden Age of Hollywood. Shirley Temple was the Golden Age of Hollywood! A true original. I couldn’t wait to see her again to find out if it was true.
Months had passed and I wasn’t sure if Shirley would be making it back to the store before my last day of work. It would’ve been just my luck to have this riddle hanging over me the rest of my life, wondering if that was really her or not. It's not like I could just go on the internet. It didn't exist. I wished that busybody Joe Jackson would’ve just minded his own business and kept me in the dark about the whole thing.
Lo and behold, some weeks later, there she was, standing in the middle of our record store. "Dammit!" I cursed to myself in a low voice. "She’s looking for me!" My anticipation for this moment didn’t prepare me for the butterflies I had swirling in my stomach, armed, as I now was, with the knowledge of who she might be. Uneasily, I edged myself over to her and seconds later we were chatting in the middle of the storeroom floor.
“Hi, Shirley, how are you?”
“Good. And you?”
“Well, I—I’m okay, I guess. What can we do for you today?”
As she spoke I studied her face to see if I could find vestiges of that five-year-old wonder child who so many years ago, quite literally, skyrocketed to fame on the heels of her prodigious talent. I waited for my nerves to calm down a little before finding just the right moment to pop the question. It was like I was
asking someone out on a first date. “Um, Shirley,” I said at last, “would you mind if we had a little sidebar, I have a small question I’d like to ask you?”
“Okay,” she replied, quizzically, following my lead as I motioned for us to move to one side of the store.
“Well, Shirley, um, it's come to my attention that you are, ahh, well, that is, er, someone had told me that…”
Again, lowering my hand perpendicular to the floor, just above my kneecap, I finally came out with it: “Are you Shirley—?” She cast her eyes downward to where my hand was gesturing and with a chortle confided, “Why, yes, I’m Shirley Temple Black.”
My mind stutter-stepped a moment as visions of little tap dance shoes, lollipops and bonbons flashed before my eyes. Suddenly, Shirley wasn't just some well dressed middle-aged housewife coming in for Sinatra records. She became Shirley Temple Black: child prodigy, all around great lady and the biggest thing ever to hit the silver screen! My forehead started to perspire and my hands felt clammy, the way they do when you’re in heavy turbulence on a plane. I guess you could say—alright, I’ll admit it, I was star struck. Shirley waited patiently as I stumbled for the next thing to say. Don’t say something stupid, I repeated to myself.
“You’re a lot taller in real life," was all I could
muster. Thankfully, she laughed, easing an otherwise awkward moment.
“Things aren’t going to change now, are they?” said Shirley with a sidelong glance.
“Well, I’m afraid they’re going to have to. I’m leaving the store in a few weeks.”
“Oh, that’s a shame! Where are you going?”
“Greener pastures,” I said. “By the way, Shirley,” I went on to say, “I gotta tell you, you really know how to keep
a low profile around here. I would never have known who you were if it wasn’t for that guy over there in the corner staring at us. He’s the one who told me.”
“Oh, that guy,” said Shirley, narrowing her eyes. "He asks me for my autograph every time I come in here!”
Good ‘ol Joe Jackson.
Sadly, I would never see Shirley again. I'd eventually go back to Aron’s Records one last time to bid farewell to my coworkers, empty my employee cubbyhole and
collect my last paycheck. It was a few days after the
new year when I finally got around to going and the first person I ran into was Joe Jackson (the employee).
“Hey, Rob,” he said, with a cat ate the canary grin on his face, “you might wanna check out your cubbyhole. I think you'll be interested to know what's there. It’s from your girlfriend.”
“Whad’ya mean, girlfriend?”
“Why don’t you go and find out for yourself?” he said wryly.
“You know, Joe Jackson,” I said with all the pent up angst of a person on his last day of work, “don’t you ever get tired of trolling around this place like a teenage girl looking for autographs when you should be working?” My outward indifference to the question of what was in my employee cubbyhole belied an inner curiosity to know what was there. Could this girlfriend he was referring to be Shirley? If so, what could she have left for me?
When I got there I found, sandwiched between a pile of records, a red envelope with my name on it. I pulled out a chair next to the makeshift lunch table in the employee lounge, sat down and opened it. Inside was a Christmas card and pictured on the front was a rosy-cheeked Santa Claus standing next to a Christmas tree. Inside it read: Dear Rob, Merry Christmas! Good luck in your new endeavor — Shirley. I guess I was right, Shirley did have old world charm. And, yes, I would like to believe that, if only for a fleeting moment, Shirley Temple was my girlfriend in somebody’s eyes. Even if it was only Joe Jackson’s.
Now, I guess you might be wondering why I didn’t include Shirley’s card in my museum. The short answer is: I lost it. Ironically, the last time I remember seeing it was in this Aron’s Records shopping bag, which is where I used to keep the card for safe keeping. Now all I have is the bag, but no card. Go figure. But the beauty of it all is in knowing that we’ll always have our memories as long as there’s something around to remind us of them. Even if it’s just a lousy thirty-year-old plastic shopping bag found wedged to the back of your junk drawer.
