So, with Charlie getting fired for the tenth time last week, the day drivers are going to be working inside one day a week to help with the staffing shortage. Today was my inside day, and aside for a brief lunch rush, it was dull and boring. At one point, with both Zap and Silent Bob out on runs, a priest walked in the door.

Gary, leaning against the cut-table, murmered “god-damn” under his breath, then realized what he’d said, looked at me, and confirmed that he was, indeed, going to hell.

Last Christmas I bought my dad a record player through Amazon.com. He used to have a huge record collection, but I can’t remember when the old phonograph broke or was thrown away — for most of my life, those records were in big cardboard boxes in the basement of the house in Adelphi, and later in Columbia. So when it came time to brainstorming a Christmas gift, I had it all figured out. Actually, I’d thought about getting one several Christmases ago, and for whatever reason didn’t.

So I went down to my parents’ house in Columbia last night for dinner. I suppose I could’ve called ahead and had some of my Mom’s Famous Homemade Lasagna, or my Dad’s Famous Homemade Mac & Cheese, but I like to just show up unannounced, pounding on the front door like a UPS guy* on crack.

I was surprised to learn that despite having a brand new record player in the living room, neither of my parents had played any records on it. So, after dinner, Dad enlisted my help to move Walter** so he could dig his records out of the basement.

Anyway, we lugged two big boxes out of the basement. Dad sold a lot of his records a few years ago, before my parents moved into a smaller place in — well, near — to what passes for “Downtown” Columbia. In any case, his eyes lit up as we cut open the boxes and pulled out the records. Holy crap! Who knew my dad had such excellent taste in music?

Dad pulled out a Jethro Tull LP and in mid-sentence “This is a great record to try out the –” came to a stop and pulled out a double-record edition of The Who’s Tommy. We put the first record on the player and tried to figure out the knobs and why it wasn’t playing. After about ten minutes of poking, prodding, and examining the owner’s manual, we realized it wasn’t plugged in. So Dad worked about with the needle a bit, it came down on the record …

… and made these awful scratching noises. Dad thought something might’ve been wrong with the speed, so we poked the needle, prodded the needly, and examined the owner’s manual for tips on adjusting the speed of the turntable when we realized there was a removeable plastic cover over the needle interfering with the playback. I plead guilty with an explanation to this — what the fuck do I know about record players? I don’t think Dad has an excuse, but we’ll just go with “bad eyes” and/or “memory.”

Anyway, with the protective plastic bit off, the record player finally started working and it sounded … awful. Both of the records in Tommy were warped beyond salvage, but another unwarped record was quickly located, sounded great, and my Dad spent the rest of the night going through the boxes of records, showing my Mom the various titles (a lot of doubles, some were hers when they married), and I kidded Dad about the Bett Midler record I found. “I hope this is Mom’s,” I said.

Dad summed it just before I left: “It’s like Christmas!”

**When my mom was in college she took a sculpting class, and there’s this big head of a guy named Walter on a pedastal stuck in the basement. Walter’s had a rough life of it — his nose is missing, his ears are chipped, and he’s been in the basement so long when my Dad asked me to help move him, I responded “Who the fuck is Walter?”

*Or, y’know, a pizza guy …