Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Sudetenland Tales
Page 254
Underneath was a cartoon of a pale guy in suspenders assembling filing cabinets while a woman in a kaftan floated by on an inflatable crescent moon.
They stared at it a long moment before the laughter began; deep, warm, unstoppable. The ad had been a punchline for years in their early circle, a symbol of the ridiculous optimism of post-hippie drift and proto-digital chaos. And strangely, a turning point.
“That was right before we moved into the warehouse on Neptune Street,” Eleanor said, her voice laced with reverence. “You’d just quit working for that record sleeve guy. What was his name?”
“Vinny. With the mirrored shoes.”
“Right. And I was still pretending to be a visual poet.”
They both grew quiet.
That little advertisement had been taped to their refrigerator once, a joke turned guidepost. It nudged them into hiring a couple of college kids who actually were sober nerds; and who helped sort years of unsorted band merch, demo tapes, and tax papers into boxes labeled “Guitar Cult,” “Paul’s Mystical Receipts,” and “Do Not Open Unless Already Crying.”