"Sophie, git Scarlette's record player out that musty shack. It's gonna rurnt if you don't. Gramps was gonna fix that fer her, bless her heart... He never got around to it. Don't you mess with Gordon's electric work in there. Leave it all be but Scarlette's... Bless her heart."

Keep in mind that Scarlette's been dead 11 years. Gramps has been gone 18 years. The last time I wandered in that shack, things were all haphazard, hundreds of pre-packaged tubes, transistors, record needles, wires. Or as Gramps would refer to them: "wairrrrs"—always embarrassing me when he asked for the male "wairre" or the female "wairre" as I was a young girl still confused about sex. Unfortunately, I thought my Momma said "pajamas" instead of "vaginia" so I swore off them pajamas as I was not wanting any "penises," or whatever they were, jutting around in my "pajamas." So I wore gowns thereafter. Goodbye, penises (at least for a while).

So, the record player: I grip the dented metal doorknob to turn and it imprints my clammy palm in a thick coat of grit and rust. The door is locked. I try pushing the door open, gently. The metal knob freely wobbles within its frame of rot. I don't want to break the knob off the door, so I look towards the house for my Dad.

Framed by a Florida window on the front of the house, he sits at a chair in the kitchen. His one crazy eye that Jesus healed glares sunlight in an unnatural way, the other eye dim. Jesus didn't do the best job at healing that eye, I think to myself. I always call it his "crazy eye" in my mind: it's the eye that never exactly aligns with his targeted viewpoint. The good eye stares obediently ahead; the Jesus eye stares a bit left of center.

"Deddy, I need them keys to Gramps's shop." I pause. This transaction will take some time and my patience is out today. His wooly caterpillar eyebrows rise slightly, as he points and clicks at the keyboard, closely eyeing the monitor. The crazy eye is being less cooperative than normal today, I can tell.


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