The Coma by Alex Garland

Author:Alex Garland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

6.

There were no other customers. The labels and price tags were all handwritten. The walls were lined with cork, and pinned to the cork were picture discs in plastic sleeves and dog-eared posters, faded where closest to the window.

“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter.

I checked to see if he had a face I knew. But as far as I could tell, he didn’t. I don’t think I’d ever known any men with a ponytail—not on principle, just that our paths had never crossed.

“Just looking,” I said, and he nodded.

“If you need any help, just ask.”

“Sure.”

He nodded again, and began flicking through a magazine.

I knew exactly what I was looking for. A catalyst from one of my earliest memories, from way back in childhood. Something I would have heard around the time I was learning to talk. As far back as memories go. Little Richard.

Now would that be under L or R, I wondered. Did “Little” count as a first name?

I guessed not, checked under L anyway, and found what I was looking for immediately. Oddly, also shelved under L were Chubby Checker and Fats Domino. But no matter, I’d found Little Richard’s greatest hits.

I took my find back to the man at the counter.

“Actually,” I said, “I could use some help. Could you play this for me?”

The man took a look at what I was holding.

“Which tune?”

I didn’t need to look at the listing to know the answer. “‘Good Golly Miss Molly.’”

In one movement, he slid out the LP, gave the vinyl an expert spin to flip the disc over, and dropped the record down onto the turntable.

“You got it.”

He must have placed the needle just after the start of the track, because the music started so abruptly. And with it, Little Richard’s distinctive singing voice.

“Good Golly Miss Molly. So like a mo. Good Golly Miss Molly. So like a mo. The way the rocking and a rolling. You can’t get your mama home.”

I felt a sudden lifting of my spirits. In exactly the way I had hoped, I felt transported by the sound. A wash of half-memories hit me—sitting on the floor, looking up at my dad, a tall and shadowy presence by the stereo, a machine which was mysterious to me and positioned beyond my reach, outside my line of sight.

The feeling of nostalgia was so strong I half expected to wake up there and then. And perhaps I might have, if something strange hadn’t happened to the tune.

Although I couldn’t really understand how, the passage of music that had been played seemed to loop directly and seamlessly back to the point where it had begun. No sooner had Little Richard completed his short chorus than he was singing it again.

“Good Golly Miss Molly. So like a mo. Good Golly Miss Molly. So like a mo. The way the rocking and a rolling. You can’t get your mama home.”

And now that I heard the chorus again, the lyrics didn’t seem quite right. They sounded right, just didn’t seem right.

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