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The Phonograph

John Ragusa

    “It’s an excellent bargain, sir,” Mr. Winthrop told Larry Hendler at his garage sale. “As you can see, its condition is nearly perfect, and its price is very reasonable. It would make a superb conversation piece. You’d better grab it before someone else does.”
    Peering at the phonograph, Larry had to agree with Winthrop. It was in great shape, no doubt about that. It had an interesting look, too. And where could you buy a record player for $90 nowadays?
    “I think it would spruce up my living room,” Larry said. “Will you accept a check?”
    “Yes, that will be fine.”
    Larry wrote out a check, gave it to Winthrop, and left with the phonograph. He was pleased with himself; the sale had been worth every penny.

* * *

    When Larry returned home, he read the instruction book. Then he played a 45 record of The Crickets’ hit “That’ll be the Day” on the phonograph.
    After the song was over, something astonishing happened. In a puff of smoke, Buddy Holly materialized.
    “Where am I?” he asked.
    Larry was speechless.
    “God, that plane crash sure gave me a scare,” Holly said. “I felt certain I’d die the minute it hit the ground. I guess I was wrong, since I’m still alive. Luck must have been with me. Say, who are you?”
    “You’re Buddy Holly!”
    “I know who I am,” Holly said. “I just don’t know who you are.”
    “I’m Larry Hendler. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time. How did you get here?”
    The singer frowned. “I don’t know, actually. Is this a hospital?”
    “No, it’s not; it’s my home. I can’t imagine how you got here, either. But you’re standing in my own living room, and you’re not dead, and it’s wonderful!”
    They spent the next hour chatting about music. Holly assumed he had been kidnapped by an adoring fan, but he was grateful to have a breather from his heavy touring schedule.
    “I usually listen to other artists’ music to see what it’s like,” Holly said. “Do you have anything by Bobby Darin?”
    Larry took out “Mack the Knife” from his record collection and played it for Holly.
    The minute the song had finished, Darin appeared from out of nowhere.
    “Bobby!” Holly exclaimed. “I never knew you included magic in your act.”
    Darin blinked. “Like wow, man, I’m sharing a dressing room with Buddy Holly. That’s cool.”
    Larry let the two rockers stay in his guest bedroom. They ate lunch and took a nap.
    That night, he tried to figure out what had happened. It was inexplicable; what could have caused it?
    He used common denominators to unravel the mystery.
    After much thought, he had it.
    Holly and Darin were both musicians.
    They were both dead.
    They had both come back to life after their records were played on the phonograph.
    The phonograph!
    That was what made it happen. Whenever a song by a dead artist was played on the machine, he was resurrected.
    Larry almost dismissed this as too absurd, but he had seen it happen with his own eyes, and seeing is believing.
    And so he proceeded to revive John Lennon, Elvis Presley, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison over the next month. He told them that he was a promoter who had arranged to gather them together for a concert. They agreed to do it; the only holdout was Darin, who left after Larry refused to pay him more money.
    Watching the musicians rehearse was a joy. They didn’t get a song down pat immediately; it took several days before their music became acceptable. Dissatisfaction was common among these artists; many tunes were discarded because they weren’t good enough. Some of them liked to improvise; others didn’t. Some wrote their songs down on paper, while others sang the melodies into a tape recorder. There wasn’t any ideal way to compose and perform music.
    Then Larry got an idea. Lennon was a great lyricist; Hendrix was a gifted guitarist; Holly was good at writing melodies; Presley and Morrison were talented singers. Larry would persuade Lennon to write the words for a song, and he’d entice Holly to compose its melody. Then he’d get Hendrix to play the guitar, and he’d have Presley and Morrison do the singing. With all that talent, he’d have himself the greatest record of all time! A record label would pay a fortune for it. He would become rich overnight!
    His name would also go down in history as the world’s most famous impresario. Larry knew that his mundane life would become exciting. It would be fabulous!
    Perhaps he was using other men’s talents for his own gain, which was selfish. But he would not let this stop him from striking it rich. That would be foolish.
    Larry was sure that the musicians would agree to do the record. But when he presented his idea to them, they weren’t enthusiastic about it.
    “It’s too gimmicky,” Lennon told him.
    “I never like to collaborate,” Presley said.
    Hendrix, Holly, and Morrison declared that their styles wouldn’t blend.
    Listening to these protests, Larry could see the money and prestige slipping away. There had to be some way to make them change their minds. If not, he would lose a gold mine.
    “Okay, fellows,” he said, “you don’t have to make this record. But if you don’t, I’ll send you back to the grave.”
    (Larry had told them earlier about the phonograph and how it had revived them).
    “Wait a minute,” Presley said. “What do you mean?”
    “I found out that I can destroy you all with the phonograph by scratching your records with its needle,” Larry lied.
    That did the trick. They all decided to write and record the song.
    They went to the patio and got to work.
    It was a disaster. Lennon asked Hendrix to play some chords. Hendrix created some of his trademark feedback.
    “I asked you for chords, not noise,” Lennon said.
    Hendrix was insulted. “How did you get so famous when you know nothing about the guitar?” he said.
    “Quit arguing,” Holly said. “I’m the one doing the melody. You just write the lyrics, John.”
    “I’m as good with the music as I am with the words!” Lennon hollered.
    “What will this song be about?” Morrison asked.
    “It’ll be a love song, of course,” Presley said.
    “That’s outdated,” Morrison insisted. “Let’s write something profound, like a tune about death.”
    “It’s too depressing!” Presley said.
    “Maybe we should include some horns,” Hendrix suggested.
    The others scoffed at this idea. In fact, they rejected every idea that wasn’t their own. Eventually, the yelling and screaming got so loud that Larry heard it from inside.
    He went to the patio and saw Lennon shoving Holly.
    “What’s going on here?” Larry asked.
    “This freak said that my lyrics don’t make sense,” Lennon said.
    “Well, they don’t,” Holly said.
    “All right, crumb, you asked for it.” Lennon took a swing at Holly. Larry stepped between the two men and inadvertently got punched. He fell back, struck his head on a lawn chair, and was instantly killed. His dream of wealth and fame died along with his body.
    You might someday spot one of those famous artists at a restaurant or on the street. If you do, you’ll know your eyes aren’t deceiving you.

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