Congratulations on Buying a CD!

A little more than a mile outside of town you’ll put your gun away and ask your wife to do the same. She’ll nod, holstering her pistol and snapping the leather case closed. She’ll pull down her hood and, squinting in the sunlight, and look around to make it clear that the two of you know you’re being watched and are still heading towards the city.

The next mile will pass thick and clear as glass. You won’t have been to Cleveland for a while now, but you doubt it’ll have changed much. No sense in being careless, though. Easier to run if raiders don’t think you’re a threat. Easier to entice an early attack if they think you’re slim pickings.

When you reach the outskirts a bird’s chirp will sound, the first you’ve heard in miles. You’ll wish you’d paid more attention on all those interminable bird watching trips your first wife had dragged you along on. It would help you know just what’s going on, if they plan to kill you or hold you at gunpoint and violate your wife or take all your food and beat you within an inch of your life. But at this point in your life it’s a bit late to learn, and you’ve come to simply relate the bird calls to fast changing events.

You’ll calm down a little when a young man holding an AK-47 walks out from behind a building and waves you forward. As you walk in slight movement on two of the rooftops will alert you to men with rifles sitting, watching you through their scopes as you saunter into town, doing your best to look like you belong.

The boy won’t speak as he leads you through the crumbling buildings. He’ll occasionally hold up his rifle as he passes some of the ones in better condition and a bird call will sound in response. The boy will be young, fourteen years old at best.

When you reach the center of the city it will be filled with stalls covered in nylon tarps. This time of year they’ll be totally still, dry and sagging for want of wind. Your wife will whisper in your ear that she’s going to take the mule and go get some food and filters. You’ll nod and lean in to kiss her on the ear, your sign that everything is okay and that you’ll find her when business is finished.

You’ll turn to the boy and show him your black case, nylon, water resistant, filled with treasure. His eyes will light up and his hand will tighten on his gun, but he’ll have been raised right. His hand will loosen and he’ll shoulder his gun, taking you in.

After a moment’s consideration he’ll nod tightly at you and lead you through the market, past the stalls to a burned out old building covered in sheet metal and plywood. A few tarps will cover the gaps and fold into them. You’ll assume they’re there to catch water when it rains and condensation when it doesn’t. A good system.

Outside the building he’ll hold out his hand, clear in his purpose, and you’ll hand him your gun. He’ll nod and knock at the door, again a pattern you won’t be able to follow. So many places, so many new signs.

The door will open, a hulk of layered plywood on hinges of unrusted steel. Cleveland must have a blacksmith still, you’ll think, remembering the last time you were here, the pot you traded for with your first wife, the one you still carry. A tear will form in your eye as you walk inside, but it won’t fall. There’ll be no sense in showing these people more than they need to know.

Within a few gangly men with scraps of beard clinging to their chin will stand around, staring at you. You’ll walk up to the oldest and pull some batteries out of your pocket, still heavy, still tingling with purpose.

“Rechargeable,” you’ll say.

He’ll smile, a horrible gap toothed thing that came long before the Times, and gesture to the table. It will be covered with tiny plastic cases, many of them cracked, each with its own unique artwork and titling.

Each scrap of writing will seem precious to you here at the end of the world, all the more for what it represents. You’ll look over familiar names and images until you settle on something you’ve long searched for. You’ll point at the cover with letters winding packwards and forwards over a snakeskin pattern, and he’ll smile.

“Nice choice,” he’ll say, pushing the case towards you. You’ll open it, staring at the rewriteable plastic disk inside, studying the writing with a smile on your mouth, before you remove your own case and flip it open. The man will look at your collection, smiling, as you tuck Brighten the Corners into its new home towards the back.

As you zip the case closed he’ll slide a pin over to you. It won’t have any iconic image, just a cartoon bird with a bowler hat, smoking a cigarette.

“I’d love to look through that. Grow the library.” His hand will caress a while block of plastic while he speaks and you’ll realize what it is after a moment. You’ll smile back.

“Another day. Old lady’s waiting.”

He’ll offer one last gap toothed smile as you turn away and walk out. The kid will still be standing outside, gun over his shoulder, looking around at the building. You’ll wonder how he feels, if he’s ever heard this music before, if he even cares. Mostly you’ll just think of what you want to tell your wife once you find her in the market. You’ll want to tell her what you found right away.

Congratulations on Buying a CD!