Vinyl walked into the dusty old music store, the broken bell over the doorway ringing with a dying persistence. The air suddenly became musty, filling the DJ’s nose too suddenly for her sinuses to handle. She sneezed, blowing clouds of dirt into the air. It hung in the air briefly, before adhering to her shades. The unicorn sighed. “I guess this place is still sticking to me.” Her horn illuminated the dark room as she lifted the glasses, perching them on top of her mane.
She looked around, seeing piles of music books and instruments hanging on the walls. An old piano with chipped keys sat in the back of the room, with a faded sign declaring that customers should not play without permission. There was a wood table, grey with age, a cracked cello leaning against it and a lyre with broken strings on top of it. Shelves filled with starter books lined the left wall. Brass instruments sat in opened cases, only their top halves exposed to the decay of the years. A sad nostalgia filled her heart, bringing a tear to her eye and a smile to her face.
Vinyl walked over to the front desk. There was an old earth pony sleeping, his pool of drool nearly surrounding his head. His mane was frizzled and pale, his fur grey and stringy. Vinyl reached over and tapped the desk bell, which let out a distinctive whine. The old pony moved his head upward slowly, the neck bones cracking loudly as he did. He squinted, but he didn’t need perfect eyesight to recognize the pony’s spiky blue mane. He coughed as he spoke in his deep voice; “Now there’s a filly I haven’t seen in a while.” The nag smiled, his cringing as he did the verification of his age.
Vinyl patted the head of the elderly stallion, feeling cobwebs in his mane. “I’m no filly, Mr. Baritone Jones. I’m a grown up mare.”
The old pony let out a weak laugh. “Nobody’s called me Baritone Jones in years. Not since we broke up the band.” There was sorrow in the pony’s blue eyes as he longed for his past years.
Vinyl Scratch giggled as her old mentor reminisced about his youth. This elderly, frail shell of a pony taught her everything about music. Rhythm, melodies, harmonies, everything that Vinyl used when she got behind those turntables came from this pony, and it was more than she could ever repay. “Oh, you should have seen me back in those days. I was tearing up that dance floor with that Smith girl. The Twist, the Jitterbug, the Lindy Hop, we did them all. People were cheering out name every club we went to, saying, ‘Hey everyone, it’s good old Baritone Jones! Hey Barry, we got this funky new record for you and your girl! What do you mean, she’s out ‘applebuckin’?’ Oh Vivian, what I wouldn’t give to have those dancing days back.”
“It’s Vinyl, Barry. Not Vivian,” the unicorn insisted.
Baritone gave the mare a smirk. “It wasn’t always.”
The two laughed; the kind of laugh only old friends could share. In those happy seconds, years flew by. Years of Vinyl coming in after school to a happy face and a world of sound. Years of her having jam sessions with the other girls, driving the neighbors insane. Years of their beautiful beats and millions of melodies filling the afternoon town. Those years were Vinyl’s fillyhood, and they were times she would treasure for her entire life.
Barry removed his glasses, wiping them down with a dusty handkerchief. “I suppose you’re looking for the decks?”
Vinyl frowned, water gathering in her eyes. “I wanted to play them one last time. I heard that the shop was…you know…”
“Condemned?” Mr. Jones said, accepting the fate of his shop.
The word brought a burning rage to Vinyl’s heart. How could they? How could they just tear down her memories? What gave them the right to destroy a part of her life? This shop was the only joy in her childhood. It was the only escape she had from her bullies. From her mother. From herself. Can they do this? No! No, they can’t. They won’t! I won’t let them tear down my shop!” Vinyl shouted, not realizing quite when her internal monologue turned into a fervent yell.
Baritone could do nothing more than grin at her. “It’s my shop too, Vinyl.”
The unicorn buried her head in Barry’s chest, her teardrops streaming through his grey hair. The old stallion sighed, patting Vinyl’s head. “Hey, now, watch where you stick that horn.”
The young mare lifted her head, her spiky blue mane even messier than before. She sniffed and blinked, looking up at her teacher’s calm eyes. “You know where they are. Go let it out.”
Vinyl let go of her old mentor, a stray drop hanging on to her chin. She forced a smile, nodding. Her legs felt weak as she stumbled toward the far left end of the shop. A black door stood there, scratched and worn. At about a filly’s height, there was an etching on the door. It read “DJ Pon-3’s booth” Vinyl had to bite her lip to stop her eyes from watering up more. This was it.
She pushed the door open. The room was extremely well-kept, compared to the rest of the shop. It was the kind of perfect cleaning only Mr. Jones could do. The air became clear again. The carpet was its original tan instead of the dirty monotone of the rest of the shop. At the far end of the room was a shelf full of dusted gramophone records. In front of it sat two turntables and a microphone. Vinyl walked, her legs somehow strengthened by the sight of her first instrument.
She stepped behind the decks, feeling the indents in the carpet where she always stood. She placed one hoof on the loaded disks, the using the other to adjust the sliders. She gave the records a spin, the whirring bringing a natural joy.
This is where she belonged. It didn’t matter what the bullies said. What her mother said. What anypony said. These decks were her home.
She lowered her glasses and sent energy through her horn, moving the stylus into position. Here we go.
A steady bass beat came from the speakers, sending vibrations through her chest. Vinyl naturally began to bob her head. She moved one slider up, and melody came in. It was the sound of a beautiful lyre, playing in G major pentatonic scales up and down. Then high hat came, setting up offbeat eighth notes. She stopped her hooves, feeling dents on the wood below. She brought in snare, lighting up the rhythm. Then harmony; it was the sound of a powerful, deep cello singing out just below the lyre. Then cymbals came in, which crashed at the end of every measure. Her body rocked back and forth, the familiar beat shaking her entire body. The sound was overwhelming, ringing through the other instruments of the shop. The bodies of the guitars, the brass of the French horns, and the framework of the store itself shook to the beat of the music. And Vinyl just couldn’t get enough of it.
This was it. This is how she discovered what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. This is the feeling she wanted every day of her life. Just stomping to the beat, blowing the music as loud as it would go, and making everypony in the area dance until they dropped from exhaustion was all she ever wanted. She wanted noise. Beautiful, harmonious, rocks-every-bone-in-your-body noise. Filling the shop, the town, the entire world. Just noise.
After what felt like hours of music, DJ Pon-3 turned the volume down. She moved the sliders, and removed the stylus. The records stopped spinning. The speakers became silent. The store fell quiet. Vinyl patted the decks. One last session, just her and the tables, was like saying goodbye to an old friend. The decks were rooted to the shop; the construction workers would tear it down along with the rest of the shop. Leaving now was like leaving her childhood behind, saying farewell to everything that kept her happy in those early years. But it was time. She was a full grown mare now.
Mr. Jones grinned at her as she walked out of the room. He coughed, a spurt of blood flying with it. The carpet all around him was damp with red. His knees were shaky, and his wheezes became faster every second. The old stallion had been dancing, and it had cost him the only thing he had left to pay. “Well, then?” he asked.
Vinyl felt like she would start crying again. But no. No more tears. Not tonight. “Yeah. I just needed to I let it out.”
The teacher and the student embraced. One shaky with sorrow, the other with death. Tears and blood went down Vinyl’s bleached-white back, Barry’s handkerchief just barely able to wipe them down.
“I don’t have much longer, Vinyl,” the old pony whispered, starting to lie down.
“Should I-”
“Don’t call the hospital. I want to make sure I die with my shop.”
Vinyl could do nothing more than grin at him. He had gotten what he wanted: one last dance. One last song. One last visit from his greatest success. “Goodbye, Mr. Jones,” she whispered, letting go of her old friend.
“Goodbye, Vinyl Scratch.”
The stallion was curled up, pale and cold, but smiling. The unicorn stood up, struggling not to drop a tear as she tried to remember the mortuary’s address. As sad as she was, this is what she needed. She needed to say goodbye to her past. She needed to set it free, so she could be free as well. Vinyl Scratch walked out of the music shop. It was time to grow up.
