A box of jukebox singles
Bev
They came out of a diner the week it closed.
Nights / Paper Sleeve Records
Paper Sleeve Records
- Night No. 2
- Records
- Nine pieces
- A Thursday, after closing
The night
A Thursday after closing: nine records, a story for each, and tamales still warm in the foil.
Hector locked up at seven and pushed two of the record bins against the wall to make room for the folding table. His sister had sent over a pan of tamales, still warm in the foil, and there was a big jar of horchata at the end of the table. The record player by the door stayed on all night, turned down low.
I don’t know much about records, so I asked the questions. When did you first hear it? Do you still play it? Mae brought a record of birdsongs her grandfather fell asleep to, with his handwriting all over the inside sleeve. Bev’s box of singles came out of a diner the week it closed. Hank told us every wedding in his family used to end with that polka, and then he hummed it.
Nobody was showing off. Between stories somebody would put a record on, and a few people played ring toss in the corner, badly, which was the fun of it. At the end Hector played one more side, and nobody got up until it was over.
The shop
Paper Sleeve Records, and who’s behind the counter.
Paper Sleeve Records has been open for fourteen years, in a building that used to be a shoe repair. Hector kept the old shoeshine stand by the window, and that’s where he sits to sort through what comes in.
The shop is named for the plain paper sleeves inside the covers. Hector says people choose a record by its cover, but the sleeve is what keeps it safe. He saves the old ones that have handwriting on them, and they’re pinned all over the wall behind the counter.
The pieces
Nine records, each with its story. Every drawing stands in for a photo.
A record of birdsongs
Mae
My grandfather fell asleep to it every night.
Read its story →My mother’s first record
Rosa
She played it until the label wore thin.
A live album
Gus
The ticket stub is still inside the sleeve.
A stack of seven-inch singles
Nell
One from every summer since I was twelve.
A movie soundtrack
Otis
We saw the movie four times at the drive-in.
A record with a hand-drawn cover
Lou
My brother drew it when the real one tore.
A holiday album
Faye
It only comes out one month a year.
A polka record
Hank
Every wedding in my family ended with it.
So far, only Mae’s record of birdsongs has a page of its own.
Join in
Two ways to be part of the next one.
I’m always looking for collectors and hosts, so get on the list here. I match folks up with nights.
Want me to host one for your group? Tell me what you want to do, and I’ll make it happen.
Tell me what you want to do