The article was hidden in a stack of old magazines in the back of the thrift store. 

How I’d ended up in that dusty corner of the third oldest thrift shop in America was two-fold: I had a falling out with my father for the better part of a decade, and I went through a terrible break-up that messed me up more than I’m willing to admit, although I have a feeling I’m going to do just that during the telling of this tale. 

A week ago I received a package in the mail with a return address in Michigan, where I grew up. The contents included a Polaroid of 8-year-old me and Dad on his tour bus, The Rolling Stones Goats Head Soup CD, and a worn paperback of The Two Towers. It also included an address to a thrift store in Marietta, with a note in Dad’s handwriting: “Trust me on this one. For both of us. Pack two bags and snacks.”

That I didn’t know the story was the point. 

What was also the story was that the article came in the form of a delicately snipped newspaper clipping snuck into the pages of issue #279 of Mad Magazine, the one with the character dressed up as Harvey Keitel as the Wolf in Pulp Fiction. A caricature wasn’t enough for the average fan of pop culture satire, so they added a speech balloon that said, “So pretty please, with sprinkles on top.” 

Not that that would’ve helped much either. Pop culture references rarely hit, especially the older ones, even if they’re from the classics. 

Either way, that’s where Dad decided to hide the article about him. 

The sign above the thrift store called it Thrift Store. White background, faded red lettering. The T and S were chipped. Pigeons stooped between the letters like food in your teeth. Their coos had been my invitation to come on in.

The owner looked like what the oldest brother of Harvey Keitel would’ve looked like, if Harvey Keitel had an older brother. Hair long and white as an Idaho blizzard. A ponytail trailed down his back. Tinted glasses with black rims. Mouth drawn into a smirk with permanent marker. 

“You know the deal,” he had said in greeting while running a white cloth over a bronze statue that looked awfully similar to a Heisman Trophy. 

Being the third oldest thrift store in America didn’t mean it was the largest or the dirtiest. It was squashed between a bagel shop and a dry cleaners, twenty minutes from my home in the suburbs of Atlanta. The shelves on which the trinkets and glassware and stuffed leprechauns sat were spotless.

“Sir?” I asked, looking up from the article, distracted by the glass tray of rings on the shelf to the side. 

“Super Bowl 16. January 24th, 1982. Niners 26, Bengals 21.” 

My birthday. 

“Is there–”

“Negotiable. Hmph.” 

That his hmph sounded like a snoring basset hound made me chuckle. I swallowed the second laugh when he shot eyes at me. 

The newspaper article had been preserved by the pages of Mad Magazine. The copies of newspapers Mom had bought for me when Detroit won their hockey and basketball titles were stored in plastic totes in my closet. They had yellowed and soaked in decades of must. This clipping looked fresh as the day it was pressed. 

The photo was taken from the side of a stage during a concert. There were amps and drums and a bass player with a mohawk and another guitar player in a cut off jean jacket. Fans were packed in front of the stage, arms raised, mouths open, tongues wagging. The man at the front – Dad, with longer hair, and skinny – held a bucket in mid-toss. Liquid was still-framed in mid-air, waiting to spray the audience. 

The headline said, “Spin Cycle Goes Full Punk”. 

The photo caption read: “Spin Cycle frontman Brett Carradine dumps urine on crowd”. 

I took the article to the man at the front. 

His eyes lit up, then grumbled, when he saw what I set on the counter. I laid the clipping on top of the Mad Magazine. 

“How much?” I asked. 

He rubbed his hands, focused on massaging the knuckles the size of chestnuts. “One conversation,” he said. “Your father’s orders. Come with me.” 

He led us down the left side of the store, past the row of porcelain dolls and Garbage Pail Kids cards, and through a door marked Office. The leather chairs and desk didn’t surprise me. The computer with wireless mouse and webcam did. 

“Sit. I’ll grab us some beers. Gonna be here a while.” 

He went through another door that hung open like my jaw. He came back with two bottles cracked open. 

“Sit, sit. Please.”

The leather embraced me. The cold beer raced down my throat. 

“Now,” the man said, drinking from his bottle. “Your father told me to kick this thing off. Here’s me kicking this thing off. Did he ever tell you about his time in Munich?”

Nope. Must’ve been their first European Tour. 1995. 

“I’ll take that blank stare as a no. You’re about to go on a journey. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.”

And so the stories, and the trip, began.