Of all the thrift stores I stepped into, this one had me calling hello as if I was walking into the bungalow of a buddy I’d known since grade school. All I had for inspiration was Meredith saying once, “I’m surprised you’ve never met EJ with all the times he and Earnest came to shows when we were playing in California. You two are the same person.” 

            But did he have an imaginary friend who was equal parts himself and his father before he lost his mind? 

            “Hello back.” The voice came from under a desk in the back right of the room. 

            The barber chairs were still there, six of them, three to a side. A set of framed silver scissors hung in the center of the right wall. The mirrors on the walls had been removed and replaced with a kaleidoscope of framed portraits, posters, and pictures. 

            The original Platoon movie poster, with a soldier (Willem Dafoe) on his knees with arms raised and head thrown back, the jungle engulfed in a ball of flame behind him. The grass was covered in autographs, which I loosely made out as Charlie Sheen, Oliver Stone, Tom Berenger, Willem Dafoe, Keith David, John C. McGinley, Mark Moses, and Forest Whitaker. It was missing Johnny Depp, Francesco Quinn, and Kevin Dillon, among others, but who was I to nitpick such a collector’s piece?

            A row of orange pencils arranged vertically on a piece of green felt, all different lengths, their tips worn, each with bite marks in the wood. A piece of parchment was pinned below the erasers. Written on it: “Toni Morrison, assorted pencils, ‘Beloved.’” 

            A letter on aged paper from Mark Twain to his friend Bret, dated May 1, 1867, and starting, “DEAR BRET, — I take my pen in hand to inform you that I am well and hope these few lines will find you enjoying the same God’s blessing. The book is out, and is handsome. It is full of damnable errors of grammar and deadly inconsistencies of spelling in the Frog sketch because I was away and did not read the proofs; but be a friend and say nothing about these things. When my hurry is over, I will send you an autograph copy to pisen the children with.” 

            His signature sat at the bottom of the letter like a Buddha statue. The horizontal slice of the T was wider than the Golden Gate Bridge, spanning centuries of knowledge and still unmatched. 

            The shop smelled of burgundy, sage, and peaches. The temperature was the definition of temperature-controlled, much cooler than the July heat outside. 

            (I’m abstaining from sharing every unique piece in Earnest Ernest or we’d be here for longer than the rest of my journey. I like to consider this the Tom Bombadil section of the book, for those LOTR heads. It probably won’t make it into the movie, but it’s fascinating all the same. If I have the time after I find out what Dad has in store for me, I’ll compile a more complete list.) 

            The guy suddenly standing next to me was shorter than me but not by much, with black hair hanging to his shoulders. He was Native American, with a knowing grin. 

            “I have a mint condition of The Jumping Frog in the back. It’s autographed. You can find it online for $12,000, but I’ll sell it to you for $11,000 if you can take it today.” 

            “I just picked up a signed first edition of On the Road. The black cloth one? I’m out of the game. The USA Dream Team poster maybe.” 

            He rubbed his chin like a caricature coming to life. The dude’s eyes had a mind of their own, flicking every which way while somehow staying focused on me. “Odd. I have one of the last couple copies. You sure about that?” 

            We walked back to the desk. “To be fair, I only picked it up. And then put it down.” 

“Should’ve bought it.” He picked up a sealed envelope and handed it to me but didn’t let go when I grabbed it. “Alright, Fender. Blue pill, red pill. You can take this letter, which has the address to your next stop. You can get a head start and avoid the holiday traffic even if it strikes your fancy. You probably don’t have a CD player, but I will toss in a complimentary copy of Jock Jams, Volume 3.”

            The live version of Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” played, Mark Knopfler deep into his solo. “Or?” I asked. 

            “Or I hold onto the envelope, and I share a few tales about good ol’ Brett Carradine and his wicked cadre of music wizards. The choice is yours, Neo.”

            I didn’t close my eyes, but I did check in, relaxing my eyes and letting the corners of my vision blur. I was looking inward while staring at the period on an invoice on his desk. The answer came fast, like the thwack of Indy’s whip, a light blossoming in my chest. “Volume 3, that’s the one with ‘Da’ Dip’, right? And ‘Let Me Clear My Throat?’”

            “‘Cotton Eyed Joe,’ Quad City DJs, that’s the one.” 

            “Okay, okay.” 

            Knopfler’s solo ended. I had an immediate desire to watch Dad, Larry, and Paul debate the greatest guitarist of all time.

            “Tell you what. Both options come with Volume 3. Who am I to withhold music gold?”

            I held my hand out. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

            He clenched it and shook. “Stories it is. Been a while, buddy. I’m EJ.” He put the envelope in a desk drawer and locked it with a key that looked like it had been crafted out of gold from the original rush in 1849. “By the way, you know how to swim, right?”

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