Licorice Pizza

When I was sixteen years old, I got a job at a record store. It was back in the olden days when there were records. Young and naive, I was thrilled to be working with grown-ups. Not boring grown-ups like my parents. These grown-ups sucked helium straight from the tank.

It was a funky, cool store that gave away free licorice at the front counter. Everyone who worked there was cool and fun and aspiring to be something else. I was the dorky teenager, oddly out of place in such an amazing group.

I replaced a beloved employee that had been killed in an accident the week before. I remember Bob sitting out on the curb in front of the store during his breaks. He had just lost his best friend, and I had no idea what that meant at the time.

There was Mr. Mike, absolutely the funniest man alive. I don't remember the jokes, but my stomach always ached from laughing whenever he was around.

Gail and Keri were the older, "cool" girls who actually were nice to me and invited me to parties and the beach. Gail dated Jerry, the comedian, who would try out new material on me while we were working at the cash registers.

Melissa singing Sondheim. Jeff telling me sordid stories in the lunchroom. Monica, who looked like a dresden doll. The two Pauls. Sue, Patty, Jill, Holly...and people whose names I have forgotten, but I still remember their faces.

Then the dreaded communists Big Corporation bought the store. Slowly, the funny, cool people were replaced by men wearing ties and ladies wearing dresses. The magic was lost and so was the licorice.