I walked through a still street. Still, compared to the rest of New York. Everything seemed much smaller in contrast to the rest of this crazy city. I had never been anywhere near these parts of town, and at the moment I was wishing I never had. But I didn't want to be at home, things weren't that bad, I mean my family is great. However things were just getting overwhelming with work, and the pressure at school, I just lost it. I am not one to normally freak under stress, but it was coming to be unbearable. I peeked out beneath my umbrella to view mostly vacant shops and buildings, they were so perfectly bare. As if they were dragged out of a 1960's movie and had never been touched since. I continued my lonesome pursuit humming to the rain drops tapping out an inconsistent melody against my black umbrella. Suddenly a small lit sign caught my eye. I paused in front of the old shop. It would have looked like it was abandoned if it weren't for a small "OPEN" hanging in the window. I was still standing blankly in front of the small shop, there was something that drew my attention. I made my way up the thick concrete steps and I pulled open the delicate wooded door, covered in local band posters and a written sign spelled out "Blue Jay Way Records."
I immediately thought of The Beatles song, which made me think that stopping at this shop might not have been a terrible idea. Saying I was a Beatles fan would be an understatement in the least. I had grown up with them. Before I could even talk I would sing Octopus Garden, my parents were so proud, they would invite there friends over and watch me sing the Starkey classic. They were a sense of calm when I needed it most and were a big influence on my life, my father even named me after his favourite Beatle. Yes, my middle name is Lennon, which potentially could have been worse I suppose. Irony setting in again as my last name is Abbey. Yes, like the road. I walked into the store and was greeted by rows and rows of vinyl records and a rather old man sitting behind the counter. He seemed startled at my entry.
"Well, hello there young lady," he said peering through his half moon glasses. The man had long silver hair cascading down the side of his face and stopping right below his chin. A smirk grew upon his face as he awaited my response.
"Hi, great shop!" I love the name," I responded cheerily.
"A Beatles fan are yeah love?" he spoke with a thick English accent.
"Yeah, of course, who isn't?" I giggled. He did as well.
"Do you have a favourite song?" he inquired.
"No, I don't, actually I always thought that a true Beatles fan can never be fully committed to just one song," I said looking through a pile of on sale records.
"You think so?" he questioned again.
"Yeah, for sure. The reason they are so genius is based on their entire repertoire. The fertility of their song writing is just astonishing really. Therefore you could never pick just one song, it would be like picking one ice cream flavour, having all the different kinds is what makes ice cream great."
"That's a very clever thought. I would have to agree with you Miss...?"
"Oh, I'm Charlotte, Charlotte Abbey," I saw him try to hide a smirk as he walked to a tall shelf with boxes of what I assumed to be filled with old vinyls.
"So Miss Abbey, picking a favourite Beatle would be quite chore for you eh?"
"Completely out of the question Sir," I responded cheekily. At this point I had just realized that I had found myself looking through a section of old Beatles records. Of course, it seemed as if they couldn't help but slip themselves into every aspect of my life.
"I see..., I would have guessed it to be Mr. Lennon," he gestured to the "People for Peace" patch on the left arm of my brown tweed blazer. I smiled politely.
"If it came down to it, I'm sure would weasel himself in the top spot of my affections," I giggled to myself. The shop owner seemed amused by my answer as well. I pulled out a copy of "The Beatles '65," LP from the large selection of records. It was one that had not made it to my collection yet. I tucked my little treasure under my arm and looked through the excessive collection. The shop keeper began whispering to himself as he climbed onto a small step stool and began rummaging through a box on the top shelf. I was still flicking through album after album watching mop-tops turn into scraggly facial hair and black and white morphing into psychedelic technicolour. Then a few records from the end I noticed an all to familiar picture of the three sync Beatles and a shoeless Paul.
"Abbey Road," The man inquired, now standing behind me with a hand behind his back.
"Yeah, I get that one a lot," I laughed, as he did along with me.
"I bet you do, do you own that one?" he asked.
"Yeah, it was actually given to me as a gift from my grandfather on my first birthday, and he's been giving me Beatles records up until the day he passed way, coincidentally When I was 13. So now I have just been collecting their live stuff, or compilations released in other countries and stuff like that."
" Do you have this one?" he asked pulling a record in prestige condition from behind his back. I gasped. Four mop-tops stared back at me covered in meat and baby doll limbs.