By Damien Lilly
A small 1973 record player sits on the shelf of a closet, forgotten in a New York museum. Through its eyes, through its ears, it hears the deepest secrets of the world. Sad songs serenade selfish sellers, as they bribe the museum workers not to tell them about stolen art.
“I was stolen one time,” the record player sings, as the broom taps a beat. “In 1778, a man stole me to hear, he wanted his ears to be loved. He just wanted to be loved in some way. The police took him. The one thing I loved, and I was placed in the New York museum. Till’ I was forgotten and placed where I am today.
A custodian opens the door, filling the closet with light brighter than the sun, he takes Ol’ Broomy out and closes the door. I hear the clipping of feet as someone runs by the closet. A young, curious child swings open the door and looks in at me. They grab me and take a run down the hall. This was the most exercise I had had since the 80s.
A security guard runs at us, ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked. The child stops and says ‘Nothing,’ and dashes down the aisle, and I slip out of their hands landing on the floor with a bang. Ouch, that was a close one I think in my head. The security guard looked at me curiously, ‘Signed!’ he yelped, ‘I’ve got a promotion coming for me!’ Now I’m sitting next to the Mona Lisa, thinking, what just happened?”
A small 1973 record player sits on the shelf of a closet, forgotten in a New York museum. Through its eyes, through its ears, it hears the deepest secrets of the world. Sad songs serenade selfish sellers, as they bribe the museum workers not to tell them about stolen art.
“I was stolen one time,” the record player sings, as the broom taps a beat. “In 1778, a man stole me to hear, he wanted his ears to be loved. He just wanted to be loved in some way. The police took him. The one thing I loved, and I was placed in the New York museum. Till’ I was forgotten and placed where I am today.
A custodian opens the door, filling the closet with light brighter than the sun, he takes Ol’ Broomy out and closes the door. I hear the clipping of feet as someone runs by the closet. A young, curious child swings open the door and looks in at me. They grab me and take a run down the hall. This was the most exercise I had had since the 80s.
A security guard runs at us, ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked. The child stops and says ‘Nothing,’ and dashes down the aisle, and I slip out of their hands landing on the floor with a bang. Ouch, that was a close one I think in my head. The security guard looked at me curiously, ‘Signed!’ he yelped, ‘I’ve got a promotion coming for me!’ Now I’m sitting next to the Mona Lisa, thinking, what just happened?”
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