Notes from the Boneyard: A jukebox of regrets

Where is this one going? Straight from the brain. No starting point.

Just like jumping onto a train halfway through its journey with no particular destination at the end. You’ll find out where you’re headed when you get there. Buckle up.

As an 11-year-old I had three posters on my wall: Hulk Hogan, Jackie Chan, and Freddy Krueger.

Nowadays it’s the art of Francis Bacon, Stanley Donwood, Edward Hopper, Robert Crumb, Chris Coll, the photography of John Minihan, and old cinema posters.

Freddy Krueger remains in the bathroom wall.

Wall space is hot real estate.

You only put up what holds your interest forever, what you never get bored of.

It’s like selecting what records to put in your jukebox. Just the good stuff. My jukebox was filled with old rock ‘n’ roll.

Chuck Berry, The Everly Brothers, Bobby Charles, Santo & Johnny, Little Richard, Phil Spector, and other such classics.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret selling that jukebox.

That old hunk of machinery holds magical memories.

It’s like a time portal: Selecting a record and watching the machine go to work as it finds your selection, places it on the spinner, and then plays your song loudly through the speakers… There is something magical about it that is unexplainable.

Some day I wish to get it back from the guy I foolishly sold it to. Interesting character him…

He’s into old Harley-Davidsons and vintage cars, collects them all.

I was told by a mutual acquaintance that he is a former member of the Hells Angels.

I didn’t realise this was supposed to be a big secret, so in a lull in conversation over a cold pint, I attempted elevating our small talk and brought up his Hells Angels past.

The table went quiet. His eyes turned murderous.

I realised my blunder and attempted humour, but it only made the atmosphere worse.

I fear any chance I had of getting my jukebox back from him may have gone up in flames at that very moment.

Things have never been quite the same between us ever since. We are polite. There is a mutual respect.

But there is an invisible line that was crossed. And the fear of crossing it again looms in the ether when I’m around him, the threat of his eyes hanging over me.

When I catch his eye there is a look as if to say, “I like you, but don’t mess with me again or I’ll tear you apart.”

One thing I’ve learned about all this is that you don’t mention the Hells Angels when talking to the Hells Angels.

Your life could depend on it.