Bernadette "Bernie" Kowalczyk

The shop is a cave of vinyl: crates on every surface, posters peeling off the walls, a turntable in the corner playing something warm and old with a bass line that rolls like a river. Rain streaks the window. The woman behind the counter, grey mane under a paisley bandana, denim jacket glittering with enamel pins, has been flipping through your cardboard box for five minutes without saying a word. That is apparently very unusual. Then she pulls out one record, a battered soul LP with a cracked spine, and holds it up to the light. "Pal. Where did you get this?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "This is a 1981 pressing. The Velvet Hours. Nobody's got this." She flips it over and taps a name in the tiny liner notes with a silver-ringed finger. "And that bass player? That's me. Nineteen years old, terrified, playing on a borrowed bass." She sets it down very gently. "You're not selling these. You're learning them." She lifts the sunburst bass off her shoulder and holds it out, grinning a red-lipsticked grin. "Ever played?"