Part 5 – Papers on the Counter
The record spun, and Tommy’s voice filled the room like smoke curling from a lit match.
It wrapped around every person there—Leon with his jaw tight, Denise swaying softly, Harold Vines holding his envelope, and Gavin Clarke stiff by the door with his folded notice.
The city men shuffled awkwardly, their boots squeaking against the wood, but even they didn’t speak.
Pickles settled under the counter, head lifted, ears pricked like he too was waiting to see what happened when the song ended.
Every scratch, every skip on the record felt like a scar, but Tommy’s voice fought through.
It was the sound of someone who had survived too much and carried more than his share, but who still found a way to sing.
When the last chord fell into static, silence pressed heavy.
Nobody clapped. Nobody moved.
Then Denise said, “That’s the voice of a man who never got his due. Don’t you dare call this place a blank canvas.”
Her eyes burned into Gavin.
He shifted, cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, I appreciate the—uh—sentiment. But progress—”
“Progress doesn’t erase,” Leon cut in.
“Progress builds on what was here. And this store is here. She’s here. That voice is here.”
Gavin glanced down at the paper in his hand like it might save him.
“I only came to arrange utilities inspection. If you’re still occupying this building, it’s procedure.”
His words sounded tin, like a cymbal struck wrong.
June stepped from behind the counter, adapter clenched in her palm.
Her voice was quiet but sharp.
“Mr. Clarke, thirty days is what you gave me. Thirty days I’ll use. Until then, this building is mine. So is this history.”
Pickles barked once, sharp as a drumbeat.
The room chuckled nervously, but the sound carried weight.
Gavin reddened, glanced at the city men.
They hesitated, not sure whether to move forward or stand still.
Finally, Gavin folded the notice tight, slid it into his folder, and muttered, “We’ll be back.”
He left, the bell over the door jangling like relief.
The city men followed, boots heavy, leaving cold air in their wake.
June sagged against the counter.
Denise came to steady her, whispering, “That was church, honey. You preached without even trying.”
Harold Vines set the envelope down gently on the wood.
“You’ve got choices,” he said. “Not many, but real ones. That record could save you.”
June’s hands trembled.
She looked at the envelope like it might catch fire.
“Ten thousand,” she said softly.
“That’s more than the rent. That’s…more than I’ve ever had in my hands.”
“But,” Denise said carefully, “once it leaves, it leaves. It won’t be yours anymore.”
June opened Tommy’s notepad on the counter.
The page with For June—keep the light on stared back at her.
Pickles sniffed it, then rested his chin on the edge, tail thumping like approval.
“I don’t know if I can sell my brother,” June whispered.
“You’re not selling him,” Harold said, gentle.
“You’re sharing him. You’re giving him a stage bigger than this room.”
The room murmured in agreement, but nobody pushed harder.
They all knew some decisions had to ripen on their own.
The crowd thinned around eight.
People hugged June, pressed small bills into the donation jar, promised to return.
When the door shut behind the last of them, the store was quiet again.
June sat on the counter, Pickles at her feet.
The envelope lay untouched, its corners catching the glow of the shop lights.
She imagined Tommy’s laughter—low, rough, warm.
Sing it, June, he would’ve said. Don’t hum. Sing.
She picked up the envelope, weighing it in her hands.
Then she slid it beneath the drawer with the dog tags and adapter.
Safe, but not yet decided.
The next morning, frost glazed the shop windows.
June swept the floor while Pickles nosed at the door, waiting for customers.
A knock startled her before opening time.
Richard Fowler stepped in, cheeks red from the cold.
“You had company last night,” he said. “I heard about Harold. Did he make an offer?”
June nodded.
Richard’s face softened.
“He’s good people. If you want your brother’s voice preserved, Harold will do it right.”
June set down her broom.
“What if I want more than preservation? What if I want this place to stay alive?”
Richard studied her a moment.
“Then maybe you should use the record to draw people here. Host more nights. Get attention. If the story spreads, money might follow.”
He looked around the shop, eyes catching on the hand-lettered dividers, the racks leaning from age.
“This store isn’t just about vinyl. It’s about memory. You can’t put that in a storage unit.”
Pickles barked once, as though seconding the thought.
Richard crouched to scratch his ears, smiling.
“You’ve got a loyal ally,” he said.
“Sometimes I think he understands more than I do,” June replied.
That afternoon, Denise returned with a flyer design mocked up in bright marker.
ONE SONG FOR TOMMY – COMMUNITY LISTENING NIGHT. EVERY FRIDAY UNTIL CLOSING.
“We’ll keep playing it,” Denise said, eyes fierce.
“Until the walls know the words by heart.”
Leon stopped by with folding chairs.
The boy from the jazz aisle offered to run a Facebook page.
By five o’clock, the store buzzed with people making plans.
Pickles wove through the crowd, nose nudging pockets, soaking in every hand laid on his head.
He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.
June watched, heart both heavy and light.
She thought of Tommy’s notepad, his handwriting, the record’s scratches.
Maybe this was how he wanted to be remembered—not polished, not perfect, but alive in the noise of others.
That night, when the shop emptied and quiet returned, June sat by the counter with Pickles curled against her legs.
The record waited on the turntable, needle lifted.
She didn’t play it again.
She let silence stretch, filling it with her brother’s memory.
She whispered, “We’re trying, Tommy. We’re trying to keep the light on.”
Pickles sighed deeply, settling into sleep.
The adapter warmed in her pocket.
And outside, across Jefferson Avenue, a man in a dark coat lingered in the shadows, watching the lit windows of Needle & Groove.
When June turned off the sign and locked the door, he vanished into the night.
The next morning, a letter arrived in her mailbox.
Typed, official, with Riverview Redevelopment Group’s logo in the corner.
It warned that “unpermitted gatherings” could violate safety codes.
June read it twice, jaw set.
Then she looked at Pickles, who stood at her side, tail slow and steady.
“Looks like they heard the music,” she said.
Pickles barked once, sharp and sure.
She slipped the letter into the same drawer as the eviction notice, the dog tags, the adapter, and Harold’s envelope.
All the battles of her life stacked together in one place.
She exhaled, long and slow.
“Then we fight louder.”
She flipped the OPEN sign to face the street.
And somewhere in the distance, the river wind carried a sound faint and thin, like a whistle or maybe a song, riding the cold air toward her door.
Part 6 – Friday Nights
The flyer Denise Holloway made hung crooked in the window, the tape edges curling in the cold.
Still, people stopped to read it. Some nodded, some smiled faintly, some just pressed their hands to the glass for a moment before moving on.
ONE SONG FOR TOMMY – COMMUNITY LISTENING NIGHT. EVERY FRIDAY UNTIL CLOSING.
By the time the first Friday arrived, June Beckett’s stomach was in knots.
She’d swept the shop three times, polished the glass counter until it gleamed, and lit candles in the corners like the room was a chapel.
Pickles sensed the nerves. He shadowed her every step, tail swinging slow, eyes fixed on her face as though to remind her she wasn’t alone.
At seven, the bell over the door rang and people began to file in.
Denise arrived first, carrying a thermos and a box of donuts.
Leon followed, setting up chairs in neat rows like pews.
The boy from the jazz aisle brought a borrowed speaker for the Facebook livestream.
By half past, the store was full—thirty people, some standing shoulder to shoulder.
The air smelled of coffee and winter coats, and the floor creaked under the weight of so many shoes.
June’s hands shook as she unwrapped the brown paper from Tommy’s record.
She held it up.
“This is my brother,” she said. “Thomas Beckett. Vietnam vet. Soul singer. Local boy who wrote about rivers and light. Tonight—and every Friday until they make me leave—he sings again.”
Pickles barked once, perfectly timed, and the room laughed softly, easing the tension.
June set the record down and lowered the needle.
Static.
Then Tommy’s voice—worn, strong, alive.
The room stilled.
Some closed their eyes.
Some swayed gently, heads bowed as if in prayer.
Even the teenagers stood quiet, listening.
When the last note faded into crackle, nobody moved for a moment.
Then applause rose, sharp and loud, filling the store with heat.
June’s chest ached as if it might split.
She bowed her head, whispering to herself: Keep the light on.
By the second Friday, word had spread.
The shop filled faster, people crammed into aisles, peeking through the doorway, some even pressing their ears to the cold window outside.
The Facebook livestream reached hundreds. Comments scrolled like a hymnbook: Beautiful voice. Where can I hear more? This is history.
One man drove from Toledo with his teenage daughter.
“We used to listen to your brother on a cassette I bought at a flea market,” he told June.
“Wanted my kid to hear him in the place he started.”
June swallowed tears and nodded.
When she dropped the needle, the crowd hushed like church again.
Pickles made his rounds, weaving through legs, tail brushing denim and wool, collecting pats and murmured affection.
The jar by the register grew heavy with donations.
People pressed tens and twenties inside, even coins, even folded notes: Keep singing. Keep the light on.
But not everyone celebrated.
By the third Friday, a police cruiser idled across the street.
Two officers leaned on the hood, watching the crowd file in.
Gavin Clarke appeared at the door halfway through the evening, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp.
“You’re exceeding occupancy,” he said flatly.
June looked him in the eye. “You gave me thirty days. Until then, this is my building.”
The crowd murmured approval, bodies shifting closer, forming a wall behind her.
Pickles padded up and barked once at Gavin, low and steady.
The man flinched, muttered something about fire hazards, and stepped back into the cold.
The applause that followed wasn’t for the music—it was for defiance.
June trembled afterward, her knees weak.
Denise squeezed her shoulders.
“They’ll push,” Denise said. “That’s what they do. But we’ll push back harder.”
At home that night, June sat in the kitchen with Pickles at her feet.
The record leaned against the wall, candlelight reflecting off its scratched face.
She opened Tommy’s notepad again, flipping past lyrics about rivers and nights and lights.
Halfway through, she found something she hadn’t noticed before.
A page torn at the edge, words scrawled fast, almost a confession:
If they don’t let me sing, June will keep the song.
If they don’t let me live, June will keep the light.
Her throat tightened.
She pressed the page flat with trembling fingers.
Pickles whined softly, nudging her knee with his nose.
“Guess that’s my job, pickle jar,” she whispered.
“To keep the song. To keep the light.”
The next Friday, Harold Vines returned.
He sat quietly in the back, hat in his lap, listening like a man in prayer.
When the song ended, he approached June at the counter.
“My offer still stands,” he said softly.
“But I see what you’re building here. If you decide to keep the record, I’ll find another way to help. Preservation funds, maybe a grant.”
June touched the adapter in her pocket.
“Let me think,” she said.
Harold nodded.
“No rush. Sometimes a record needs to find its rightful groove before the song can play.”
Pickles leaned against Harold’s leg, tail thumping.
The collector chuckled, bent to scratch his ears.
“Smart dog,” he said. “Knows when something matters.”
By the fifth Friday, the store was overflowing.
Someone brought a crockpot of chili.
Kids sat cross-legged on the floor with cocoa in Styrofoam cups.
The Facebook livestream climbed past a thousand viewers.
June stood at the counter, looking out over the packed room.
For the first time in years, she felt her brother’s presence not as silence, but as company.
She felt him in every sway, every clap, every tear.
“This isn’t just my brother,” she told them.
“This is yours now. This is Ecorse. This is every voice they tried to pave over.”
The cheers rose loud, echoing against the walls.
The record played, skipping and hissing, but singing still.
Pickles barked once, sharp, and the crowd laughed, cheering louder.
The shop wasn’t dying—it was alive.
Alive in defiance, alive in music, alive in memory.
But on Monday morning, June found a new letter taped to the glass.
Bold letters: CEASE AND DESIST. UNAUTHORIZED EVENTS. FINES TO FOLLOW.
Her stomach dropped.
Pickles stood beside her, ears flat, growling low.
She tore the letter down and crumpled it in her fist.
Inside, she laid it in the drawer with the rest: eviction notice, inspection threat, donation notes, Harold’s envelope, Tommy’s notepad, the adapter, the dog tags.
Her whole life was in that drawer now, folded, waiting.
She pressed her palm flat against the counter.
“We’re not done, Tommy,” she whispered.
Pickles thumped his tail once, steady as a beat.
And across the street, the police cruiser idled again, exhaust rising like smoke.
The city was watching.
The fight was tightening.
But so was the song.