The music from the Walkman was pushing me along, the rhythm driving me onward. The melody helped me keep pace with the world as it rushed past. Without it there’d be no beginning and certainly no end. Perhaps there wouldn’t even be a story. But the music went on. As did I.

And as the song changed tracks, I shifted gears and turned into Arcade Avenue: a narrow, smoky lane of flashing lights and burned-out dreams emitting their last sparks. Packed in this Chinatown back alley was a wild assortment of dive bars, poets, prophets and prostitutes.

And, yes of course, the arcades themselves. 24/7 hour arcades. Every night one could find lines of men whiling away the years to the likes of Pac-Man, Guitar Hero and Donkey Kong. Men attached to their LED screens and flashing battlefields more than anything else in their lives. Together we formed an army of sorts. An army of men fighting for everything and nothing. But I won’t get into that now.

You see, when it came to time-sucking machines everyone had their personal preference. As did I. When times got tough, I came to Arcade Avenue and sought out the pinball machines. Call it self-therapy. Or something like that.

Tonight the alleyway was packed to the brim. What a fascinating sight! Men were stumbling in and out of bars, red faced, hollering about. Further ahead there was the buzzing echo of the arcades. Ladies of the night were pampered up and soliciting:

Baby one night with me will make you forget everything.

Arcade Avenue was alive! Overflowing with beauty and contradictions. And I was fully caught in its web. Both enthralled with its mystique and repelled by its madness. Yes, I got this certain type of high everytime I came here. Everything faded into blurriness.

And that’s when I saw her.

Through the hazy maze of people, I spotted the girl with freckles. Long hair that cascaded down her shoulders and smooth leather jacket. Fair lipstick. And a thought suddenly struck me. A moment of truth, if you will. This was the 100% perfect girl for me. Just a few steps apart and destined to cross paths.

But what was she doing here? In a place like Arcade Avenue? I couldn't say for sure. After all, this wasn't exactly a place you’d expect to find such a beautiful stranger. Not just anyone could tramp up and down our little hideaway. Certain permissions were needed here. Passwords were required. No, no. I don’t mean real permissions and certainly there weren't any gatekeepers keeping watch. What I’m getting at is this: Arcade Avenue was made for a certain type. For people looking to push time forward. Or those trying to recover it.

Oh, love! They say you find it in the most unexpected places. But perhaps nowhere was more obscure than Arcade Avenue. But was there love to be found here? In a place like this? I couldn't say for sure.

But before I could even finish my thought, before I could even accidentally bump shoulders with this freckled girl, she took a sudden turn, and slipped into one of the adjacent stores.

I stopped in my tracks, dumbfounded. To spot such a beautiful girl, to get sucked into that moment like quicksand and to then immediately lose sight of her … why it was preposterous! I couldn't just carry on with my day. Sure there was pinball to be played, but… but yes I had to follow this girl. The charming girl with freckles.

The music pushed me forward, with a different destination now in mind. I walked up to the store and read the sign in the window:

RECORD STORE, 2048

How bizarre, I thought. I've walked down this street hundreds of times in the past and not once have I seen this place. Neither had anyone mentioned it to me before. It didn't even seem to even fit in with the surrounding buildings. It stuck out like a sore thumb. It had the look of hurried newness, as if someone literally threw it together from scratch overnight. And what a peculiar name: Record Store, 2048. My curiosity swelled.

I stood there for a minute looking over the sign, trying to understand what was going on: Record Store, 2048? What was this place doing here? Wasn’t there an arcade in this very location last week? Or maybe not. Like all doubts in life, I resolved it with the simple phrase: “Or maybe not.”

At loss what to do next, I simply went with my instincts. I turned off the Walkman and turned the knob to the door. I walked inside.

II

It was a small sort of place. Nothing out of the ordinary, just your typical record store, with a dozen waist-high stacks lining the place from wall to wall. There was a counter just ahead of me, but no one was behind the register. The girl with freckles was nowhere in sight. Besides myself the place seemed completely empty. Not a sound stirred. Light from outside streamed in from the side windows.

“Hello?” I said aloud. But no answer.

I walked over to one of the stacks to look busy. The girl should pop up eventually. Besides, you never knew what you’d find in these vintage shops. Sometimes you get lucky and end up finding a pretty rare LP. Maybe an original Miles Davis or Chet Baker. I surveyed the stacks, trying to locate the section marked off with an “M.”

But there was no “M.” And no “L” or “N” sections either. There were no letters to speak of at all. To my surprise, there weren't even any records! Upon closer inspection I noticed that the stacks were cramped with what looked like old VHS cassettes. Video cassettes in a record store?

The madness didn't end there. These cassettes weren't marked off with a film name or anything moderately resembling one. Quite the contrary. Each VHS was labelled with a date. I ran my fingers across the cassettes, scanning some at random:

12/11/1997

3/17/2000

9/5/2008

“What is this?” I said aloud to myself.

“Take a guess,” said a voice.

I was slightly taken a back. I looked up in the direction of the counter. There she was. The girl with freckles.

“Pardon me?” I said in a voice that didn't sound like my own. “I was just looking at your cassettes. I was a little confused about these “records.” Do you by any chance work here?” I asked sheepishly.

She laughed lightly. “No, I just like to kidnap store keepers and stand behind their cash registers,” she said with a mixed air of total seriousness and sarcasm. For the life of me, I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. What I did know, was that this girl possessed a special type of beauty. A beauty that entranced me. In the back of my mind, I was already thinking of a good restaurant to take her. Maybe one of those dimly-lit places. Where they played bossa nova jazz. But maybe I was getting ahead of myself. A coffee would be a good start.

“Indeed.” I said coolly. “I guess we’ve all got our thing.”

“Is that right? And what, may I ask, is yours?

“Excuse me?”

“What’s your thing?”

“Well, it’s nothing really. But I guess you could call it a thing,” I said as I ran my fingers over the tapes once more.

“Carry on.”

“Well, you see, I like to frequent arcades across the city and play the Pinball Machines. I like to be the guy with the Top Score.”

She raised one of her eyebrows. “Just the pinball machines?”

“Just the pinball machines.”

“And what’s your tag? Certainly a Top Scorer like you must have one.”

“Satellite 511.”

“Satellite 511? How odd! But interesting all the same. And if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Satellite 511, why do you visit all these arcades? It seems like a rather tedious task, if you ask me. There must be something behind it, something pushing you. What’s your motive?” she said with a wry smile that illuminated her face.

“Can’t say there’s much of a motive. After all, if we went around having a motivation for everything we did, there’d be no end to it. Imagine, for example, you wanted to buy some squash and then you asked yourself ‘what’s motivating me to buy this squash right now?’ And when you think about it, is there ever really a reason to buy squash? And then you leave the store without the squash that you intended to buy. Motivations can be a double-edge sword, if you know what I mean.”

“Motivations can be a double-edge sword” she repeated. “You have a peculiar way of speaking.” she chuckled. ‘If you know what I mean.’ They only talk like that in novels.”

What could I say? I smiled politely. Been reading too much these days.

“So stranger, what’s up? Did you come to buy something or is following girls into record stores another one of your hobbies?”

I blushed. “Well, you see, no… no it’s not. I was just passing by and thought maybe I’d check out a few LPs. The store seems new, or at least I've never encountered it before. Thought I’d give it a once-over. But I’m not sure this is what I was expecting. Kind of odd to be selling VHS cassettes in a record store, don’t you think?”

She leaned against the counter and rested her chin in the palm of her hands. For a slight second I thought I saw her freckles twinkle, like a firefly flapping between parallel universes. I must have been mistaken.

“They are records,” she said, with a subtle emphasis.

“They certainly are not,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I won’t find a copy of Rubber Soul on any of these cassettes.”

“No they’re not that type of record.”

“What type are they then?”

“They’re your records. Well, to be more precise, they’re your memories.”

I laughed. I laughed like someone who heard a great joke after a few drinks. It was a full bodied-laugh. Warm and genuine.

She continued unabated, with a dead-pan sort of expression: “And each date represents a specific day in your life.”

As I looked at her, I suddenly realized she wasn't joking.

III

“What do you mean they’re my memories?” I said, realizing that this conversation had taken a turn for the bizarre. All before I could ask for her name.

“Mr. Satellite 511, don’t you know what memories are?” she asked.

“Sure. Of course I do. But that’s not the point. What are my memories doing on VHS? Why are they here? And what are you doing here?”

“I’m the store keeper, dummy. I look after the records. I make sure no one tries to compromise them; I protect them from damage.”

“Comprise them? Damage them? Who in God’s name would harm a record store full of old memories?”

“I see you’re not the brightest, Mr. Satellite 511. It’s really quite simple. L’avenir wants your memories. Desperately wants them.”

“L’avenir? Please enlighten me on who that is.”

She laughed dryly. “It’s actually a French expression. Been taking night classes. What do you think of my accent? Actually, don’t answer that. Back to your question. L’avenir stands for the future.”

“The future?”

“Yes. Yes indeed.”

“And do you care to explain why L’avenir wants my memories?”

“Of course I’ll explain. After all, that’s what I’m here for. To translate the chicken scratch on the wall, to help make sense of the senseless.” She paused for a moment and smiled. “You see, most people think we occupy a single space and time. But it’s not that simple. On the most atomic level, every human being is a composed of two opposing particles. Past and future. And those particles are in a constant battle against each other: colliding, clashing, erupting. Like a game of Pinball.”

“Like a game of Pinball?”

“Yes. Like a game of pinball. And at the end of the day, the winner orients your outlook on life.”

“Orients my outlook? I’m sorry, I’m a little lost here. How can either the past or future orient me? As in control me?”

“You could call it that, but control is too strong a word. Control. It sounds better in French. Contrôle. Think about it this way: some people are always looking towards tomorrow, their backs rigidly to the past. Others choose to swim in the backwaters of the past. It all boils down to an unconscious game of pinball.”

I stared at her, seeking further clarity.

“Let’s use another point of reference, instead. Let’s say there’s a train station. And everyday a train arrives in the depot at the same time. In life, there’s three type of people. Those who immediately get on board no matter where the train is going. Then there’s the second type, who hesitate slightly and wait for the next one to come before getting on.”

“And the third type?”

“Yes, the third type. Well they’re a tad odd. They’re ones who endlessly keep waiting. The ones who never get on board. The people who think a train that’s already passed may come back around again.”

I was awash in metaphors. The lines around me were becoming blurred, like a Sunday afternoon in a Monet painting. We were two metaphors, me and this beautiful girl, engaged in the most bizarre conversation. I spoke up: “And I guess this place, this record store, is a sort of a train station?”

“I guess so. You can call it whatever you want. Wrap it in whatever context you like. I tend to think of it as a warehouse. A warehouse for the past.”

I looked her in the eyes. They gave off a certain warmth. The more we talked, the more I needed that warmth. The store was gradually getting colder. Before I knew it, I could see my own breath. I cupped my hands to my mouth and blew into them.

“What’s happening I asked? Did someone turn on the air conditioner?”

“It comes on automatically. We have to keep the place cold. Most days it’s freezing. It’s good for the cassettes. Keeps them in good condition.”

“I see. Good condition for what? For whom?”

“Who else? For you, Mr. Satellite 511. For this moment. For when you needed me.”

I’m not sure what she meant by that. For when I needed her? But maybe in some abstract way I did need her. Deep in my heart, I knew it wasn’t abstract at all. The silence grew heavier, the cold increased. I suddenly knew I had to do something. I turned back to the cassettes and looked through the labels again. Thousands upon thousands of tapes. Thousands of days. Thousands of memories. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“So how does it work?” I asked.

“It’s like Blockbuster. You can take out three cassettes at a time.”

“Just three?”

“Seulement trois.”

I ran the numbers through my head. Today was April 14. That meant over 9,000 tapes. And I could only rent out 3? Impossible.

“Take your time. Pick your dates carefully,” she said with an odd air of caution.

And that’s what I did. I put my Walkman back on and pressed play. Thievery Corporation’s Décollage flooded my ears. The music helped set my mind at ease. Helped me forget about the cold, as I tried to remember times past, tried to pinpoint the exact moments I wanted to revisit.

I surveyed my mind like a night bird in flight. I flew over whole time periods in my life. Times of beauty. Times of struggle. I turned over rocks in my subconscious and found warm tears. Echoes of laughter and joy erupted from cob-webbed caves. Strong images of lovers come and gone. But who was I kidding? I knew exactly what days I wanted. Don’t we all do?

(Meanwhile the music went on)

Et quand tout s’est arrêté,

la musique m’a pris

Et je sais que tout va être

Tout va bien avec le son,

j’ai surpassé mes peurs

I looked up and walked over to another stack and picked up my first tape:

5/11/2010

Je sais, j’ai pas envie d’être naïve

Quand j’ouvre les yeux,

le monde est parallèle

et je sais

La foi est un seul œil

Then another:

12/25/2011

C’est pas…

C’est pas…

C’est pas un rêve

And after a little searching, the final one:

6/30/2013

(the music trailed off)

They felt heavy in my hands. Three tapes. Three days. A chance, in some way, to relive those moments. No, not relive. To understand those days, those memories better. I took off my headphones and walked over to the cash register and smiled at the girl with freckles.

“Well, here we go. What will that cost me?”

She laughed sheepishly. “Mr. Satellite 511 did you really expect to pay for your own memories. How silly! They’re yours to take. Pro bono. A gift from the past.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I hope you enjoy them. We paid top notch for the director.” she said matter of factly.

“Yeah, I hope so too.” Almost at a loss for words, I put the tapes in my bag and turned to leave. But of course, I couldn’t just up and walk out.

“Hey,” I said as I doubled back. “So the thing is, I didn’t really come in here for the music or even these tapes. You see …. well actually you just happened to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And, I was just wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee or something? Maybe you could tell me more about this place. We could just talk. About nothing things. Like the sound of rainy days.”

“Like the sound of rainy days?” she repeated.

“Yeah. Or something like that. There’s a cafe just down the lane. My treat of course.”

“Well I thought you’d never ask Mr. Satellite 511.”

“The best things usually come at the last minute.”

“Of course. Maybe not the best, but at least the most important,” she said, again putting an unusual amount of emphasis on the last two words.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Well, I’d love to grab coffee with you. But there’s just un problème.”

She waited a moment. A moment that spanned three heartbeats.

“It’s just that you can’t leave the store with me and the tapes,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s part of the rules. It’s written in the fine print. Says you can’t leave the store with me and the tapes.”

“Fine print? What fine print?” I said hesitantly. What the hell was she going on about? “Well screw it. I’ll come back for the tapes another time.”

“I wish you could. I really do. But once you leave here, Mr. Satellite 511, there won’t be another time. Record Store, 2048 will be just another arcade.”

I looked at her in total confusion. Again, I had sense that she wasn’t joking. My mind started to race. Who was this girl?

“Then do me one favor.” I said.

“I’ll try.”

“Can I at least watch one of the cassettes here? I just want to gloss over one. All I need is a few minutes. There’s something I need to see. Surely you must have a VHS player laying around.”

She stopped for a second, lost in thought. As she opened her mouth, I could feel all the gravity in the room rush toward her lips.

“We don’t. You see it’s rather peculiar, but we don’t keep them in stock. In fact, they don’t even make them anymore. Not here, not anywhere.”

“What? Of course they make VCR players. I just saw one the other day.” I quipped back.

“I’m sure you did. But that was in your world. Things are different here, in this time.”

“What do you mean in this time?”

“You see, Mr. Satellite 511, you’re standing in the year 2048. Your heart is beating to the air of another time. They stopped making VHS players years ago. If you want to see what’s on those tapes, then all you have to do is walk out with them. Back to your time. But I can’t go with you. Not if you take the tapes.”

This couldn't be real. And at the same time, it had to be. What else could it be?

“Faire un choix. Make a choice.” she said.

Her words hung in the air like a butterfly learning to use its wings for the first time.

Faire un choix.

Faire un choix.

Faire un choix.

Things were becoming blurry again. The record store was getting colder by the second. I stared at the girl with freckles: the 100% perfect girl for me. Then I turned back at the tapes and the memories therein. Memories of times past. I was caught in between two worlds.

The train is coming. Oh Lord, the train is coming. And I have not the slightest clue if I should get on.