Pickle for the Sunshine

Abstract

JOEY ROSALES’ FATHER took a record from its sleeve. The disc was red, redder than an apple. It turned like a wheel on his father’s fingertips. Mr. Rosales took much care handling his record albums, careful not to get fingerprints on them, always handling them by the edges. Joey watched his father pucker his lips, blowing what Joey thought was imaginary dust off the grooves.