Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

…previously on the Wakefield Doctrine (read this). Now, if you’re thinking, “Previously?!! This is the first sentence of the post… how can something proceed a thing that has just begun? How?!!”

Now that one of us has that out of their system, let’s return the latest Tales from the Clarkside and the next installment in: “How ‘the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers’ ended up in the hands of a well… no, not a Harvard Dean with more degrees than a thermometer in a malaria ward and, since you’ve asked, not an innovator of daring, with more edges than the White Cliffs of Dover*, but…well, tell us anyway.”

Having faded into the background on the far wall from which hung a pleasing variety of guitars, shielded to the front by toadstool-like drum kits and keyboards, I nevertheless was afforded an unobstructed view of Scott and the customer. As the store was empty and lunch hour in the city now over, I could hear every word.

“So, what’s wrong with this thing? It worked when me and my uncle plugged it in the first time,” the customer repeated, for continuity’s sake, “We copied a cassette, pretty as you please and now, and now it don’t do nothin.”

The dark metal rectangle resting on the glass counter top between Scott and the customer was, as I could see from my vantage point, what we called, in the day, a dual-cassette dubbing deck. (Yes, language back in those days was less stream-lined than now. Undeniably more elaborate discourse, one might be forgiven for saying, “redundant much?” However it was descriptive and, arguably, rich in nuance.)

On the front was a pair of cassette ‘windows’. These windows tilted out from the top allowing a cassette to be loaded; then pushed back to play, (or record) the tape. There were two sets of audio controls for each; one volume along with separate bass and treble. The controls were inset plastic wheels, a grooved-edge arc protruding above the surface of the metal case. There was, however, a single control, in the center of the front of the device. Unfortunately, the preferred color for the less expensive audio equipment at the time was dull-black-against-non-reflective-black. The numbers to the side of the arc of the control wheel done in a classy, matte gold paint

Scott looked at the front of the device and, without a word, reached under the counter, took a roll of black electrical tape, tore off a piece about two inches long. Its worthwhile mentioning that he, Scott, had not said a word to this customer other than to acknowledge him with a nod of the head. More to the point (and, surely a writer might think, with no small foreshadowing), Scott watched the customer from the moment he walked into Tony American’s. Not the equipment, not me. The stranger in the store.

I was close enough, (and young enough) to be able to see Scott roll the central control wheel forward. Having the wheel turned as far in one direction as it would go, he put the electrical tape over it. No further motion permitted.

Scott, still looking at the customer, said, “There you go. Good as new.”

The customer frowned, began to turn his head, as if to seek confirmation of what had just happen, but his field of vision encountered no obstacles or features of interest in the store and looked back at Scott, who’d plugged the device into an outlet.

Accepting this silent invitation to try our his repaired recorder, the customer removed two cassettes from his pocket, placed them in the deck and hit record. After a minute or two, he pulled the cassette, the one with the record company label on it, out of the machine and hit play on the remaining cassette and smiled as music issued forth.

“Thanks, man!”

“No charge,” Scott smiled his invitation for the customer to leave the store.

Standing in the middle of the showroom-half of the store, among objects and equipment designed by man to create music with the capacity to enrage placid men and excite shy women, I felt the world shift.

I had not moved. The world didn’t move, not in any grossly-physical tectonic sense, rather, it became more detailed or, better to say, more detail became available…

(to be cont’d)

* no, you didn’t miss some subtle inference, that just doesn’t make sense

#theWakefieldDoctrine