Emile (fiction)

The distinctive concentric circle pattern molded into gum rubber was worn nearly smooth, just barely perceptible on the soles of his feet. Anyone passing the shabby, crowded, chaotic shop would have known this, as he kept his feet perpetually propped precariously on the counter facing the glass entry-door. Emile Kinsey, proprietor of Emerald Lion Records (at the corner of ninth and Pine, check us out!) sat that day, as he did six days a week, leaned back in his chair, his feet propped on the counter, a hand-rolled splif unlit between his full lips. Today’s tracksuit was adidas (of course) – emerald green with red and yellow striping, the store’s Lion-head logo embroidered over the left breast.

On the wall behind the counter were Jamaican and Ethiopian flags hung vertically, side by side, surrounded by a Smithsonian-esque collection of flyers and posters announcing all manner of historic live music performances from Jimi Hendrix to Prince Buster, Mookie Blaylock to Rage Against The Machine. At the center of the wall, just below the two flags were Emile’s two most prized flyers: a flyer promoting Bob Marley’s legendary 1978 “One Love Peace Concert” signed by Bob himself. Next to that poster hung an autographed publicity photo of Courtney Walsh, Emile’s all-time favorite Cricket player.

Emile’s tidy braids were pulled into a thick ponytail. The top of his head was enclosed in a chic knit beanie, also emblazoned with the Lion-head logo. His heavy, dark-rimmed glasses reflected the street scene outside.

“Another rainy day, Walshy.” The store mascot, Walsh, a brindle pit bull, rescued from a dog fighting operation in Federal Way some years earlier, lounged lazily at Emile’s feet.

Emile smoothed the newspaper he had been reading, adjusted his glasses and began to contemplate the crossword. The skanking jangle of Prince Buster’s “Ska War” filled the store. At that moment, the small bells above the entry-door announced the arrival of the first customer of the day. Walsh opened one eye warily and, not recognizing the patron, hauled himself to his feet to investigate.

“Welcome to the Lion.” Emile set the splif aside, folded his paper carefully and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his surprisingly Roman nose.