Graham

Graham was most at home among tall, busy stacks of books or hunting through dusty bins of records. His bulky form was permanently hunched as if he was sniffing out a relic wherever he went, his glasses pinched severely on his nose and his eyes squinting trying to discern the value among detritus. He let his searching take him from place to place, chasing treasures like the rumor of big game. He weighed each item as an investment even though they were often obscure and too obtuse to have much of a market. The pleasure of ownership was the only dividend it had to pay.

He enjoyed solitary pursuits, the meandering trips into the countryside, and the gradual browsing of stock. All through the week he researched leads, reviews by other collectors and promising ads. Graham naturally woke early on his days off and would take to the road, working through his list of thrift stores and yard sales, driving in no great hurry and listening to lethargic jazz. It was not unusual for him to drive 90 minutes to find what he was looking for, only to leave empty handed because the price wasn't exactly right, or there was a small discerning flaw. He never went home disappointed as long as he could fill a quiet day with the musty smell of antiquities.

His room was his vault. A mattress on the floor and a cluttered desk, surrounded by the powdery volumes he intended to read, crates of LPs with his current play list in a spirographic kaleidoscope, and on his dresser a collection of rye and whiskey. The bottles shone with an oak light, diffusing caramel over the foot of his bed. They came from every small distillery he could find, and he drove over 4 different state lines to amass the congregation. They were all unopened, untasted until his collection was complete. Graham searched out the missing members and they stood like a party patiently waiting for all the guests to arrive. When he came into his room the bottles tinkled a beautiful, jangling music, and looked like the golden pipes on a magnificent organ.