#magazine - Hello Poetry

It started, as these things so often do, with a promise. Dave had promised Morley, for the fourth spring in a row, that he would finally clean out the basement of the Vinyl Cafe. “You can’t even see the furnace anymore,” Morley had said, standing at the top of the stairs with a look of concern reserved for cave divers and parents of toddlers holding permanent markers. “It’s not that bad,” Dave replied. Which, of course, meant it was worse. Enter Sam. Sixteen, suspiciously strong for someone who routinely claimed lifting a dish towel was “too much,” and in need of volunteer hours for school. “Consider this character-building,” Dave said, handing him a flashlight and a dust mask like he was sending him into the catacombs of Paris. The Vinyl Cafe basement was a time capsule. Or a storage locker. Or possibly an archaeological dig. There were crates of unsold records, half-broken stools, a blender from 1973, and boxes simply labelled “Dave’s Stuff.” Sam, being Sam, naturally gravitated toward those. Now, it should be noted that Dave had once, long ago, agreed to part with a certain collection of artifacts when Morley discovered them stashed behind the furnace in their house. He’d nodded solemnly, promised full disposal, and then, apparently, quietly relocated them to the cafe. Sam opened the first box expecting old concert posters or invoices. Instead, he found—well—let’s just say the first page he saw involved a woman named “Trixie” who apparently did her best thinking on the hood of a red convertible. He flipped a few pages. All the women seemed to be leaning on cars, tractors, or pool tables. Some had hard hats. None were wearing them. Sam, in the way of teenage boys since time immemorial, stared at the contents for a moment, blinked, and slowly backed away like he’d opened the Ark of the Covenant. “Uh…Dad?” he called up the stairs. Dave came bounding down, carrying two Tim Hortons coffees and whistling Cheeseburger in Paradise. He stopped short at the box in front of Sam. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Right,” said Dave, voice rising like he’d just remembered he’d left a pie in the oven…fourteen years ago. “I thought you got rid of these,” Sam said. Dave glanced at the pin-ups, then at Sam. “I did! I mean, I was going to. But they’re historical. It’s more of a cultural archive.” “Sure, Dad. A museum of naked ladies.” “I prefer the term ‘tasteful ****** Dave paused. “And they’re not naked. Some of them are wearing… tool belts.” Sam smirked. “So, what do we do with them?” Dave looked around. “Well… we don’t tell your mother. That’s what we do first.” Naturally, Morley found out within the hour. Because the next box Sam opened had ******* issues from the early 80s, including one with a mysterious sticky note marked “Dave’s first car. Page 47.” When Morley arrived, summoned by Sam with a dramatic, “You might want to see this,” Dave was holding a calendar featuring a woman named Candy who was, ironically, pouring syrup over a stack of flapjacks in stilettos. There was a moment of silence. “Dave,” Morley said, very calmly, “I thought you said you got rid of these.” “I did,” he said. “Well, I relocated them.” “To your place of business?” “Technically it’s historical research,” Dave mumbled. Sam was enjoying this immensely. Morley walked over, picked up one of the magazines, flipped it open to a centerfold, and raised an eyebrow. “This one’s wearing earmuffs.” “Practical!” Dave offered brightly. Morley sighed. “I don’t care what you do with them, but they are not going back in the house.” Dave nodded solemnly. “Agreed.” That’s how, two hours later, Dave and Kenny Wong found themselves in Kenny’s garage flipping through the stash, laughing like high schoolers, and arguing over whether a 1981 issue of Oui had collectible value. “This one’s art,” Kenny said, holding up a black-and-white photo. “It’s a woman vacuuming in heels,” Dave replied. “Exactly. No one vacuums like that anymore.” Eventually, they boxed it all up and decided to store it—temporarily—in the back of Kenny’s shed, behind the snow tires and the broken lawn darts. Morley, for her part, decided not to push the matter. She just raised her eyebrows every time Dave mentioned “cleaning projects.” Sam got his volunteer hours. And a few stories to share with his friends—although he did omit the “sticky note with the car” bit when retelling it to Stephanie. As for the café basement? It was marginally cleaner. At least you could see the furnace. And tucked between the cleaning rags and mop buckets was a single pin-up, laminated and framed, featuring a woman in coveralls and work boots, holding a record player. Dave claimed it was motivational. Morley let it slide. Because in the end, in the Vinyl Cafe, things weren’t always clean. But they were always honest. Well… mostly.

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Jul 30, 2025

Jul 30, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC

roger-turner

Pinup

It started, as these things so often do, with a promise. Dave had promised Morley, for the fourth spring in a row, that he would finally clean out the basement of the Vinyl Cafe. “You can’t even see the furnace anymore,” Morley had said, standing at the top of the stairs with a look of concern reserved for cave divers and parents of toddlers holding permanent markers. “It’s not that bad,” Dave replied. Which, of course, meant it was worse. Enter Sam. Sixteen, suspiciously strong for someone who routinely claimed lifting a dish towel was “too much,” and in need of volunteer hours for school. “Consider this character-building,” Dave said, handing him a flashlight and a dust mask like he was sending him into the catacombs of Paris. The Vinyl Cafe basement was a time capsule. Or a storage locker. Or possibly an archaeological dig. There were crates of unsold records, half-broken stools, a blender from 1973, and boxes simply labelled “Dave’s Stuff.” Sam, being Sam, naturally gravitated toward those. Now, it should be noted that Dave had once, long ago, agreed to part with a certain collection of artifacts when Morley discovered them stashed behind the furnace in their house. He’d nodded solemnly, promised full disposal, and then, apparently, quietly relocated them to the cafe. Sam opened the first box expecting old concert posters or invoices. Instead, he found—well—let’s just say the first page he saw involved a woman named “Trixie” who apparently did her best thinking on the hood of a red convertible. He flipped a few pages. All the women seemed to be leaning on cars, tractors, or pool tables. Some had hard hats. None were wearing them. Sam, in the way of teenage boys since time immemorial, stared at the contents for a moment, blinked, and slowly backed away like he’d opened the Ark of the Covenant. “Uh…Dad?” he called up the stairs. Dave came bounding down, carrying two Tim Hortons coffees and whistling Cheeseburger in Paradise. He stopped short at the box in front of Sam. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Right,” said Dave, voice rising like he’d just remembered he’d left a pie in the oven…fourteen years ago. “I thought you got rid of these,” Sam said. Dave glanced at the pin-ups, then at Sam. “I did! I mean, I was going to. But they’re historical. It’s more of a cultural archive.” “Sure, Dad. A museum of naked ladies.” “I prefer the term ‘tasteful ****** Dave paused. “And they’re not naked. Some of them are wearing… tool belts.” Sam smirked. “So, what do we do with them?” Dave looked around. “Well… we don’t tell your mother. That’s what we do first.” Naturally, Morley found out within the hour. Because the next box Sam opened had ******* issues from the early 80s, including one with a mysterious sticky note marked “Dave’s first car. Page 47.” When Morley arrived, summoned by Sam with a dramatic, “You might want to see this,” Dave was holding a calendar featuring a woman named Candy who was, ironically, pouring syrup over a stack of flapjacks in stilettos. There was a moment of silence. “Dave,” Morley said, very calmly, “I thought you said you got rid of these.” “I did,” he said. “Well, I relocated them.” “To your place of business?” “Technically it’s historical research,” Dave mumbled. Sam was enjoying this immensely. Morley walked over, picked up one of the magazines, flipped it open to a centerfold, and raised an eyebrow. “This one’s wearing earmuffs.” “Practical!” Dave offered brightly. Morley sighed. “I don’t care what you do with them, but they are not going back in the house.” Dave nodded solemnly. “Agreed.” That’s how, two hours later, Dave and Kenny Wong found themselves in Kenny’s garage flipping through the stash, laughing like high schoolers, and arguing over whether a 1981 issue of Oui had collectible value. “This one’s art,” Kenny said, holding up a black-and-white photo. “It’s a woman vacuuming in heels,” Dave replied. “Exactly. No one vacuums like that anymore.” Eventually, they boxed it all up and decided to store it—temporarily—in the back of Kenny’s shed, behind the snow tires and the broken lawn darts. Morley, for her part, decided not to push the matter. She just raised her eyebrows every time Dave mentioned “cleaning projects.” Sam got his volunteer hours. And a few stories to share with his friends—although he did omit the “sticky note with the car” bit when retelling it to Stephanie. As for the café basement? It was marginally cleaner. At least you could see the furnace. And tucked between the cleaning rags and mop buckets was a single pin-up, laminated and framed, featuring a woman in coveralls and work boots, holding a record player. Dave claimed it was motivational. Morley let it slide. Because in the end, in the Vinyl Cafe, things weren’t always clean. But they were always honest. Well… mostly.