A small child with a basket beside him, a boom box inside. A dark blue and silver player with a broken antenna hanging limp, already abused from the sounds of music. The cassette player squeaking loudly under the strain of the worn cassette inside. The song ends and I hit next. Listening to Bill Harley blare out of the player while I propel it around the supermarket singing along to the rhythmic music.
Bill Harley is a writer and musician who performs for children. I believe that everyone enjoys his work because, while it may be geared towards children, adults can also appreciate his wit. I have been to so many of his concerts, memorized every song and to top that, met him. He knows me. He even nicknamed me “Max the Stalker”, for I have gone to multiple performances.
But now, while my mom waits for store officials to bust me, I sing to the hysterical lyrics, “You’re not the boss of me, you’re not the boss of me, you may be the boss of you but not the boss of me.” I chortle, not noticing who entered the store. It’s Bill Harley, himself, with his son, Dylan or Noah. And while his son points out my bustling figure, my brain, laden with ideas, blurs, not knowing, not caring. But what stood out for me that day, what plagued my thoughts, was wondering. Why had nobody busted me? No employees, no customers. Was it because they couldn’t bring themselves to do it or was it some other unknown reason? But the object of my memory seems to latch on the most was the basket. The black basket, still in the store. Any day this week I could walk in and touch it. A piece of history, still there, within arm’s reach.