Peter had waited months to get the record. The first vinyl they shipped came broken, and in little pieces. Finally a replacement came. He had followed the artist since his breakout record. The new LP he knew was going to be something. It just had to be.
The first song played and there was the look of disappointment in his face as he listened. It was the same as the last two records. Same kind of songs, same kind of music.
The second song played. He couldn’t believe his ears. Then the third. He had waited so long. Six songs and he flipped the vinyl. He hoped against hope the record was going to get better. The B side was no better than the A. It was even worse.
After the record completed running through the songs, he took it off the turntable and threw it across the room. It broke into a hundred pieces. He went to the shelf and pulled out the artist’s last three, and only, records. He smashed them too. “Traitor,” he said loud enough for his mother downstairs to hear him.
Then he walked over and picked up the guitar he had plucked at for the last two months. He struck the strings once, then a second time, determined to do better than the guy he’d just smashed.