Analogue Lovers

"Good morning! Let me know if you need any help, okay?"

"I will, thank you very much!" she replied with a smile.

He'd owned the store for three years and never seen her before. New customers weren't uncommon so that wasn't really unusual. What was, was the way she was dressed for someone her age.

He guessed her to be between 18 and 21 and typically that implied certain things. Not always, of course, and he knew people tended to notice the exceptions and not the rule. Still, she was not only unusually dressed for her age, she was very attractive in her own right—pretty face, slender body, nice hair, etc. Beyond the clothes she was wearing, she struck him as also being both elegant and sophisticated. Most girls her age wore shorts and tee-shirts or maybe jeans with rips they paid someone else to put there and a crop top.

Her style was not only unusual for her age it was unusual for a woman of any age. If that sort of style did still fit in anywhere, he had to admit it probably worked best in a place that sold old-fashioned vinyl records and classic books with actual pages which was the heart and soul of his store called The Bridge.

This girl, this young woman, looked like she was either going to work as someone's secretary (or executive assistant as they were normally called anymore) or out to dinner at a very nice restaurant but at some time in the distant past. But it was a Saturday morning in 2016 and her appearance struck the owner as very much out of place. Out of place but nonetheless refreshingly pleasant.

He did his best not to stare as she wandered around flipping through the endless stacks of records alphabetized by group or artist before moving on to the huge collection of new and mostly used books.

Ryan Lindemann had a deep and abiding love of the past and that had been the impetus that led him to open The Bridge three years ago selling analogue stuff in a digital world. Virtually everyone he'd talked to about his grand idea told him it was foolishness. "It's like opening a buggy whip business or trying to sell eight-track tapes. No one's gonna buy that stuff anymore."

He'd been 30 years old at the time and had managed to save just over $10,000 while working as a computer programmer after graduating from college with a degree in that field. He needed at least another $25,000 to open the store, and had been turned down by his parents, his grandparents, and one bank after the other until meeting a sympathetic, kindred spirit just as he was about to give up hope.

She was an older woman named Ruth he'd known for years and yet he had no idea she also shared his love of the past. Unlike him, she'd lived it and now yearned for that simpler time when radio stations played records spun by DJs or when people didn't download a book onto their tablets but held print copies in their hands. Mostly, she longed for the time when people were civil to one another and women wanted to be treated like ladies by men who looked like men.

She was 77 years old and when the topic came up, she'd been more than willing to loan him the money. He'd lived across the street from her all his life, but Ryan had never really talked with her let alone about his own fascination with not just records and books, but classic movies, Big-Band music, old cars, and a number of other things.

Recently, she'd been outside as he walked by and had started up a conversation. At one point, she'd asked him if he could possibly do some work for her. "I'll pay you for your time, of course," she'd told him. He was really too busy to do so, but just couldn't say 'no' and had spent several hours helping her out. She offered him some iced tea when he finished, then, out of friendliness rather than genuine curiosity, asked him what he'd been doing lately.

"I see you all the time, Ryan, but it's been ages since we spoke," she told him. "I'm so glad you were able to help me out. I was afraid I was going to have to call someone who'd charge me an arm and a leg." She'd offered to pay him, but she'd been a neighbor and his parents' friend all his life so he refused. Ryan had no idea she had more money than she could possibly spend, so he didn't find her comment unusual.

"I stay pretty busy trying to put together a book and record collection," he told her. "I'd really love to restore an old car—I'm talking about something like a '56 Chevy—too, but my real dream is to open a store with a '50s theme called 'The Bridge'. It'd be well...a bridge to the past where people can have an experience of what life was like during a simpler time. You know, rotary dial telephones, a soda fountain for a snack bar, a juke box that plays 45s, and of course, I'd be selling vinyl records and old books with maybe some new ones, too."

She'd immediately taken an avid interest in the idea and began recounting her days as a young teenager during the early '50s. "That was even before Elvis!" she told him. "Those were such wonderful times. Life was simple and innocent and so...wonderful!" She smiled and told him, "Did you know people didn't even lock their doors at night back then?"

As they talked he told her how hard it had been to get anyone to share his vision or at least believe it could make money.

"Well, then you've been talking to the wrong people!" she told him. "How much money are you talking about?"

Neither he nor his parents (or even her children) knew how much money she had, but since her husband passed away, she had a veritable fortune in assets. She had a nice home but otherwise lived a very simple, frugal life masking her net worth. This was a golden opportunity for her to give people a small taste of the America she'd grown up in and she couldn't wait to help Ryan get started.

Three years later, he was still in business, but it had been a real struggle month to month. Ruth had kept the store above water the first two years with monthly cash infusions. For her, just having a place like The Bridge was an investment in history and was money well spent. Six months ago, she'd passed away and had left $100,000 to fund The Bridge in her will; money without which, Ryan couldn't have kept the store open. He drew on that reserve every month taking no more than necessary to keep it up and running.

He'd dated often and even managed to get engaged the first year he was in business, but the financial struggle was so great, his fiancee gave him an ultimatum: sell the store or I'm gone. The Bridge was still open and she'd walked away after giving him back the ring. Deep down, he knew she wasn't a good fit as she had no interest in either his store or his nostalgia for times gone by. She was a modern girl who loved modern things with money being the thing she loved the most.

Ryan had always had girlfriends or at least hook-ups, but the whole concept of hooking up was too modern for his taste, and was now, well, a thing of the past. His dream was to find a Ruth who was a wee bit closer to his own age; someone who shared his love of the past as well as the values of that period.

He didn't want a June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver. He just wanted a woman who valued marriage, family, and fidelity; and if she enjoyed lovemaking as much as he did, that would be an added bonus. He wanted an intelligent, equal partner, not a servant. If she wanted to work, great. If she chose to be a homemaker and raise their children, fine.

He just had no interest in the kind of radical feminism that, in his opinion, had thrown the baby out with the bathwater. Men and women were different and Ryan believed the differences should be respected and celebrated, not ignored or merged. As with his entire life, this one area was bucking all social trends, but that only made him more determined to find the kind of woman he was looking for.

He'd been looking and was still doing so, but he'd had had precious little luck finding a woman even close to his ideal, but he remained ever hopeful and on the lookout. The young lady in his store was almost certainly too young to be a potential romantic partner, but she had most definitely caught his eye.

He wandered over toward her, waited for her to notice him so he wouldn't startle her, then said with a friendly smile, "Are you finding everything okay?"

She smiled brightly back at him and said, "I absolutely love this store! My friend has told me about it on more than one occasion, so it was at the top of my list of places to see whenever I finally got back here."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate that. So I take it you're not from around here?"

"I actually grew up just a few blocks from here. My parents divorced about five years ago and I've lived with my mother in Los Angeles since. Now that I'm legally an adult, I've decided to move back here and I'm temporarily living with my father...and his new wife." She wrinkled up her nose when she said 'new wife' and Ryan smiled politely.

"I'm happy to welcome you home, but sorry to hear about the divorce. I guess I'm very fortunate. My parents have somehow managed to stay together for over 35 years."

"You are," she said. "Maybe it's pollyannaish of me, but I fully intend to marry once and only once. And unlike my philandering father—whom I've forgiven, I will never stray from my wedding vows." She sighed then said, "Finding a man who believes those things as strongly as I do seems to be rather...challenging." She stopped suddenly then said, "My apologies. You asked me a very simple question and I'm prattling on sharing my life's philosophy with you. Yes, I'm finding everything quite well, thank you," she told him.

"I'm glad you are and at the risk of sharing my philosophy with you—without being requested to—I couldn't agree more. This store is my refuge from the modern-day world of fast money, meaningless hook-ups, and people who don't think twice about making a promise then breaking it."

"One's word is one's bond," the attractive young woman said.

"Yes, it is," Ryan agreed. "Or at least it should be."

She smiled at him and Lindemann smiled back. Pointing to his shirt he said, "As you can see, my name's Ryan. Um...Ryan Lindemann. I'm the owner so if you need anything, please let me know."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lindemann. I'm Layne Warren and I plan to make visiting this store part of my routine."

"It's been a pleasure meeting you too, Miss...Ms..."

"Miss is fine," she said politely.

Lindemann nodded and repeated himself. "It's been a pleasure meeting you too, Miss Warren. You would be a lovely and most-welcome addition to The Bridge at any time."

He paused for a moment and Layne noticed. "Was there something more you wanted to say, Mr. Lindemann?"

He looked down for a moment then back into her eyes. "It's just so...refreshing...to see a young lady who is so well-dressed and so very charming. I hope that doesn't sound too..."

"It sounds very sincere and I...sincerely thank you for the compliment. I believe we should try and look our best at all times. I reject the tendency of my generation to be sloppy and grungy...or rude. Civilized people should be courteous to one another, as well. I'm often embarrassed when my chronological peers behave so poorly."

"And very well spoken I might add," he added. "You are a quite the anachronism, Miss Warren. A very personable and refreshing one at that," he told her.

"I do thank you for noticing and for saying that. I don't identify with the values of my generation, so being referred to as an anachronism is perhaps the highest form of praise one could bestow on me."

"You are also a bit of a mystery to me, Miss Warren. I hope that I'll have occasion to try and unravel it as time goes by."

"As time goes by. A song from my favorite movie of all time," she replied.

"Mine, too," Lindemann said hardly able to believe what he'd just heard. Casablanca was far and away his favorite movie classic and overall favorite movie—ever. "Of all the vinyl shops in all the world..." he began before Layne began politely laughing.

Layne smiled then began to walk away. As she did, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Mr. Lindemann? I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship." The final line from their favorite movie wasn't lost on him.

A part of him felt a sense of panic; a fear that she would walk away and never return. Another part of him knew she'd be back and that she was right. Well, about the friendship part. He still saw no way for it go any further than that, but just knowing someone else saw the world the way he did, and the way Ruth had, was cause for a moment of quiet celebration.

He didn't see her again for two weeks and had begun to believe Layne may have only been trying to be polite when she said she'd return on some kind of regular basis. And yet if one's word was one's bond, a failure to do so would mean everything she claimed to be was a facade, and Ryan desperately wanted or perhaps even needed for her to be the real deal.

He was with a customer when she walked in and was in mid-sentence when he saw her. His voice trailed off when his brain identified the face under the bow-cloche hat as Layne's.

It was made of straw and of that natural color, a perfect match for both her skirt and shoes and went perfectly with the bag she was carrying. For a top, she was wearing a beautiful, soft, white cashmere sweater with a single strand of pearls as well as a pair of pearl earrings. She looked around briefly and when she made eye contact Ryan, she smiled at him in a such way that he completely lost his train of thought.

"Ryan? Did you say you could order that for me?" his customer asked.

"Order it? Oh, right. Sure. I can have that in for you in a couple of days," he told the older man who wanted an album by The Beatles he didn't have in stock. "I'll take care of that for you right now," he said never taking his eye off Layne.

He fought off the urge to run straight to her and gave her a couple of minutes to look around. He had so many questions to ask, none of which were any of his business. Why did she prefer to dress that way? (The way he preferred a woman to look.) Was her family wealthy? Was she wealthy? He had no interest in money, per se, beyond the necessities it could buy, but he was curious. Did she have friends who shared her values? Was one of them possibly a sister or cousin who was between 25 and 35? Had she moved back here permanently or was she only visiting for a while? And although he knew she was very young, he couldn't help but wonder if she had a boyfriend.

He saw her look up at him and he smiled before heading her way. He stopped, bowed ever-so slightly and said, "I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see you again."

"I gave you my word, Mr. Lindemann, and my word is..."

"Your bond," he said. "Shame on me for doubting." She smiled warmly at him before he asked, "See anything you like?"

She glanced briefly at him then said rather coyly, "Maybe one thing."

Ryan's entire body...tingled. "You look absolutely stunning today, Miss Warren. I love the hat. It's a cloche, is it not?"

"You know hats. I'm impressed."

"It suits you, Miss Warren. As does your outfit. Very stylish."

She thanked him then said, "I noticed you have an original copy of Wuthering Heights."

"Do you read French, Miss Warren?" he asked. He did indeed have an original hard-bound copy. It had been there since the store opened. Many people had commented on it, but no one had ever been willing to pay the $200 he was asking for it.

"Oui, j'ai lu le français très bien, merci," she replied.

"I'm afraid I just exposed my ignorance. I don't speak French at all." He smiled then said, "I am however, very impressed."

"Merci beaucoup!" she said. "Thank you very much. I do indeed speak French. I'm currently working on Italian, but without much success, I'm afraid."

"Are you interested in buying the Bronte classic by any chance?" he asked hopeful she actually want it.

"Very much so," she told him. "I have a hardback copy in English at home, but I would love to have an original."

He carefully picked the book up after unlocking the plexiglass cover it was kept under then asked if there was anything else he could show her.

"Do you still have the three-record collection by Sinatra I saw on my first visit?" she asked.

"We do indeed," he told her. "It's been here almost as long as the copy of Wuthering Heights. May I get it for you?"

"Yes, please," she replied politely. As they walked back to the record side of the store, Layne told him, "I plan to take quite a few things off your hands during future visits, Mr. Lindemann."

As he rang her up she asked, "Mr. Lindemann? Do you know by chance how to do the Lindy hop?"

"I can swing," he told her with a smile. "The Lindy was a very popular form of swing—one I unfortunately haven't had the chance to learn." As he told her her total he said, "I'm sensing you do know how to Lindy. Would that be correct?"

"Why, yes it would," she said very sweetly. "Are you by any chance interested in learning how?"

He swiped her credit card and as it was processing, he asked her, "Are you offering to teach me?"

"Only if you're interested," she replied.

"I'm more of a '50s kind of guy, but I do have an appreciation for the '40s, as well."

"The '40s gave us the greatest generation, Mr. Lindemann. I don't see where the '50s can even compete with that."

Her smile was simply unbelievable and her love of the past utterly intriguing. Her age aside, Ryan found himself very interested.

"I can't dispute your claim, Miss Warren. The '40s was a time of war, national sacrifice, and selfless service while the '50s was a decade of peace and prosperity and unrivaled economic growth."

"That's because we won the war making America the only manufacturing game in town," she said in a way that showed her grasp of history without sounding arrogant. "I think the '50s were a wonderful time, I just find it to be a rather...trivial decade in comparison to the one that preceded it."

He asked her to sign her copy of the receipt then said, "You're even more mysterious to me now than when I met you, Miss Warren."

She accepted the bag with her merchandise and receipt then said with another smile, "I was under the impression you enjoyed unraveling mysteries. Was I wrong?"

"No, you weren't wrong, Miss Warren. I am still very interested in delving into the depths of this one."

"So...would you perchance care to learn to Lindy?" she asked returning to the original subject.

He filed the store's copy of the receipt and said, "I would. Where do you propose we engage in that endeavor?"

"Why, right here, of course." She smiled then turned to walk away. Once again she turned her head slightly as she said over her shoulder, "What better place to reconnect with something from the past than...at the 'The Bridge' to it?"

Lindemann was so gobsmacked by her beauty and charm, he let her go without finding out how to contact her. She'd been gone for a good fifteen seconds before it dawned on him then ran outside looking in the direction she'd gone.

He saw her getting into a classic car from the '40s about 50 feet away and sprinted toward it. It began pulling out into traffic just as he was closing in and realized he was too late. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath and said out loud, "Who are you, Layne Warren?"

The answer had to wait for another two weeks before she came back to The Bridge. Lindemann had tried checking the phone book, but there were dozens of Warrens in the greater Seattle area and he had no idea what her father's first name was or whether his last name was even Warren.

The store was otherwise empty when she arrived giving Lindemann a moment to don a black Fedora much like the one Bogart wore in Casablanca. After lowering the brim and tilting it slightly to one side, he walked directly toward her.