A few days ago a friend of mine hipped me to a Goldsboro record store that was going out of business.
When most people hear that a store is going out of business, their brains are immediately immersed in thoughts of bargains. The people who’ll be losing their jobs don’t usually come into play until you show up to pick the meat off the bones of their once flourishing business.
The store in question was an FYE (For Your Entertainment) CD/DVD store. Since they routinely charged $18 for a single CD, the FYE may have actually been an anagram for “Fork (Over) Your Earnings.”
I had a few non-negotiable days off, so I peeled Tax Deduction No. 2 off the ceiling and forged a path down U.S. 70 West with visions of finding that ever-elusive Japanese import version of the Jim Nabors box set for cheap.
(The Japanese version is special because it contains tracks from the Jim Nabors/Rock Hudson duets album “Rock Pyle” that were omitted from the U.S. pressings.)
Upon arrival, I immediately noticed what a consultant would refer to as “creative marketing” and a veteran dirt farmer would refer to as a crock of “bull fertilizer.”
For example, a DVD copy of “Cream: Live at the Royal Albert Hall” (with a cut-out mark on its side) would normally be priced at no more than $9.99. But now — with a giant “30% off” sticker slapped on it, the DVD is priced at $15.99.
You tell me, is this corporate skulduggery at its finest or just a fool catcher’s holiday?
My buddy actually found a few genuine deals the day before, so I figured a little digging would be required. As TD No. 2 and I started rifling through the albums, a store employee started a movie on the in-store system.
Within a few minutes, some of the movie dialogue caught my ear. The words that were emitting from the speakers were the kind best left to locker rooms, fishing trips, band rehearsals and reactions to newspaper employee pay checks.
All of the old favorites (“s” and “f” especially) were on display for everyone in the store — including at least three children under the age of 5. Surely the employees at FYE wouldn’t knowingly play a profanity-laced movie to people who couldn’t legally see the film in a theater … or would they?
The closest employee was a guy wearing a tobaggan who seemed to be trying to kick a hackey sack that wasn’t there. In the nicest voice I could conjure, I asked the illegitimate son of Dobie Gillis and Drew Barrymore if he’d mind changing the movie to something that didn’t involve cursing.
“Uh … I … don’t … think there’s any cursing in the movie,” Dobie Jr. said.
“Yes, there is,” I said as I covered TD No. 2’s ears. “There have been four s**** and one ***k in the three minutes I’ve been in the store. Do you think my kid or any of these others should be hearing this in your store?”
“Well, the other parents aren’t complaining,” Dobie Jr. said.
“That’s because they’re idiots,” I replied.
After referencing his iPhone app for walking, Dobie Jr. eventually put one foot in front of the other and walked up to his manager to confer.
While awaiting the results of the summit between Dobie Jr. and his superior, I wondered if this sort of thing would have bothered the younger me. I think it would.
In fourth grade, I once kicked a classmate square in the onions for throwing spitballs at a group of kindergartners who were just trying to go to lunch. After telling the teacher what happened, I was pardoned from an almost certain paddling.
Today I would have probably been sued for millions of dollars and the teacher fired. The teacher and I could have eloped to France where the age difference wouldn’t be such a big deal and sell overpriced junk to antique-hunting tourists, but I digress.
While Dobie spoke in a hushed tone to his boss lady, she assumed an exasperated demeanor and issued her ruling.
“We can’t turn it off, but we can turn it down,” Dobie said when he returned.
“Why can’t you turn it off?” I asked. “Have you lost the remote?”
“It’s store policy that once we start a movie, we have to finish it,” he said.
Instead of allowing my skull to explode while holding my second-born I left the store, noticing that the profanities could be heard several feet outside the store. A little old lady who looked like she may have dated FDR in high school seemed stunned at what she heard as she walked in front of the store.
When I got home, I called the store and asked to speak to the manager. I asked why they played these kinds of movies in front of small children who couldn’t legally buy them.
Manager: “Our store policy states we can play anything with a PG-13 rating.”
Me: “So you’re telling me a 7-year-old can’t buy the movie you were playing, but they can view it in your store?”
Manager: “We play the movies so people will want to buy them; that’s how business works.”
Me: “I understand how business works, Mrs. Trump. I also realize if you tick off people in your store they don’t buy anything. Were you out with rickets the day they covered that at Dunderpate University?”
Manager: “I’ve been at this store for four years and no one has ever complained before. Look, I’m a mother and both of my kids have seen that movie.”
Me: “You must be proud.”
Manager: (Click followed by dialtone).
Me: “Mmyellow?”
I left a message with the Berkeley Mall office and with FYE’s corporate office, but haven’t received any type of response. Desperate to find out if I was the crazy one, I called a law enforcement agency in Goldsboro and asked if it was legal to broadcast this kind of stuff to an audience that couldn’t legally buy it.
“Well, it’s not necessarily illegal but they could be fined for it,” the officer said. “There’s not a lot that can be done about it.”
I thanked the officer for his time and peacefully gave up.
Initially, I thought the store manager was lying when she said no one had complained in four years, but she probably wasn’t. All I can do is make sure my girls hear their first curse words the old-fashioned way — by accident the next time I hit my thumb with a hammer and forget they’re within earshot.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase Jon’s book “Making Gravy in Public” at The Free Press office and at jondawson.com.