Coupeville Sports

Peter Burke, rockin’ high fashion in the early ’70s. (Photo courtesy Sarah Lyngra)

“Well, personally, it sounds to me like cats experiencing a less than satisfying sexual encounter on a bed of garbage, but if you like it…”

His brutal takedown of Metallica complete, Peter Burke leaned slightly back, always with an elegance to the move, a slight smile threatening to break through around the corners.

Which was enough to send Kenneth Hopkins, my unpaid and pull of piss ‘n vinegar teenage “assistant” during my final video store days, into an arm-waving, full-throated defense of modern music.

Which only made Mr. Burke’s eyes twinkle even brighter, and the battle to keep his smile hidden, even harder.

Arching one eyebrow to the heavens and beyond as he read the back of a DVD box for an opera performance, the smartly dressed senior citizen delighted in gently tormenting the easily excitable teen.

Who, to my great surprise, always treated his elder, a man who was so different in every way, with a deep respect.

Kenneth could be a ball of TNT ready to explode (or shove a lightbulb into the video drop box just to see what would happen), but he would hear no slander of Mr. Burke, and pity any of his friends who tried to make snarky comments about the gentleman.

“The Kenny and Mr. Burke” show played out almost daily at David’s DVD Den, having moved over from Videoville as I wandered through my final days of video store life.

On the one side, an elderly man of rare culture and refinement, who would often deeply sigh when discussing people of his own generation.

“They’ve all gotten so old and boring!”

He loved his opera and was the only person on the planet who rented any from the 10-disc set I bought on a whim.

Or, rather, bought as part of a foolish bender where I plowed inheritance money from my grandmother into obtaining a DVD collection I later lost to a sweaty ambulance chaser lawyer when I threw a tantrum and quit video store life for good.

But, in the moment, the operas, with their bright red boxes, looked snappy on the shelf, and Mr. Burke enjoyed them at $2.00 a rental, so my easily expected financial loss at least made him happy.

He repaid me with an endless stream of stories, both from his life in Coupeville as the son of a well-known music teacher, and his adventures in higher societies.

In return, for several years I gave him my copies of Entertainment Weekly after I read them, which gave him a special thrill.

Because, deep dark secret, Mr. Burke, ultra-refined man of good taste, a gentleman who effortlessly carried himself as if he was about to visit the Queen for high tea, was also a huge boy band fan.

Oh, it’s true.

Which drove Kenneth even further up the wall, as he loudly protested that the only good boy band was one tied up and left on a train track waiting for the 12:15 to rumble through.

Coming in to his own as a music lover, he bounced all over the place, lecturing me and Mr. Burke on the varied merits of Def Leppard, Ozzy, and many, many more.

That final two-year stretch at David’s DVD Den, a time when I foolishly worked 10 hours a day, every day — once working close to 200 consecutive days, as I hurt my health and alienated some former supporters — was a weird part of my life.

Both of my parents had recently died, my first nephew — who I saw every day for the first 5+ years of his life — left Whidbey, and I floundered around a lot, stewing and being miserable.

“The Kenny and Mr. Burke Show” was one of the few redeeming parts of that time period.

It’s been sort of amazing to see Kenneth grow up and become not just a responsible adult, but a really high-achieving, intelligent dude.

The kid who reminded me of Beavis at times in the early days would undoubtedly make Mr. Burke proud.

After I stormed out of the building on Cinco de Mayo 2009, finally accepting my video store dreams had curdled beyond repair, I had one concern.

The loss of the store snatched away Mr. Burke’s chance to get out of his apartment, stretch his legs, and be my own personal Oscar Wilde.

But we stayed in touch, and he came by my duplex to get his Entertainment Weekly issues and deliver impassioned talks on why tennis god Roger Federer ruled, and his fiery foe, Rafael Nadal, drooled.

Mr. Burke would also ask about Kenneth, who eventually moved to working on the mussel rafts parked out beyond my front yard, the same rafts I once haunted as a younger man.

“Is he still listening to that metal music that sounds like cats having the worst sex of their life?” he would ask, and then the twinkle in his eye would once again flare.

It’s been several years now since Mr. Burke passed away, but seeing the photo above reminds me what a delight he was.

Somewhere out there in the cosmos, there’s a person listening to La traviata, before cranking up the volume and segueing into the Backstreet Boys crooning I Want it That Way.

Mr. Burke would be proud.