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It’s almost noon. Where is she?
My eyes are fixed on the door, but my foot taps impatiently out of my control, vibrating up to my hip bone. I need to calm down, but my body won’t obey.
The door slowly creaks open. Could it be?
It’s not her. A pang of disappointment punches me in the gut as a middle-aged man trudges inside.
“Welcome to Epic Records. Can I help you find anything?”
Keeping his head down, the man slowly shuffles past me, ignoring my greeting.
He has today’s newspaper wedged under his arm. An all-too-familiar headline in bold print glares at me—Local Woman Murdered. No Leads—accompanied by a photograph of a homely looking woman in her thirties with long brunette hair.
“So sad,” I say, following him and pointing to his paper, trying to get the customer to engage.
He lets out an annoyed gruff, then continues to the rear of the store, where he begins sifting through the used records.
“Jerk,” I whisper under my breath, just quietly enough so he doesn’t hear me. But do I really care? What’s the worst that could happen? Kade fires me? I doubt it. I’m his best employee and I’d like to think I’m his friend. This place couldn’t function without me, especially lately.
I lean down and reach into a newly opened shipment of inventory. I curl my fingers under a pristine stack of vinyl records and pull them carefully out of the box. I set the tall pile on the countertop, taking the top one. I unwrap the shipping packaging, careful not to ruin the intentional cellophane wrapping in the process, and scan the barcode into our computer system to create a new item. It’s mindless work, really. I scan the second record from the pile and as my fingers hit the keyboard to type in the new listing, a breeze sweeps across my Birkenstock sandals. My toes curl in reaction to the cool air.
The door! I neglected my precious entryway for more than a few seconds. I must pay better attention, or I could miss my opportunity.
But it’s still not her. Instead, a young girl and a baby-faced man casually stroll inside.
“Welcome.”
Giggling to themselves and wrapped in each other’s embrace, they walk past the counter, also ignoring my greeting while sipping on their pumpkin spice lattes. Everything about the pair screams “musical tourist”—the name I give to posers who buy records to feel hip. I can spot them from a mile away.
The girl pulls out her phone and begins taking selfies in front of the vintage posters, solidifying my assumption; they’re not here for the music. They just want to look cool.
I’m slowly losing hope of ever connecting with others who have the same affinity for the history of music, as those genuine record-loving customers are few and far between. Darn musical tourists. They make me detest a job I should be enjoying. Luckily, I have Kade to chat with about my passion or I would go crazy. Another old soul trapped in a different time. However, we see and experience the “now” quite differently.
Where are the beatniks and the Grateful Dead fans? I want to chat their ears off. You’d think they’d be lingering around a record store, wanting to recall tales of the past with anyone who’d listen. I would love to hear their stories about what it was like growing up during that era. I really believe that I was born a few decades too late for the life I was meant to live.
Is it bad I don’t understand my own generation and their dependency on technology? I just don’t get it.
But she is different. I’ve never seen her pull out her phone in here. Not once. Plus, she’s really cute. Where is she? My stomach churns in anticipation. I anxiously check my watch. It’s now five past noon.
She always comes at noon.
Like clockwork; every Friday, midday. I imagine it’s her lunch hour and Fridays are her payday. Although, I wouldn’t know for certain because I have never actually spoken to her.
I walk up behind the young couple, catching them mid-pose. “Anything I can help you find?” The man barely glances in my direction and the girl doesn’t look past her phone.
Am I invisible? I feel like it.
They resume their stance in front of a Led Zeppelin poster, the fake shutter noise of the phone camera sounding as I walk away. I highly doubt either of them could name one of their songs—not even ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ I’m annoyed, and yet I can’t help but envy the young fools in love, and for this, I hate them.
I can’t help but think about the first time she came into the store. That was six Fridays ago.
She walked in alone and went straight to a Bob Dylan record. I liked that she knew exactly what she wanted.
I continued to watch her from afar, mesmerized by her every move. From the way she wrinkled her nose as she read the back of the album, to her little content grin as she tucked the record under her arm. She appeared slightly younger than me, but not by more than a year or so. She was cute as hell, with a tiny little nose and eyes as blue as the ocean. Her hair an intentional mess of loose blonde curls, giving that I-don’t-give-a-fuck impression.
Afraid to even say hi, in fear of doping up the conversation and starting off on a bad foot, I darted to the backroom, my nerves rattled by this beautiful creature along with a flurry of insecurities created by my old friends. They went so far as to use my name to coin a phrase for any time a guy messed up a conversation with a girl: Don’t Max it up, they’d say.
I didn’t want to Max it up. But that’s what I do.
I want to be normal. Suave. Like Kade. I suppose that if I looked more like Kade, life would be easier. He’s buff, bronzed, and starkly handsome. Every girl flounders at the sight of him. I, on the other hand, am much thinner, lankier, and paler than Kade. He has that effortless hair that can flop any which way and still look cool. While I have the kind of hair that looks like I rolled out of bed if I don’t style my thick black birds’ nest. I’m not the kind of guy girls swoon over; I’m the kind of guy who runs away like a coward when a girl finally piques my curiosity.
So, I peered around the corner as Kade rung up my new love interest while she was unaware I was admiring her from afar.
“Great album choice. One of Dylan’s finest,” Kade commented in a charming but know-it-all tone.
She smiled a wide toothy grin back at him, eager to engage. “The Freewheelin’, in my opinion, is the album that rocketed Dylan’s talent to another level. His sophomore album cemented his career. Don’t ya think?”
“Absolutely,” Kade responded.
At that moment, I knew she wasn’t a musical tourist. She was like Kade and me. She then thanked Kade and left the building. My heart plummeted to my feet with the realization that I might never see this girl again. I’d messed up. I should have said hi, at least.
But the following Friday, she came back.
I watched as she thumbed through a stack of records, landing on a Janis Joplin album. She carefully pulled it out of the bin and did that same cute wrinkling of her nose as she read the back of Janis’s second and final solo album, Pearl. It’s such a shame Janis didn’t live to see the success of her hard work—an early member of the so-called 27 Club. The list is long and sad. Too many immensely talented musicians gone too early. What I wouldn’t give to live in a world that didn’t take Jimi Hendrix or Jim Morrison during their prime—the curse of rock ’n’ roll—and drugs.
My eyes stayed with her as she smirked and tucked the album under her arm, now making her way over to me. Her confident demeanor was sexy, but intimidating. Her appearance of black-and-cream checkered Vans, tight tapered black jeans, and a loose-fitting white T-shirt didn’t scream threatening, but yet she was.
This time, I was the only one working. I had no choice, I had to ring her up. My legs went weak as she marched up to the register.
Her ocean-blue eyes stared wide-eyed at me, and all my courage abandoned my body. I couldn’t even muster up a “Did ya find everything OK?” All I could manage was a smile and an awkward, “Hi.” She must have thought I was such a dick. I’m not a dick, just a coward.
She slid her card into the card reader, and I handed her a receipt. I didn’t even say thank you. Who does that? That’s the minimum effort of customer service, and I failed. I failed at my job, and I failed at speaking to the woman of my dreams.
The following four Fridays, I took an early lunch and hung out in the backroom. I wasn’t ready for her. I needed more time to gain my confidence. Perhaps if I knew more about her, I could make a better impression.
So, I listened around the corner and watched her every move. I made note of her purchases. She had a thing for sophomore albums, and I was intrigued. Over the next three weeks, she bought Grateful Dead’s Anthem of the Sun, Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bayou Country, and Joni Mitchell’s Clouds. Why was she only buying second albums? What was her reason? Was this something I could ask her if I ever got the courage to talk to her? I owned and enjoyed every one of those albums, so we already had a lot in common, if I could just open my mouth and speak to her.
I bet she didn’t belong in this generation either—another soul destined for another time.
It’s now 12:25. She’s not coming today. My foot taps nervously again. I rest my hand on my leg, hoping to calm the sensation, but it doesn’t help.
Dang it, Max.
Thoughts of never seeing her again whip through my mind, stirring up unwanted memories of my cowardice; a nagging reminder of my inability to just be a normal guy. The words that my ex-girlfriend used frequently. Coward and “Why can’t you just be a normal guy?”
I know Kade doesn’t have these problems. He leaves here every night, ready for a new date. Drinks, sex, repeat. That’s Kade’s motto. He might as well have it printed on a T-shirt. To be honest, we wouldn’t be friends if the guy didn’t have such a love for music. But here I am, working at Kade’s store, Epic Records, and have been for over two years. Stuck in a life barely moving forward. Listening to Kade’s heartless “sexcapades.” His stories have been more frequent and, quite frankly, more scandalous over the last six months.
As the seconds tick on, I resign to the fact that she’s not coming. I glance down at my outfit, feeling stupid. I picked every piece for her today. I even styled my hair. Well, I styled it more than I usually do. It’s a considerable upgrade, nevertheless. My usual roll-out-of-bed-and-let-it-hang-wherever look wasn’t going to work today. But it doesn’t matter now. I missed out on my opportunity. She’s never missed a day before. Perhaps she’s sick? Or away?
I begin to worry about the fate that might have befallen my love, before I’m struck by the annoying idea that maybe I could find her on social media.
No, I can’t do that. It should be a natural connection, not forced.
But what if she never comes in again? What if I’ve missed my chance?
Maybe I could try to look her up. But she might not be on social media—like me. Of course, that will make me like her even more, but that means I may never find her.
But where would I start? I don’t even know her name. I could probably find her with a little bit of work. I don’t even know what app to try first. Is Facebook still cool? I honestly don’t know. Do I dare ask the musical-tourist couple what the hip app is these days? I know they’d know.
Screw it.
I shout over the counter, directing my voice to the aisle of new records where the couple has taken up residence. “Hey what’s the best social media app? What are people using the most?”
The girl’s eyes dart around the store before realizing the question is directed at them. She rolls her eyes but answers, “Socialite, duh.”
“Thanks,” I quickly respond, ready to end the awkward moment. The couple takes that as their cue to exit the store along with the middle-aged man. Neither purchase anything. How this store stays afloat is beyond me.
All right. Socialite, it is.
I reach under the counter and lock my fingers around my phone. A sick, queasy feeling weaves itself through my stomach.
Am I really going to do this? Social media is the downfall of our society. If I do, then I’m going against my own rules—my social morals. Who am I if I don’t have rules? Just another poser?
Max, why can’t you be a normal guy? My ex’s words nip at me—Nag, nag, nag. I’m overthinking things—another one of my annoying downfalls that my ex pointed out before everything completely exploded.
But things could be different with this one.
If I could just find her.
I can do this.
Just download the stupid app, Max.
I let my finger hover over the Socialite app icon, but before I can even hit download, the door whips open.
In walks a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties. He appears out of place, with his tailored button-up collared shirt. His skin flawless, his light sandy-colored hair perfectly side-parted, tall but slender with perfect posture. I part my lips to greet him, but he gives me no chance to speak.
“Where’s Kade?” the man questions. His face stern and serious.
“Um, he’s not in yet. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Fucking Kade,” the man says rubbing his temples. A word I didn’t expect from a man who looked like him. “I’ll wait.” He pushes past me and assertively walks toward Kade’s office.
“Dude, you can’t go back there!” I shout, tossing my hands in the air.
The man doesn’t respond. An iridescent glow from the office light illuminates the room along with the rustling sound of papers being shuffled on Kade’s desk. This jars me, but I’m not one to get involved, so I just let it happen.
Coward.
He reappears after a few moments, taking long strides toward me, only stopping once he reaches the doorway. “On second thought,” he says, “have Kade call the second he fucking walks through the door. Here, as he seems to have forgotten who I am.” He flicks a rectangular black card at me, but it misses the counter, landing on the floor.
“Um, yeah. . .” I say again but he’s already on the sidewalk, turning left.
I bend down to retrieve the item. It’s a shiny, black business card with a gold embossed border. A simple name is all that’s printed on the first side.
Ben Matthews
Flipping the card over proves just as useless as the front.
30492
Noli pugnare daemonibus tuis, amplectere eos.
What good is this?
“Prick!” I shout to an empty store, shoving the card into my pocket. I check my watch again, it’s after 12:30. She’s definitely not coming in. I retrieve my phone and press the Socialite icon in the app store, going against my better judgment and breaking my own rules.
See, I’m no fucking coward.