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4
Austin
“You’re crazy,” I repeat, pushing Shawn’s arm as he laughs.
“I’m telling you, every day she stops in front of that building, jogging with her little poodle,” he continues his story. He’s been telling me how a lady always jogs in front of a building across the street from Rich Records, dressed in tight yoga pants and a sports bra. “She’ll stop and start looking inside that building. She’s checking for the postal carrier.”
“You’re crazy!” I say for the third time, still laughing. “She is fine, though.”
His head snaps up from the front desk he’s sitting behind, his eyes meeting mine. “You didn’t tell me you’re into cougars.”
I shake my head. “Oh, come on. She can’t be over forty. Forty-five max.”
“Yeah. That’s, like, your mom’s age, isn’t it?”
“Come on, man!” I sock his shoulder, and we both start laughing.
Shawn’s a year older than me and has been working at the front desk of the building for a while now. When I’m in the building I’m either in one of the studios learning from different music producers, or I’m hanging out at the front desk with Shawn. I know, it’s such a back-breaking job.
To tell you the truth, I still have no idea what my official title is. Nor do I know what I’m actually supposed to be doing while I work for my father. I sit in on a couple of meetings with him, but when I asked him what I’m supposed to do, he said just watch over the place. Um, okay.
“Dude! Dude! Dude!” He grabs my shoulder, wildly shaking me.
Looking through the crystal-clear windows and double doors of the front of the building, I see the woman he was just talking about. Today she’s in dark green yoga pants, with a gray and blue sports bra. Her dog—a shaved poodle with a fluff of hair on the top of its head and its tail—waits patiently while she contorts her body to peer into the building.
“That mailman must be packing something.”
He laughs. “Who says it’s not a mail lady?”
I pause for a minute, glancing at him. “Even better.”
She waits for a moment longer, and then she goes on her way.
Shawn’s a cool guy. Slightly shaggy hair, but not as much as mine. His is more surfer-style, bedhead type stuff, but he catches the eyes of the girls that work in the building. It has to be the suit. It’s not a police officer uniform, but he’s dressed in a pressed white shirt and black pants as a security guard. It’s not a dangerous job, though. His level of security doesn’t even require him to carry a stun gun. He does have a holster for a canister of mace, but that’s about it.
“How’s school been?”
“You know, it’s school. How about you?”
“Living the community college life, my friend.”
“Must be nice.”
“Get the hell out of here.” He pushes my shoulder. “Mr. Full Ride to Ocean Crest University, you don’t have it that bad.”
“All on my dad’s bill, you know that.”
“I keep telling you, Austin. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“And I still don’t have any idea what that means.”
He laughs, leaning against the small desk. “I don’t either. Something my grandpa used to tell me. I think it means you’re not supposed to eat from the horse trough or something like that.”
I stare at him for a minute, wondering if that’s really what it means. Common sense takes over and I start laughing, which earns one out of him.
I’m at Rich Records a few days out of the week, and I look forward to hanging out with him in front. I guess I should be glad I’m calling this place a job. I don’t clock in or out, and I don’t answer to anyone. In lieu of an official paycheck from the company, my father deposits enough money into my account every month that covers anything I need to live off of, and then some.
Taking a seat next to him, I throw my legs out and cross them, aiming to relax for the next hour I’m supposed to be here. That’s another thing about this job—as much as you can call it a job—it’s beyond easy. Almost everyone who works in the building knows where they’re going and what they’re doing. Shawn’s basically a glorified doorman, and I’m his trusty sidekick, the wealthy owner’s son.
