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“How long ago did she leave?”
“It’s been quite a while,” he admits with a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“You haven’t had any help since?”
He shakes his head no. I can’t imagine doing all of this by myself. Grabbing a comic from the rack, I take it over to the counter and start to flip through it.
Cash narrows his eyes at me. “What? I thought it was one of the perks.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I’m leaving,” he announces.
“Later, boss.” I wave without looking up from the comic.
I hear the chime as the door opens, but it doesn’t close right away which means he’s probably standing there staring at me.
I look up from the magazine. “You don’t mind if a few of my friends stop by while you’re out? That column there would make a good stripper pole.”
“See? This is exactly why I don’t like leaving the store,” he says angrily, about to step back inside.
“Relax, I was kidding.” I wave him off while laughing.
He sighs and runs his hand over his face in frustration.
“Sort of.”
“What?”
“Your store is in good hands.” I motion for him to leave.
He closes the door behind him, and I watch as he walks over to his bike which is parked in the lot. I stare as he lifts his leg over the seat and kick-starts the bike to life. The parking lot rumbles with the sound, and I can’t peel my eyes away until he is out of view.
Taking a deep breath, I flip through the comic but there’s nothing interesting in here. I let it fall to the counter and sigh, looking around the store.
Cash is mostly soft spoken - even when I annoy him and he gets a little ill-tempered. This time he was the one annoying me, like I can’t handle the store without him. I never knew how much space he took up in the room until he was gone. It’s as if the record store is an extension of him, breathing and moving in time to the beat of his heart, and right now, there’s no heartbeat.
For the first hour a handful of customers come in and everything goes smoothly. I’m pretty proud of myself, but I never had any doubt that I would be able to handle the store by myself, despite what Cash thought.
It looks like it’s been a long time since anyone dusted the shelves or wiped down the counter. I’m sure cleaning isn’t a priority for him, and it’s the least I can do while there’s downtime. I remember seeing some cleaning supplies in the storeroom, so I head back there and grab everything I need. Connecting my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, I set my playlist to shuffle as I start removing shirts from the shelves so I can clean them.
It takes me the better part of an hour. I wipe my forehead and look around the store with a frown. It doesn’t look much different; probably because all the worst areas are under the counters. It was like a dust bunny colony. There’s still so much more to clean as I look around the store. The posters covering the windows block out light, and I have a thought to pull them all down, but that might have to wait for another time.
I grab my camera from under the counter and pull it out of its case. Lifting the strap over my neck, I turn it on, flipping through settings on the screen, testing the light as I zoom in on the row of record bins. Ever since I first came in the store, I’ve been itching to take some photos. I love the vintage feel, and the writing on the bins has always intrigued me. I could see it in my mind, the angle and the lighting to take the perfect picture.
I adjust the ISO to the low light of the store and the flickering fluorescent bulbs above and crouch down to snap a few pictures. Looking at it through the screen, I flip through a few I just took, and I like the angle and the contrast. My fingers trace over all the writing - names, dates, a few drawings - all in black sharpie. It reminds me of the graffiti around town, but the one on the side of this building is more like art instead of the random symbols I’m used to seeing.
I wonder when all this started, who the first person was to write something and why. Some of the dates are as far back as ten years ago, no longer fresh and visible. I had to struggle to make out the numbers because people had written over it. All of these people had come into this store at some point, and I wonder who they were. Skimming through the first aisle, I smile at a few obscene drawings. I take a few more pictures when the bell above the door chimes, grabbing my attention.
It’s a young guy with dark hair that’s slicked back, with a few stubborn strands that won’t stay off his forehead, and gorgeous light eyes that offset his darker skin tone. The chain hanging against his hip makes noise as he walks the aisle. His sleeves are rolled up high on his biceps, revealing colorful tattoos. A beautiful design of angel wings spans out at the base of his neck. He notices me staring at him and smiles in the way boys do. He scans the store as if he’s looking for someone.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I walk over to the counter and set my camera down.
“You work here?” he asks, astonished, a slight tilt gracing his full lips. He looks to be my age, maybe younger, but carries himself like he’s older, lived harder.
“Yes.”
“Cash finally hired someone, eh?” He smiles appreciatively, nodding his head.
