Crash Records || Larry Stylinson

1. Knackered Converse

'Well, oh, they might wear classic Reeboks
Or knackered converse
Or tracky bottoms tucked in socks'
A Certain Romance - Artic monkeys

Crash records is a pokey hole in the wall sort of place, well that's how the 'lowlifes' of the town treat it. Behind the back, clear packets of weed and crystallised substances are passed around like secrets in a play ground, it makes it worse that it's the teenagers buying and selling. In all honesty, the green haze that the scuffed up kids find themselves in is rather good for business as they come in laughing and shaking their overly jolly little heads and buy the most random vinyls - the ones no one wants (well, no sober person.)

There is a small cosy cafe next door, where the old biddies sit, knitting ugly winter-wear, even though it's the middle of summer. In the midst of wrinkly hands tending to snotty nosed grandchildren, there is the worlds most wobbly coffee table and scratched brown sofa that's always inhabited by the more 'relaxed' teenagers. Somehow the drugs seem to have a calming effect on them, they laugh but it doesn't always send them into fits of hallucinations, or cause them to trip so hard that they believed they have wet themselves.

They were alright.

Most of them time they sit in the cafe, have a few hot drinks, then within exactly seven minuets before closing time they enter Crash Records looking for a vinyl or a poster that might be going spare or even heading to the bin. It helps that they are friends with one of the workers, not the owner though, he's a right prick, so they have to be careful about that. After messaging the group chat to see who is on shift or wether Paul, the manager, is lurking about, they enter the dusty shop.

This routine has been going on since they were in year ten. However, now the group don't wear the scratchy grey school jumpers, they wear whatever they find screwed up at the bottom of their wardrobe. Not a single one of them doubts this routine will ever change and hopefully it won't.

"Louis!" Zayn's thick Bradford accent boomed loudly over the bell that rang whenever someone enters the shop. The place was pretty much empty inside, even the dust was more lively than Crash records on a Thursday evening. Other than two friends that filed in after Zayn, they were the only ones there. "Louis?" He called again.

Suddenly from the stairs, that led up from the cellar, a fawn headed boy appeared with his index finger pressed against his lips, much like a primary school teacher telling them to be quiet. "Shhhhh! Paul's downstairs, having a nap in the break room and you twats are going to wake him up," he hissed.

"Oh... erm sorry," Liam apologised. It's typical of Liam to apologise, his soft natured personality really juxtaposes his dark eyes and broad shoulders.

"Don't worry mate, you weren't too loud."

Ironically, there was then a loud crash of metal hitting the scratched wooden floor. They all whipped there heads in the direction of the blonde who had a metal rack of CDs laid across his feet, whilst he proudly held a Kylie Minogue album in his pale hands.

"Fuck sake, Niall!" Louis groaned.

Oblivious like always, Niall didn't seem to notice the problem. He just looked at the three scowling boys, "What? Kylie Minogue is fit."

"She's like 54," Liam quietly chucked, "Old enough to be your mum."

"Not in these pictures she's not," Niall happily tapped the CD cover.