The Evening Street : RADIODUST

11: Scraped Knees - 2 :Draft:

A/N: gasp! An update? Impossible.
1733

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July 9th

Tic

Toc

Tic

Toc

Alastor glanced down to his gray wristwatch, watching the small silver hands moving to the next digit: VII. Anthony was running fifteen minutes late. He had sent a message that he would have a delay and yet, Alastor's interest was fading.

Perhaps his boredom grew from the mall's chilly air, leaving goosebumps on his skin or maybe it was the dull mundane chatter of normal civilians, never straying from the expected

Alastor sighed, closing his eyes and rested his head against the bench.

Patience was an attribute he had little of, and it diminished more and more as every second ticked by. He wished to be patient, Anthony had talent, skill, and a curious story developing behind the scenes. He was an unlikely hero, one of a ...sexual nature and a dark, unknown background, with great grand dreams.

Why should he leave, if the show was barely starting?

Over the mall's pop music, an auto tuned monstrosity, Alastor's ear caught on an old jazzy melody, one he had not heard in years. The quality was wonderful, real recorded instruments in a live format compared to the electronic industrialized chords blasted throughout the mall.

He pried his eyes open, scanning at the nearby stores, trying to find the origin of the music. Alastor's eyes fixated on the small antique boutique with display cases filled to the brim with thingamabobs, old hardware and period pieces. The objects attracted little interest as the majority of the junk were of the 1950's, but Alastor was looking for the record player beyond the glass. What he could see was another shelf filled with lead-based ceramic plates and cups.

*Fine. Social interaction it was.*

Like a moth to a flame, he strolled over to the shop, bypassing the shelves. Lanterns of all shapes and sizes hung on the ceiling, stained glass and plain steel. Alastor had to take care of where he stepped. Ancient doll houses and low tables filled with dusting plushies hogged the walk-way and unsteady shelves filled with aging knick-knacks lined the path to the music.

At the very back of the store was an old woman by the counter, her fingers were dotted with oil as she fixed the gears of a coocoo clock. A crooked monocle hung on her furrowed eyebrows, grey haired tied back and a light blue apron. A few feet away from her on the same counter, was a classic gramophone. Wood finish, a vinyl record turning, and a grandiose gilded horn emitting the sound, that was a classic phonograph.

Years had passed since Alastor had seen one in such an excellent state.

The woman looked up with striking grey eyes. He was almost unnerved by the clarity and attention brought up to him, as if he had disturbed some great work of life. She turned the screwdriver, gears clicking.

"Good afternoon, " Alastor asked

"Hi kid," the woman said.

"Is the song that's playing perhaps... He's So Unusual, by Helen Kane?" Alastor said.

The woman blinked. She placed the screwdriver down, "Pardon?"

"I haven't heard it in years, it was my mother's favorite. I prefer Out of Nowhere by Ruth Etting or Hush, Hush, Hush, here comes the boogeyman— scratch that, Radio times, by Henry Hall," Alastor said.