hippie crypt 𓇗 ✧˖°.

the visible man

                                                       .   . . . . . ۫ ꣑ৎ . . . . .    .

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, consuming Myrna's antique shop with a glittering warmth, illuminating the cobwebs & chipped floorboards. Her eyelids flickered open, and the bright light only amplified the aching in her head. The previous night's conflicts with her father still rang in her ears like a discordant melody. As she stood up, her stiff limbs resisted, her muscles still sore from her gig the night before, and the memory of her father's barbs still cutting into her sides like sharp talons. The shop was still quiet, with only the ticking of the old Kit-Kat clock on the wall and the occasional honk from a passing car. 

She looked around dimly, her sight settling on a stack of papers and flyers scattered on the countertop, her eyes darting across the laminated lettering. As the lines of bold print came into focus, she realized that the flyers were a stark reminder that she'd be playing another gig that evening. The print advertisement taunted her with her passion for performing but equally mocked her father's disdain for it. She massaged her temples with her fingertips, but she was interrupted by the ringing of the door chime before her thoughts could start tying ribbons of stress. 

"Hello." Myrna greeted the customer as he walked in, her tone weary and exhausted.

 She always convinced herself to stay courteous to the customers despite her burning daydreams of running away from the shop altogether. Sometimes it physically stung her to have to put on a friendly caricature, it's not that she was bitter, she was generally well-meaning, just never the best at surface leveled communication. She was too intense sometimes, at least that's what her environment had always reflected upon her. Her father often ridiculed her for it in her childhood, telling her that she wasn't conceived on Earth, convincing her she was an alien from Mars. 

She always believed it.

Myrna felt alien most days, but especially in moments like this. To Myrna, sometimes friendly greetings, when she was feeling far from well spirited, felt more like disingenuous acts of deceit. 

The blonde gave Myrna a pleasant nod & returned the "Hello." Her gaze followed as he walked to the back of the store, he browsed through an unorganized shelf loaded with old dolls and  strange toys from the 1960's, but his interest lingered on the music gear. After roughly 15 minutes, he approached the register with an anatomical "Visible Man" kit & a sky blue Gibson. Myrna looked down at the duality on the checkout countertop & right back at him. She noticed the fact he was wearing a Stooges tee shirt & she couldn't help but smile to herself, she loved The Stooges. She quickly rang him up, the intriguing laidback energy of the blonde haired customer helped in dissipating her acerbic attitude from the night before. 

"That'll be it?" Myrna asked. 

She put "The Visible Man" into a plastic bag before sliding it towards him, but he seemed too preoccupied with the flyers on the table to answer. His eyes skimmed over the words with a blossoming interest before he looked back up at her. 

"Is that you?" He inquired, pointing to the advertisement that featured a photograph of Myrna and other musicians, their names emblazoned in bold letters: "Mytomanic, Ring Finger, Myrna Ploy - Performing at the Reko Muse Gallery, 8.00pm. Entry: $3". 

Myrna's fingers fidgeted with the crisp edges, feigning a sense of detachment as if she'd forgotten her own gig, when in reality, she couldn't forget it if she tried.

 "Oh, yeah, I'm the supporting act in the finest print." she replied with a wry grin, inwardly bitter with herself for still being relegated to short sets & supporting acts. To Myrna's surprise, the customer still gleamed with curiosity at the statement.

"So you're Myrna?"He asked as confirmation whilst his eyes narrowed to search for the name in the finest print. 

"That's really cool, maybe I'll check it out." He added, grabbing the bag off the counter & slinging the guitar over his shoulder. 

"Thanks," Myrna replied, "and yeah, that's me. Maybe I'll see you around then...?" She said, but her words hung in the air as if she'd left a Mad Lib for him to fill. The stranger gave her a puzzled look for less than a second, finally realizing why her words lingered.

"Kurt. I'm Kurt" the customer said with a smile, finally introducing himself. 

"Well, maybe I'll see you around, Kurt." She echoed, simply to acknowledge his name before he left. 

"See you around, Myrna." His words bounced off hers with a similar inflection.

The shaggy-haired customer with the Gibson guitar faded out of sight, but Myrna's smile didn't. Disbelief washed over her face, realizing that someone had actually paid attention to her flyer.She always placed them along what she felt was every dingy wall in the city of Olympia. They were merely viewed as bothersome street litter, dismissed as something people wanted to see less of, never regarded as earnest advertisements.

Myrna savored the realization that the gig could be attended by somebody genuinely interested in her performance, not just as the supporting act to endure. A sense of reassurance flooded her senses, an unfamiliar contentment settled within her, a rare joy in an artist weary of the cold indifference of the world. Myrna had not become an artist for validation, but she relished in it all the same, partly because it affirmed that she was on the right path and partly because it allowed her to spite those who doubted her. She took pleasure in defying the detractors, especially her own father. 

Myrna harbored a deep sense of vindictive satisfaction.

The remainder of the workday was tedious, all she could think about was her gig, mentally preparing herself for the evening, practicing her set on a lit-up stage within her mind. Myrna practically lived in her mind, which is why she valued the arts so brazenly, why she worshipped performance as if it were her savior; it was the only thing that pulled her out of her mind & encouraged her to exist beyond the confines of her own synapses. 

Stages were her sanctum, her own Sistine Chapel.

It seemed to Myrna as if the day couldn't move any slower, a time trap. She sat at the register, tapping her fingernails against the table, her eyes glued to the clock pendulum swinging, her impatience gnawing at her as she awaited nightfall. Better put, as she awaited seeing a familiar stranger again, as she awaited her gig, 

As she awaited performance, her own personal heaven.

                                                   ━━━━ ༺༻ ━━━━