Drift Wood

One

  Working in a vinyl store in the middle of Baltimore wasn't exactly what I'd call the best paying job in the world, but I actually tended to enjoy it. The very few customers that we did actually get were normally either teenagers who though they were cool looking for old records, teenagers who actually were cool looking for old records, or strange old men who missed their record players. It was a quiet place, meant for making friends and hanging out while listening to something ludicrously old, rather than actually buying music and getting on with your day.

Ironically named 'Safe Haven', the music store was my safe place. It had always been my safe place; it was quiet and serene and lonely, in the best way possible. Until, finally, one day, it just wasn't.

Playing guitar had never seemed so... unnatural. My tiny fingers had always somehow managed to reach all of the frets, and my calloused fingertips had gotten used to pressing down too hard on the strings. Not a note would sit out of place. But, now, sitting on the counter at work, the strings felt all wrong. My wrists ached and my fingers were screaming for help, damaged by the indentations the strings had caused. The frets were difficult to reach and I couldn't get the chords right. And everything was just... alien. Completely and totally alien. And the bell that chimed when he door was opened suddenly became my comfort, dragging me away from my guitar.

"Good choice." I nodded my head, an appreciative smile covering my face. My first attempt to scan the old Elvis Costello, Oliver's Army record was a total disaster, so I flicked my eyes up to the customer in apology. "Sorry. We need all new equipment." The man chuckled a little bit and smiled, showing off his teeth. They were far to white too white and far too perfectly placed to be trusted but, somehow, his eyes compromised his untrustworthy bones beautifully. "It's fine. I don't exactly have anywhere to be." His eyes smiled, but his mouth didn't reciprocate.
"Anywhere has to be more interesting than this place, though." The man shook his head, his expression vigorously showing that he disagreed. "You don't think so?"
"I like it. I come in here every Thursday, but I don't think I've ever seen you." My shifts had recently changed to accommodate family matters and my college schedule. "Well, I've never seen you either."
"Really? Never?" He smiled a little, a nervous expression replacing the earlier passionate one. I shook my head. "For a girl who works in a music store, I'd think you'd know who I was." My eyebrows raised, I raised my head to look at him properly. He didn't look remotely familiar. "I'm in a band..." I simply blinked, not being able to recall ever having seen his face before. "All Time Low?"
"Nope."
"Well, I'm Jack Barakat. Nice to meet you." He grinned, showing off his untrustworthy teeth, again, reaching his arm out across the counter. "Audrey Canon." I reluctantly took his hand and let him shake it. His hands were rough - he had a guitarist's hands.

Zero customers and two hours later, Jack had placed his butt onto the counter and his feet onto the shelves behind me. "So you've really never heard of All Time Low?" I shook my head, smiling at him. "I'm gonna bring you a mixtape of our best songs next Thursday." I wasn't sure if it was strange or not that I was actually looking forward to seeing him next week, or that I was kind of flattered that he'd put in the effort to make me a mixtape, even if it was of his own music. "I'll be right here, waiting."