Hullabaloo

The Meeting

     Imagine you're getting ready for another shitty day at work. Imagine being Jesse Aleks, walking out of your apartment door; your mom in a deathly state of slumber, not noticing how her son has almost nearly kneed her neighbor's dog in the dick. "Watch out!" Nameless Neighbor incredulously shouts even though you're already running to catch the city bus. Clearly not wanting to miss your only ride around this small-ass town, you almost lose a shoe in the process of running into some old, olive-skinned ambiguously gendered dude in the bus line. He grumbles some slurs at you, but you're too tired to care and carefully shove past him to board the bus. You plop down in one of the empty window seats right behind the driver, folding your arms in your lap. This, of course, does not happen before you speedily and quite nervously glance around the vehicle.

     You do this because you are all too painfully aware of the Soulmate Selection, a rather tedious and torturous system that everyone is born with. Once a person's eyes and their soulmate's directly meet, it is said that you can hear music. Real music. Not the kind that music-deaf people make to try and get around it. You too, are music-deaf, as you still have yet to find the girl meant for you.

     The bus comes to a stop, and you have to walk a block or two to get to your destination. Rather awkwardly jogging across the street mouthing a "sorry" with an apologetic hand motion to one of the drivers that stops, not really wanting to kill some kid this early in the morning, you come upon a corner with a sign that reads, Revolver Records. You love the scent of the records, new and old, as you jiggle the keys in the lock and step inside. A young couple has been waiting outside, so they follow you in. The lady gives you a look as you tiredly walk behind the counter, so you politely glare and say, "if you have any questions, I'd be happy to help". They simply shuffle away to one of the nearby record display bins.

     A tall guy with a backpack held in one hand, almost dragging on the floor, waltzes in. You immediately take note that his hair and clothes and just overall demeanor is intimidating, if not flat-out uncanny. "Looking for something, mister?" You don't even glare this time. Instead, your eyes widen a bit at the man's face as he turns to face you. Boy, really. He looked around your age. Perhaps a year or two older. He was wearing sunglasses, one of the common things that people did if they weren't interested in the whole 'soulmate' shenanigan, other than opting for a surgical total-blindness. You find yourself wanting to see his full face, wondering what color his eyes could possibly be. 

     You soon shake the thought from your mind after the black-haired beauty responds with an angry, jarring, "fuck off". You ask yourself why the hell you're still working here before you can catch yourself retorting, "step off it man, what's got you in a twist?" You know your dialogue's slang is crap when Glasses gives you a disgusted look, his brows furrowed and mouth drawn into a tight frown that has the potentiality to be mistaken for a smirk. He steps up to the counter just as you take a step back. The full height difference is more evident than ever as he looms over you. There's one other customer browsing a shelf towards the back, paying no mind to the petty scene breaking out up front.

     Dicky, your middle-aged, sex-crazed, curly-haired ginger of a boss stumbles in, mumbling something about how low the store's traffic was (typical for a Sunday morning), looking high as fuck. Shooting a quick look at Glasses, who now had his arms crossed over his chest, you turn back to your fuck-up of a boss and scold him for being late and for his, once again, horrid appearance. He waves you off, saying that you can go and that your hot coworker (his words, not yours), Jane, will fill in while you're at your slum of a school. As you grab your backpack that you had lugged along that apparently had not been previously mentioned, Stoner Boss calls after you with a "better be here after classes, kid!"

     You ignore him, knowing full well that you'll do as you're told because you have nowhere better to be anyway. The memory of the recent verbal abuse that you had just received resurfaces, souring your mood once more.

     How lovely.