No More No More

Boston

Paul asks me why I walked to work.  "It'll be dark by the time you need to leave."

   I begin to put the records (only the 78s... I hate sorting 45s) back into their rightful spots––alphabetical by artist by year.  "I'm not walking home tonight."  A stupid grin lights my face and I can feel a blush coming on.  I force the butterflies away because it's not like he asked me out for it to be just me and him... Tom and Joey would probably be there too.

      "Is that so?" he asked.  "Who is he?  Do I know him?  Is he good to you?"

     I pull a Beach Boy's album out of the collection of the Doors.  "The Chain Reaction singer's picking me up.  Probably with some of the other band members too," I say.  "And he's only my friend, Paul."

     I hear Paul's rusty laugh in the back room, and I take my place behind the counter ready for a longer shift because it's Friday.

                                                                               🎶    🎶     🎶

I had just clocked out when the door dinged.  I thought that is was Asshole, but the voice told me otherwise.  "Am I too late?" asked the kid who was in here just a few days ago.  Instead of a blue cloth cap, this one's green.

     I sigh but smile. "Nope. What do ya need?"

    He had a guitar slug over his shoulder.  It had no case.  "I've heard you're the best tuner...?"  He slowly approaches me.

     I reach out for the guitar, he seems to relax a bit. "Is that so?" I ask, taking out my harmonica (on slow days I'll play the 'costumer blues' which always lightens the mood in the empty shop) to give myself a starting note.  Asshole waltzes in just as I'm tuning the low E string.  "Man, when's the last time you played this thing?" I asked in bewilderment.

     "This morning before I left," he says shyly.

     "When's the last time you've changed the strings?" I ask, still amazed.

     "Changed the strings?"  He sounds confused.  "I've had it for two and a half years!"

   "And you've never once changed the strings?"  He nods.  Having never changed the strings, I replace them for him.  Not only were they probably killing his fingers just because they're old, but they also were steel strings!  Jeez, the poor kid.

    "Steven, can you get me a G string?" I ask absentmindedly, replacing the D string.  I had all of the strings but G in the kind that doesn't kill your fingers behind the counter.
     Asshole's eyes narrow in confusion. "Well, I guess..."  He starts to leave the store.

   "No!" I exclaim.  "Guitar strings, Asshole!"  The scrawny kid tries not to chuckle.  "Don't encourage him," I warned.

   Asshole hands me the string, whining, "This is as close as I get."   He pauses, looking at me with a contemplative frown.

     "No way no how, ever.  Not in your wildest dreams, Asshole."

     I think I hear him mutter, "As far as you know..."

     I finish tuning the guitar, Steven seems infatuated by what I'm doing.  I hand the guitar back to the kid, who I found out was named Brad.  He slings it back over his shoulder.  "Well, aren't you gonna test it out?"  I raise my eyebrows and wiggle my harmonica between my fingers.

     He smiles shyly.  "What songs do you know?"

     Random jam-sesh in the middle of the store just before closing time?  Ah, not my first time.  "Just play."  I roll my eyes.