Saturday morning brought an unexpected break in the weather. The heavy clouds split open around eight AM, leaving behind a pale, watery blue sky that made the wet pavement glitter under the morning sun.
By ten o'clock, the shop was busier than it had been all week.
Three college kids in oversized leather jackets were flipping through the 90s hip-hop bins near the front window, making loud comments about cassette tapes they'd never seen in real life. An older guy with a gray beard and a tweed cap was sitting on a folding chair near the back, holding four classical LPs to his ear like he could hear the music just by smelling the cardboard sleeves.
Ethan was behind the counter, ringing up a girl buying a beat-up copy of a Fleetwood Mac album.
"That'll be fourteen flat," Ethan said, taking her ten and five. He tapped the keys on the old metal register, which opened with a loud DING-clang.
"Do you have this on tape?" the girl asked, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger.
"Sold the last tape on Tuesday," Ethan said, handing her one dollar in change and bagging the record. "We might get more next week if the shipment from New Jersey comes through."
"Cool, thanks," she said, taking the bag and sliding toward the exit, triggering the shop's awful door screech.
Leo walked past carrying a cardboard box full of dirty plastic inner sleeves, looking thoroughly exhausted despite it only being eleven in the morning.
"I hate Saturdays," Leo muttered under his breath as he shoved the box under the main display rack. "There are too many people in here. I can't even play my video game on my phone without someone asking me where the Beatles section is."
"It's literally under the big sign that says 'BEATLES'," Ethan pointed out, wiping the glass counter with a dry rag.
"People don't read signs, Ethan! You know that!"
Before Ethan could answer, Mr. Henderson emerged from his back office, wearing a brown corduroy jacket that had seen better days. He walked over to the register, checked the cash drawer tally sheet, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
"Good foot traffic today," Mr. Henderson said in his raspy voice. "Ethan, did you fix that cassette player for Marcus?"
"Drive belt snapped yesterday," Ethan said, leaning against the counter. "I had to order a new set from a supplier in Ohio. Should be here Tuesday."
Mr. Henderson grunted. "Tell him Tuesday, then. Don't promise Monday if you can't deliver until Tuesday. People hate waiting, but they hate being lied to more."
"Got it," Ethan said.
"And another thing," Mr. Henderson added, leaning in closer so the college kids by the window couldn't hear. "The guy from the city building department stopped by my house this morning. Said someone complained about a commercial truck parking in the alley behind our building overnight."
Ethan felt his stomach drop about two inches. "A truck?"
"Your truck, Ethan," Mr. Henderson said, looking at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. "He said it's blocking the fire access lane when it's parked near the trash bins."
"I only park there during my shift," Ethan protested. "And I left on Thursday night."
"Well, park it on 5th Street from now on," Mr. Henderson said flatly. "I don't need a hundred-dollar municipal ticket because your Ford has sentimental value."
"It's not sentimental, it's just my car," Ethan muttered, but Mr. Henderson was already walking toward the front door to inspect a stack of discounted jazz CDs.
"Told you," Leo whispered from behind the rock bin. "The alley is a cursed zone."
"Shut up, Leo," Ethan said, grabbing a stack of price stickers from the drawer.
Around twelve-thirty, the shop cleared out slightly as people headed toward the food trucks parked near the river park.
Ethan took the opportunity to step outside for five minutes to get some fresh air. He stood near the front entrance, leaning his back against the brick wall, watching the street. The sun was actually warm on his face, a rare treat after five days of grey mist and rain.
Across the street, Julian was standing outside Sound Precision, holding a clipboard and talking to a guy wearing a bright blue uniform with a delivery logo on the chest. Julian looked stressed—his hair was still slicked back, but he was tapping his foot rapidly against the clean concrete sidewalk, gesturing angrily at a stack of heavy wooden crates sitting near his shop's front entrance.
Ethan watched as Julian tried to help the delivery driver lift one of the crates. Julian grabbed one side, pulled hard, and his foot slipped slightly on a wet patch of pavement. His knee buckled, and he dropped his end of the crate with a sharp, heavy CRACK against the curb.
Julian immediately let out a loud curse that carried right across four lanes of traffic.
Ethan didn't laugh, but he couldn't stop a small, dry smirk from forming on his face. He took a long drag of the cool spring air, feeling the warmth of the sun on his arms.
"Looking at your favorite neighbor?"
Ethan turned his head. Maya was standing a few feet away, holding a brown paper bag with no handles and a large cup of iced coffee. She was wearing a loose black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, showing a faint white dusting of flour on her forearms.
"Just watching the delivery guys," Ethan said, leaning his head back against the brick wall.
Maya looked across the street at Julian, who was currently bent over, inspecting the corner of his dropped wooden crate with an expression of pure agony.
"Looks like his high-end shipment had a rough landing," she said dryly, taking a sip from her plastic cup.
"Yeah," Ethan said. "Sucks for him."
"You're a terrible liar, Ethan," she said, looking at him sideways. "You're totally enjoying it."
"I am not," Ethan said, though his smirk gave him away instantly. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But only because he was an asshole about the ten-dollar transformer yesterday."
"He's an asshole every day," Maya said simply. She held out the brown paper bag. "Sarah made almond horns today. They aren't burnt, but one of them got squished when I dropped the tray on the counter."
Ethan took the bag, peeking inside. "Squished tastes the same as round."
"That's what I said," she agreed. "Anyway, I'm heading down to the river to sit on the bench for twenty minutes before my afternoon shift starts. You wanna come, or are you stuck inside with Leo?"
Ethan looked back through the shop window. Inside, Leo was currently sitting on the counter stool with his headset on, completely oblivious to everything, while Mr. Henderson was reading a newspaper in the back corner.
"I have ten minutes left on my break," Ethan said, stepping away from the wall. "I'll walk down with you."
"Cool," she said, turning toward the street corner. "Don't trip over your own laces."
Ethan looked down at his shoes—both laces were firmly tied—and followed her down the sidewalk under the bright afternoon sun.
Comments (0)