The smell of WD-40 hit Ethan’s nostrils every time the wind blew through the crack in the front door. It hadn’t stopped the squeaking entirely, but now instead of sounding like a dying bird, it sounded like a wet shoe on a gym floor. An improvement, technically, but not by much.
Ethan was on his knees behind the third row of rock records, holding a stack of beat-up sleeves that someone had traded in three days ago. Half of them were missing their inner paper covers, and one of them turned out to be an empty jacket for a country album nobody had listened to since 1984.
"Hey, Ethan," Leo called out from the counter. He was sitting on a high stool, attempting to balance an empty tape case on his forehead. "You think if I put this rare pressing of Fleetwood Mac on the website for fifty bucks, someone would buy it, or would they realize the cover has a tea stain on it?"
"It’s not tea, it’s soy sauce," Ethan said without looking up, wiping a thick layer of grey dust off a Led Zeppelin jacket onto his jeans. "And you can’t sell it for fifty. Mr. Henderson marked it twenty last week because of the scratch on track three."
"Right, right. The famous track three skippy edition." Leo lost his balance, and the tape case fell, bouncing off the glass display and landing somewhere behind the register. "Oops. I’ll get that later."
Before Ethan could tell him to get it right now so nobody stepped on it, the front door let out its new wet-shoe squeak.
Ethan peeked around the edge of the wooden rack. A guy in a sharply ironed navy polo shirt and spotless beige chinos stepped inside. He had his hair slicked back so tight it looked like it was painted onto his head, and he was carrying a leather satchel that probably cost more than Ethan’s entire monthly rent.
It was Julian, the assistant manager from Sound Precision, the high-end audio gear shop that opened up across the street two months ago.
"Morning, boys," Julian said, his voice dripping with that fake corporate friendliness that immediately made Ethan’s stomach tighten. He didn't walk so much as glide into the shop, stepping carefully over the slightly faded rug near the entrance as if he was worried his white sneakers might catch a disease from it.
"Hey, Julian," Leo said, leaning his elbows on the counter. "What’s up? Come to buy some actual good music for once?"
Julian chuckled, a short, polite sound that didn't reach his eyes. "No, no. Just taking a little breather. The foot traffic at our store has been insane this morning. We just got a fresh shipment of german-engineered turntable needles. Hand-assembled. The clarity on the mid-tones is just... well, you guys probably don't deal much with that end of the market."
"We sell needles," Ethan said, standing up and dusting off his knees. His shirt was slightly rumpled, and he knew for a fact he still had that faint black smudge on his nose from the WD-40, but he tried his best to look professional. Or at least like he wasn't completely miserable. "We got the standard ones in the drawer. Twenty bucks."
"Oh, standard," Julian smiled, tapping the edge of his leather satchel. "Sure. Great for casual listeners. People who don't mind a little harmonic distortion. Anyway, I actually popped in because I saw Maya walking over here earlier with a bag from the bakery. Did she leave any of those almond croissants?"
Ethan narrowed his eyes slightly. "She brought cinnamon rolls. Burnt ones. And Leo ate them all."
"I ate two," Leo corrected. "Ethan ate... wait, no, Ethan didn't even get one. I ate three."
Julian let out another one of those tiny sighs. "Ah, shame. I told her yesterday I’d stop by her shop around eleven to buy a box for our VIP clients, but she seemed pretty busy. I figure she must be overwhelmed over there. Small operation, you know? Lack of proper equipment."
"She’s fine," Ethan said, a bit faster than he intended. "The bakery's doing great. People queue up around the block on weekends."
"Quantity doesn't always mean quality, Ethan," Julian said smoothly, stepping closer to the glass counter and tapping a finger on the glass right where Leo’s greasy fingerprints were scattered. "Same goes for record stores, right? Volume over curation. But hey, to each their own. If people want dirty cardboard, who am I to judge?"
Ethan felt his face getting hot. He wanted to say something sharp, something that would make Julian look like an idiot, but his brain completely froze up like it always did whenever he got frustrated. "It's... it's not dirty cardboard. It's vintage."
"Right," Julian grinned, turning around toward the door. "Vintage dust. Well, if you guys ever want to hear what a real audio setup sounds like, pop across the street. I’ll give you the five-cent tour. See ya around."
The door squeaked loudly as Julian walked out, heading down the street with a brisk, confident stride.
"Man," Leo said, picking up a plastic pen and chewing on the cap. "That guy really knows how to make you feel like trash in under two minutes. It’s almost impressive."
"He’s the worst," Ethan muttered, walking back behind the counter and slumping onto his stool. "Why does he even come over here? He never buys anything."
"He comes over here to flex," Leo said simply. "And because he thinks Maya likes him."
Ethan snapped his head toward Leo. "What? She doesn't like him. She said he was annoying this morning."
"Bro, people say things all the time," Leo shrugged, tossing the chewed pen back into the cup. "Besides, Julian’s got that whole 'I have a 401k and my clothes fit properly' vibe going on. Girls notice that stuff."
Ethan looked down at his own oversized grey hoodie, which had a faint bleach stain on the left cuff from three years ago. He suddenly felt very tired.
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