By two in the afternoon, Ethan’s back had loosened up slightly, mostly because he’d taken two ibuprofen he found at the bottom of his backpack that expired six months ago.
The rain had stayed away, leaving behind a cold, crisp afternoon with high grey clouds.
Ethan was sitting on the floor again, sorting through a newly arrived box of used jazz records that an old lady had sold to the shop earlier that morning. It was mostly standard stuff—Miles Davis re-issues, Ella Fitzgerald compilations, a few beat-up Dave Brubeck albums—nothing crazy, but solid inventory for the front racks.
"Hey, Ethan," Leo said from the front counter, where he was supposedly updating the store's inventory database on the ancient desktop computer that ran on Windows 7. "Question for you."
"What?" Ethan asked, holding a record up to the overhead light to check for deep scratches.
"If a customer comes in and asks for a record that’s listed online for twenty bucks, but the price tag on the sleeve says twelve bucks because someone forgot to update it... which price do we give them?"
Ethan paused, lowering the record. "Who forgot to update it?"
"Hypothetically?" Leo scratched his ear. "Me. Three weeks ago."
Ethan sighed, standing up slowly and holding his lower back. "Leo, we’ve talked about this. You gotta update the physical tags when we change the prices on the website. Mr. Henderson hates when the prices don't match."
"Look, it was a crazy Tuesday!" Leo argued. "We had like three people in here at the same time!"
"Three people is not a crazy Tuesday," Ethan said, walking over to the counter. "Which record is it?"
"The Blue Note one. Dexter Gordon."
Ethan reached into the jazz rack and pulled the album out. Sure enough, there was a tiny green sticker on the top right corner with "$12.00" written in faded black marker, while the inventory system on the screen clearly showed "$22.00."
Before Ethan could say anything else, the front door let out its signature squeak-crunch sound.
A guy walked in. He was wearing a green parka, headphones resting around his neck, and holding a small leather notebook. He looked like the kind of guy who spent four hours a day reading music blogs and arguing about vinyl pressings on Reddit.
"Hey," the guy said, walking straight toward the jazz section with the quiet confidence of a seasoned bargain hunter. "You guys got any Dexter Gordon in stock today?"
Leo and Ethan exchanged a quick, panicked look.
"Uh," Leo stammered, his hands hovering over the keyboard. "We... uh... we were just checking."
"Yeah, actually," Ethan said, stepping in front of Leo before he could make things worse. He held up the record he was literally just holding. "Just pulled this one out."
The customer's eyes lit up slightly. He walked over, took the album from Ethan's hands, and immediately looked at the top right corner. "Twelve bucks? Nice. I’ll take it."
Leo opened his mouth, probably to explain the system error, but Ethan shot him a look that could kill a small dog.
"Cool," Ethan said smoothly, walking around to the register. "Twelve flat. Cash or card?"
"Card," the guy said, pulling out a sleek black credit card and tapping it against the machine—which Leo had luckily wiped the cream cheese off of ten minutes prior.
The receipt printed with a sharp zip-zip noise. Ethan bagged the record, handed it over, and gave the guy a polite nod. "Have a good one."
"Thanks man," the customer said, turning around and leaving without another word.
As soon as the door squeaked shut, Leo let out a huge breath. "Bro! Why didn't you charge him twenty-two? Mr. Henderson is gonna see the inventory discrepancy!"
"Because," Ethan said, slapping the green price tag roll onto the counter, "it was your mistake, and arguing with a customer over ten bucks makes us look like cheap assholes. Besides, he would've just walked across the street to Julian's shop if we made a scene."
Leo stared at Ethan for a second, then shook his head. "You're too nice, man. That's your problem. You're soft."
"I'm not soft," Ethan said, grabbing the pricing gun. "I'm realistic. Now go get me a soda from the back before I tell Mr. Henderson about the Fleetwood Mac record you almost ruined with soy sauce."
Leo grumbled something under his breath, but he turned around and headed into the breakroom.
Ethan leaned his elbows on the glass counter, looking out the front window. Across the street, through the clear glass of Sound Precision, he could see Julian standing behind a pristine white desk, wearing his crisp navy polo, talking to a guy in a expensive suit. Julian was smiling, pointing at a shiny silver amplifier on a pedestal like it was a holy relic.
Ethan looked down at his own hands—his knuckles were slightly red from moving the couch, and there was still a faint faint line of black dirt under his thumbnail from fixing Dave's turntable.
He grabbed a fresh price sticker, slapped it onto a Miles Davis album, and wrote "$18.00" in bold, clear numbers.
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