WIP Wednesday
I have like a hundred hellcheer WIPs, but uh here’s a lengthy snippet from an as yet untitled and unpublished meet cute at Starcourt. No Chrissy in this bit, just Eddie suffering in a Sam Goody before he runs into her.
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How does anyone find anything in here? The place is a goddamn labyrinth and it takes him forever to find the Sam Goody crammed in between a bookstore and some place that sells luggage.
In and out, he reminds himself, but the regret he feels walking into the store makes him want to walk right back out, album be damned.
There are Madonna posters everywhere. Fucking Falco is playing over the speakers, Jesus Christ, kill him now. The whole place is full of teased hair, leg warmers and polos, and it reeks of Aqua-Net. There’s a snicker off to his right as he browses, and he’s pretty sure it’s directed at him. It’s like the worst parts of high school rolled through the idea of a record store and ripped its soul out to leave a wad of bubblegum in its place. Unfortunately for him, though, the tip from his buddy was spot on.
There, tucked away in the rock section, are precisely four copies of exactly what he’s looking for. What he couldn’t find downtown.
Rock. Rock. As if it could be distilled down to the blandest description. As if this music has anything in common with fucking John Cougar Mellencamp, also categorized under rock.
This place is the goddamn worst.
He pulls one tape out from the stack because he didn’t come all this way to leave empty handed but then he grabs the other three and yanks them out too, because he can’t stand the thought of leaving them behind in this hell scape.
It’s fine. He’ll have one for home, one for the van. The other two—he’ll leave those on the counter at the record shop downtown, his treat, because he’s not an asshole that takes the last goddamn copy, unlike some people.
It doesn’t count if he takes the last one from here.
He swings them back and forth by the long plastic traps they’re contained in as he makes his way to the counter, plunks them down once he gets there and greets the cashier with a grin.
“Hi.”
The cashier arches a thin brow as she looks at what he’s put down in front of her.
“These are all the same,” she says, as if he is somehow unaware.
Eddie nods. “Yep.”
“You want four of the same album?”
“Well, yeah. This is a rescue mission. Leave no man behind in enemy territory.”
That earns him a snort of amusement. She’s older, hair going a little silvery, heavy-ish eyeliner. She seems cool, which he didn’t think he’d be able to say of anyone that works here. A little familiar, too. He’s pretty sure he knows her from somewhere. A quick glance down at her name tag tells him her name is Maggie, which is nice to know, but doesn’t really help him place her.
“They any good?” she asks.
“I dunno, Maggie,” he says, “but I’m gonna find out at least four times.”
She picks up one of the tapes once they’re free of the rigid plastic chastity belts. “Megadeth? Sounds like something my kid would like.”
“What, really?” He leans in, interest piqued. “Who’s your kid?”
The question seems to take her by surprise, and it wouldn’t surprise him to find that actual conversation isn’t really a thing here at Sam Goody.
“Kyle. Kyle Trahern. He’s a few years older than you, by the looks of you.”
“Must be…name doesn’t ring a bell. He has good taste, though.” Eddie grins. “Gets it from his mom, I’ll bet.”
She rolls her eyes. “God, no, I can’t stand it. Kyle moved out a few years back and I thought, Jesus, finally, peace and quiet. But no. Can’t even get away from this crap at The Hideout.”
Eddie staggers back, pressing a hand to his chest to staunch the blood flow. Point fucking blank, that shot.
“Ouch.”
He knew he’d seen her somewhere before, though. Should have guessed that was it. It was either that or she’s someone his uncle snuck in for a few hours, hoping Eddie wouldn’t notice—a rarity, to be sure, but it happens now and then.
She smirks. “You kids are alright when you play the good stuff.”
“Free Bird, right?” He pulls out his wallet when she finishes ringing him up, lays a few crumpled twenties on the counter. “Everyone loves Free Bird.”
“Free Bird,” she agrees, counting back his change and handing it over. “Bad Moon Rising. You know, real music, not that noise you just bought four copies of.”
“Maggie, those are fightin’ words.” He snatches his bag with an exaggerated huff. “Don’t make me get myself kicked out of the mall. What if they don’t let me come back?”
She snorts. “Kid, there’s four people behind you, waiting to pay. Don’t worry about security, I’m kicking you out.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. One sec.” He digs into the bag, pulls out one of the tapes and slaps it down on the counter. “For Kyle.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. The thanks is an understanding he just picks up on, it doesn’t need to be said. “Now, go on. Go bother someone else.”
“I’m gonna learn something from this album and play it just for you at the next show,” Eddie informs her, holding up his bag as he backs out of the store. “Just wait. You’re gonna love it.”
“You do that, kid.” She waves him off. “I’ll bring my earplugs.”
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