Full Summary: The summer after graduating high school is stretched out before Finn like a big highway of suck and he can only greet it with a profound listlessness. The future that waits for him is like some hazy mirage that has yet to take shape, but when Santana decides to play a prank on a total stranger Finn finds himself striking up an unlikely friendship with her victim. As the friendship between Will and Finn grows, the older man offers advice to help Finn decide what to do when Fall comes and he has to decide what he wants to do with his life, but the unexpected feelings Finn develops towards the older man along the way are a complication that might just be the most important detail in making his decision.
The post-Graduation party is like the hangover from the huge celebration of Prom Night. Just a few short days ago the gymnasium was filled with music, joy and laughter and now everybody is simply wandering around in the haze of the realization that High School is finally over. Finn cut away from the crowd after five minutes of enduring the same bland questions ("So what are you gonna do now?" "Where are you going to college?") and frustrating condescension at his honest answer ("I don't know.") and has found a quiet seat at a table in the corner.
The football team picked up their game in the past couple of years just enough to earn him a scholarship to OSU, but he has no idea what he'd major in or if he even really wants to go. Quinn's managed a 3.8 GPA and rocked out on the SATs; she's going to Lincoln U and keeps mentioning how if he goes to State they'll be close enough to see each other during the holidays. He may be dumb, but he's smart enough to detect the hidden meaning; if he doesn't go to OSU then their relationship is over.
Which brings him to the big complicating factor in the decision: his diploma, or lack thereof to be precise. He pulls the scrap of paper that was delivered with his sheepskin at the award ceremony that morning from his pocket and reads the note over again. He's read it a dozen times already today and its meaning hasn't changed. The Ohio curriculum states that each student must achieve a passing grade in certain specified subjects and accumulate at least 20 credits, this diploma is only awarded to Finn Hudson upon the condition that he attend summer school and earn a passing grade in US History and one other subject of his choosing.
Folding the paper crisply and stowing it back in his pocket, he takes a long sip of sickly red cordial and laments that he didn't take Puck up on his offer to add something with a little kick to the saccharine drink, he thinks that getting drunk is a pretty acceptable response to the craphole his life has become in the past few days. He still has the condoms he took along to Prom in his pocket, the naïve hope that Quinn was finally going to put out had broken into tiny, insignificant fragments the moment that the Prom Queen was announced and the name called wasn't Quinn Fabray (Finn can't help but recall his mom's assurance that women can hold a grudge for half a lifetime and he gets the distinct impression that come their High School reunion his girlfriend is still going to remember that she was snubbed) and so the fact that he still has the tinfoil squares on him at all times is more a diehard refusal to accept defeat than any genuine optimism that they'll see use.
Three years. He's been Quinn's boyfriend for almost three years (If you don't count the, entirely justified, break-up towards the end of Sophomore year) and unless he manages to remember the dates of all the important civil war battles correctly this time round there's a more-than-probable chance that it's going to amount to diddly-fuck in the grand scheme of things.
"Who pissed in your punch?" Santana accuses, smoothing back her skirt as she sinks into the seat next to him. (Not that she has a problem with flashing her panties, but she's very controlling about to whom they will be flashed and under what circumstances).
"Nobody yet," Finn answers, "But I wouldn't put it past some of the guys, so if you want a cup you should probably get one soon."
She shakes her head dismissively, "If it hasn't got vodka in it, I don't want to know. That cake on the other hand..." She eyes the thick slab of delicious chocolate sitting on his paper plate.
"Not happening." He slides the plate towards himself, an arm encircling it for protection.
She tries to stare him down, but Finn is a gladiator in the arena of food-protection; the plastic spork is a lethal weapon in his skilled fingers, and so she reluctantly relents, "Fine."
The pair sit in uncomfortable silence and watch the crowd of their former classmates circulating to the droning of Drops of Jupiter over the cheap, rented sound system. Finn takes a few bites of the cake, mostly to spite Santana, (He doesn't often bite off more than he can chew but the slab he cut from the buffet table at the start of the party has proven itself too great to consume and he feels a bit like he might vomit with each bite of sticky icing and dry sponge) then asks, "Where's Brittany?"
"She wanted to say goodbye to her locker again," She replies. Brittany had already given verbose farewells to her locker, her homeroom desk and the faulty vending machine that gives an extra can of soda if you kick it just right, the day before; but apparently felt the need to repeat these goodbyes now that she has another chance. Finn can somewhat sympathize with her nostalgia now that they are on the verge of leaving William McKinley behind them forever, but he can't find the energy in him to actually care as much as she does.
"Do you think she'll want to say goodbye again once we're done with summer school?" He inquires.
"Once you're done with summer school," Santana corrects.
"That's what I said," Finn replies. "Wasn't it?"
"You said 'we', implying that I flunked anything badly enough to be stuck here repeating classes all summer."
"I said 'we' meaning me and Brittany," He amends stoically. He knows full well that she understood him and her joyful mocking of that fact that he's flunked US History for the third time is already getting on his nerves.
"Probably," Santana shrugs indifferently in response to his original question, "You know how Britt can be."
"Do you have any pepper?" Looking up to see who'd spoken, the pair find Brittany standing over them with a paper plate piled high with miniature rice krispie squares and pineapple chunks.
"You want pepper for your pineapple?" Finn asks curiously.
"Pepper makes you sneeze. You're supposed to sneeze when people are talking about you behind your back," She informs them vacantly, taking the seat beside Santana.
"No, Britt, if you sneeze it means that people are talking about you behind your back," The other girl corrects the mistake.
"But you were just talking and I didn't sneeze," The blonde points out, poking through the pineapple with a cocktail stick.
"We were just talking about what classes you're planning to take this summer," The Latina assures.
"Oh. I'm not sure," Brittany answers worriedly. "Is that bad?"
"We don't start until Monday, so you'll have til then to decide," Finn informs kindly.
"You don't start until Monday," Santana stresses the word and smiles viciously at him. "I won't be going with you. Will you be okay without me, B?" She takes the other girl's hand and holds it tight.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Brittany dismisses blandly and smiles pleasantly at their joined hands. She may have missed the point of the exchange, but Finn is more than aware that a point has just been marked against Santana in the cosmic scale and while it might be a small victory he still finds himself suppressing a smile.
Santana and Brittany begin a conversation in their strange girl language that Finn is only a third fluent in, so he tunes their voices out and resumes picking at the monument of chocolate cake still on his plate. He's aware of Quinn in his peripheral vision, caught up in an animated conversation with two people whose names Finn doesn't know and so he highly doubts they are people who she would have spoken to as little as a week ago. Hypocrisy seems rife within his girlfriend though because she's been treating everybody like an old friend who she'll miss dearly all evening, despite the fact that she spent Prom Night bitching about the majority of them after Rachel Berry inexplicably beat her to the crown. (Finn is not planning to ever tell her that his own vote went to Rachel out of a mix of gratitude for her tutoring him in British Lit, there's no way he'd have passed without her help, and guilt at how their entire class had treated her since Freshman year. If the fact that she won is anything to go by, a lot of people shared his feelings on the latter). This two-faced nature reaches its absolute climax a mere moment later when she returns to their table with Jacob Ben Israel in tow.
"What do you want, Jewfro?" Santana demands levelly.
"Don't be rude," Quinn asserts, sinking gracefully into the last remaining chair at the table. "Jacob just wants to interview us."
"Interview?" Finn's eyebrow rises along with his confusion, "Isn't the school paper kinda over, dude?"
"I've got a summer internship with the Lima News," The Jewish boy boasts, holding his notepad up like a symbol of his superiority over them. Finn isn't overly impressed. "They sent me to document tonight's proceedings because-"
"No genuine reporter would be seen dead here," Santana suggests sardonically.
"Because-" Jacob tries to continue but is cut off again.
"They needed something to keep you busy until the next coffee run," The Latina teases.
"You're not nice," The wannabe reporter declares, his voice breaking into a high-pitched whine in the middle, and flounces off to accost someone else.
"What did you do that for?" Quinn turns to her friend accusingly.
"Oh, lay off it Quinn. You've been giving him grief since that time you caught him perving during practice. Don't act all high and mighty now."
"He was going to put us in the paper."
"Okay, first, I'll bet you ten bucks right now that they never publish his little article. Second, three months from now you're gonna be in Pennsylvania. Who gives a shit about some newspaper in Lima, Ohio?"
"I wanted the article for my scrapbook," The former head cheerleader persists. "I wasn't Prom Queen so I needed something to show just how popular I was during Senior Year."
"You were Homecoming Queen," Finn points out reasonably.
She gives him a disgusted look that seems to encompass 'You're an idiot' and 'You couldn't possibly understand', but she's even blunter with her actual words, "Shut up, Finn."
Leaving his girlfriend and her best friend to argue, and Brittany to her attempt to craft a model man out of pineapple chunks and toothpicks, Finn takes the remainder of his cake (Now about the size of a large brownie) and heads out across the dance floor. He passes several large groups of people talking and Jacob Ben Israel listening with rapt attention to Rachel Berry's explanation of why she chose gold star shaped confetti, but no-one who is actually dancing.
Out in the ghostly-quiet hall he turns left, figuring that he has time for one last sexually-frustrated jerk-off in the locker room; for nostalgic value, of course.
Finn wakes before noon on Saturday morning. He decides that this is an affront to his plans and all that is natural, nonetheless he rolls over to collect the ringing phone from the bedside table.
"'lo?"
"We need you to drive us," Santana announces.
"Who's 'we'?" He asks, partly for clarification and partly because he still isn't over her petulant correction of his grammar from the after-party.
"Britt and I," She answers. "We're gonna head out to that new strip mall on Pine Street and see if anyone's hiring for the summer."
He knows full well that Santana will not be lifting a finger all summer if she can help it, so this trip is for Brittany's benefit exclusively (She is the only member of their social circle who is definitely not attending college and so is ready to enter the thrilling world of minimum wage employment). He briefly considers telling Santana to stick it and find some other chump to give them a ride, but he's more than aware that if he plans on having any fun with his limited free time until September then he's gonna have to find paid work of his own.
The girls are already waiting for him by the time he gets outside. He holds his Pop-Tart in his mouth as he unlocks the doors to his car (A rust bucket Dodge Aries. It's green; Finn hates green) and then refuses to drive until he has finished eating.
"Do you ever clean up in here?" Santana accuses, pushing several fast food wrappers out of her way with distaste.
"Sometimes," He hedges, swallowing the last bite of his meager breakfast and turning the key in the ignition. He navigates out of the neighborhood via North Jameson and connects onto the 117, heading east towards Lima Memorial Hospital. The route is longer but he doesn't want to pass the high school and be faced with the reminder that he's got to go back on Monday. "Have you decided what classes you're going to take yet, Brittany?" He inquires as they're cruising casually down the road.
"I need to take Physics again," She answers as a start. "I'm not sure what to choose for my other class though. Art, maybe? I like drawing."
"Art," Finn mutters under his breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He hasn't put much thought to what to choose as his summer elective, "Art could be good. If I take it too we'll be in the same class."
"We would!" He sees her expression brighten in the rear view mirror, panning across to Santana he sees her less-enthusiastic reaction and chalks up another point against Ms. Lopez in the cosmic scale.
He turns smoothly onto the 65 and sees the sign for the new strip mall, but before it has even passed them by Santana insists they turn in and make a stop at the Pián-Mart on Orena Avenue. He considers waiting in the car, but it's a hot day and the store has a slushie machine, so he follows the girls inside and quickly realizes why Santana insisted they stop.
"Hey Mike." The Latina leans across the counter and smirks up at their former-classmate.
Mike Chang is wearing a store uniform and an expression that reads quite plainly 'Oh God, oh God, oh merciful God, kill me now.'
Brittany has wandered over to the frozen produce aisle and so as much as Finn wants to save his old wide receiver from Santana's wicked intentions, he has to ensure that his friend doesn't get her tongue stuck to the inside of a refrigerator again. By the time they return with a quart of vanilla ice-cream and a Pepsi (Finn has decided to forgo the slushie due to bad association from Mike's short lived time nearer the bottom of the social heap) the young clerk is looking flustered and embarrassed, he rings up their purchases and encourages them to leave with a pointed, "Thank you, come again."
"That was mean, Santana," Finn admonishes as they return to the car.
"That was funny," She opines. "Hey Britt, promise me you won't end up working somewhere that lame. I mean, what a loser!"
He grits his teeth as he starts the car again, but even the sound of the engine won't drown out her mocking laughter. She's the biggest bitch in their graduating year, possibly the whole of Ohio and her rich daddy has gotten her a place in the Ivy League; no small victory in a verbal exchange can hope to balance the cosmic scale (Not even Puck's immature, disgusting and occasionally borderline racist jokes about the fact that she's going to a college called Brown).
It takes them a few hours to visit every store at the strip mall and inquire about vacancies. Finn feels that it really shouldn't have taken them as long as it did, but they were occasionally sidetracked by complicated work hierarchies that sent them running between managers and assistant managers looking for someone who had the authority to hand out application forms and by Santana's tendency to want to browse through any clothing store looking for garments to mock with her acidic wit (Resulting in her comparing a particular patterned blouse to curtain fabric, only to turn round and find the assistant manager wearing an identical blouse. Finn isn't sure whether company policy forbids hiring people who've been removed from the store by security, but he figures the application probably isn't worth making either way).
The last place they stop is a 50s-themed Diner called Peggy-Lu's. The sign is noticeably devoid of the word 'authentic' and Finn thinks this is probably because they would be sued for false advertising, he remarks upon this to the girls and they both meet the joke with blank expressions. As they wait for their extra-large plate of fries to arrive he can't help but wonder how he is the one who is having to repeat US History.
"Why do you think you would be a good clothes salesman?" Brittany reads aloud from the first of many application forms in front of her, "Um... I buy clothes a lot and so I know about sizes and stuff?" She suggests.
"Whatever," Finn replies lethargically. He's given over the entire set of accumulated forms to the girl; he just doesn't think that he'd enjoy working at any of the places they visited.
Santana is pouring over the newspaper she bought at the Pián-Mart, at first she'd opened to the jobs section in the hope of finding something that might interest Brittany, but she'd quickly become enthralled by the personal ads, "Listen to this one," She announces brightly, her voice ringing with malevolent glee. "Do you remember me? You were the shy redhead in Lincoln Park with the gum on her shoe. I was the man in the powder blue sweater vest that helped you clean it off. I wanted to ask your number, but the moment passed too quickly. Did you feel the same or am I only imagining it? Call me."
"Wow," Brittany announces blandly when the recital is done, "That is the saddest thing I have ever heard."
It takes Finn a few moments to comprehend through her flat effect that the blonde is mocking the man in the advertisement, Santana suffers no such impairment, "I know, right? We should totally call him."
"And pretend to be the redhead," Brittany agrees to the idea readily.
"Hey, no... I don't know if that's-" Finn's protests are totally ignored as Santana has already pulled out her cellphone and started dialing the number.
"Hello," Santana purrs seductively. "I was surprised to see your ad, but I'm so glad you remembered me. I'm the redhead you're looking for and I'd really like to meet-up. How does one o'clock on Monday sound? Meet me at my favorite restaurant, Peggy-Lu's, it's on Pine Street. Oh, and make sure to wear that sexy sweater vest."
There is the click of disconnect and then the two girls fall into peals of laughter, "I bet he's really old," Brittany says.
"Or fat," Santana suggests with relish.
"With a bald patch."
"And crooked teeth."
"You guys aren't as funny as you think you are," Finn brings some seriousness back to the table.
"Jeez Finn, don't be such a buzz kill," Santana grumbles, turning back to the jobs section and folding the paper in half so she won't be distracted again.
He considers pushing further and demanding she make a second phone call and leave a message confessing that the previous call was a hoax, but at that moment their plate of fries arrives and he's distracted by the blonde dipping her share of the meal into the mostly melted carton of ice-cream she's been carrying with her for the past few hours. (The very thought is so intriguingly appalling that it demands all of his attention).
"I like to show this piece to my students when they begin this course because I feel it expresses my own opinion on the subject at hand."
Finn is looking at a bundle of coat hangers.
"Personal identity is something very important to all of us."
He tilts his head to the side, but it still looks like a bundle of coat hangers.
"This piece represents how I feel about myself and my place in the world around me."
Finn wasn't aware that coat hangers had opinions. He doesn't think that something which has the purpose of holding up coats would be very interesting even if it could express itself.
"By the end of our time together, I hope each of you will produce a piece of art that expresses your own feelings about yourself and your place in our community."
Finn wonders if it's too late to sign up for the Building Trades class.
Brittany is sat beside him and looks similarly confused by the entwined mass of metal on a pedestal before the class. Finn doesn't take much satisfaction in being on the same awareness level as the blonde (She has, on numerous occasions, been outwitted by squirrels in the park) and so he inspects the reactions of the other students. Everyone appears to be confused, bored, drowsy, distracted or a combination of the above and so he is appeased. The only person outside the trend is an Asian girl with a streak of bright blue dyed into her long black hair who is observing the coat hangers with something close to awe.
"But of course for today we'll start out small," Ms. Defoe smiles kindly at them and passes around fresh sketchbooks to everybody. "These will be your workbooks for the summer. Please bring them along to every class. You'll complete assignments and any homework in them. Should you fill the book, or lose it, you will have to purchase a new one with your own money."
Finn accepts two books, passing one along to Brittany and keeping the second for himself. It's a simple A4 sketchpad of plain, low-quality drawing paper. He writes his name onto the front and feels no more attached to it after doing so than he did before.
The first assignment Ms. Defoe sets them is portraits, so Finn spends two hours trying to capture Brittany's image in pencil and slowly grows to hate the teacher's constant advice of "Observe every detail before you capture it." (He has to bite his tongue on the comment that photographs make portraits totally obsolete anyway). At the halfway point they swap roles with their partner and so he gets to sit back for the next two hours while Brittany is the one drawing. He's sat facing the Asian girl and so spends his time trying to recall where he knows her from, in the last fifteen minutes he realizes that she is Tina C, the Goth chick that Mike dated at the start of Junior year that resulted in his brief popularity skydive. Brittany has sketched him riding a dolphin, Ms. Defoe praises the blonde's imagination but reminds her that the purpose of the assignment was to hone technical accuracy.
Santana is waiting by Finn's Aries in the parking lot when they arrive.
"What are you doing here?" He inquires, but he has a sneaking suspicion that he already knows.
"That guy'll be at Peggy-Lu's in 45 minutes," Santana answers, confirming what he'd thought, "Come on, you've gotta be wondering what kind of freak this guy is too, right?"
"No," He answers honestly, "But you're not going to leave me alone, so I'll take you."
"Thanks," She grins winningly at him and lounges in the backseat once he's opened the car. Finn tries not to feel too much self-loathing for compromising so easily.
They get to the diner at quarter-to and Finn has more than enough time to leave before the act of horrible embarrassment his companions have decided to inflict upon a total stranger will occur, but Santana offers to buy him lunch if he'll stick around long enough to give them a ride home too and a free meal is a free meal.
The girls, having no concept of subterfuge, spend their time looking towards the entrance in anticipation of their victim's arrival. Every middle-aged or moderately unattractive man who enters is subject to consideration and Finn has to keep reminding them that they're waiting on a man in a powder blue sweater vest.
The man, when he does arrive, is subject to intense debate. Ducked down in their booth and sneaking occasional glimpses at him, Santana and Brittany both agree that while he is wearing a powder blue sweater vest, he is far too sexy to be the guy from the personals ad. Finn knows full well that due to his height he'll be more conspicuous slumped over the Formica than he would be sitting upright and so he munches on his burger nonchalantly, shooting occasional glances in the direction of the man in the sweater vest. The man is sexy, Finn has to confess; neatly dressed in the aforementioned sweater vest and a pair of dark slacks. Finn's eyes wander up and down those slacks, drawn repeatedly to the stretch of the material across the stranger's butt, which is cushioned firmly on one of the bar stools.
At ten minutes past the hour the stranger is getting somewhat antsy, he finished the milkshake he'd ordered and now keeps turning round to look at the clock, one of these turns coincides with one of Finn's covert glances and the young man finds himself looking into a pair of gray-green eyes (Finn may have to reconsider his opinion of the color green). The stranger smiles politely, then turns back round and Finn ignores the lurch in his chest and looks back at his plate.
"I'll wait in the car," He whispers across to the girls, dipping the last of his fries in ketchup and then stands up. He pointedly doesn't look at the stranger as he leaves the diner.
About fifteen minutes pass before the stranger exits the diner and makes his way across to one of the cars parked in the lot. Santana and Brittany come dashing out an instant later and clamber into the back of the Aries, "Follow that car!" Santana declares loudly (Finn is about 90% sure that she just wanted to feel like somebody in an action film).
They follow the stranger's car (Finn doesn't recognize the model, but notes the exhaust dragging along the road from the back of the vehicle. Normally things like that annoy him, but the memory of the pleasant smile stops him being angry at the other man) to a quiet neighborhood off of St. John's Avenue. The car pulls to a stop outside a lowrise apartment building with a cubist design aesthetic; Finn stops the car a short way down the street and the three teenagers settle in to watch and wait.
Santana bores quickly and suggests getting out to snoop around a little, but the stranger exits the building just as her suggestion is made, with a briefcase in hand he gets back into the car and leaves again, "Aren't you going to follow him?"
"What's the point?" Finn asks, "He's just some normal guy who met a girl and was too shy to ask for her number. We probably just wasted his lunch break on this stupid prank. I'm not gonna screw with him anymore, okay?" At the time he is entirely earnest, looking back on it in the weeks to come he would reflect that he shouldn't have underestimated Santana Lopez.
Quinn drives a third generation Ford Taurus. Finn would be jealous but he understands the difference in the pay scale of an upper-middle-class civil servant who dotes on his daughter and a medical secretary single mother who scrimps every year to buy her son a birthday and Christmas present. Her car may be a sleek and shiny new model, but his rust bucket is just as capable of transporting people from A to B. Nonetheless, he prefers Quinn's car because she won't let anyone else drive it and so he gets to relax in the passenger seat and enjoy the air con.
"Here?" Quinn calls over her shoulder as they pull into a quiet little neighborhood.
"This is it," Santana agrees, opening the door and climbing out onto the suburban street.
Finn had been relaxing with his eyes shut for most of the journey, but it doesn't take him long to realize where they've stopped. Leaning out the window, he yells at the Latina's retreating back, "No." She spins around and sticks her tongue out at him before continuing towards the apartment building. "Shit," Finn cusses quietly to himself and scrambles out after her, turning back to his girlfriend, "Are you coming?"
"I'll wait here," Quinn answers dismissively, searching through her handbag for her lipstick. She looks up when she senses his continued presence at the window and follows his gaze to Puck, who is reclined in the backseat listening to some teenage angst ballad (Dressed up as an anti-establishment manifesto in song form) on his (Probably stolen) CD Walkman. It's been over a year but the two of them know that Finn doesn't trust her to be on her own Puck, so she calmly retrieves the keys and buckles her handbag shut, swinging it over one shoulder as she exits the vehicle.
Now that he's closer than he was the day before, Finn takes in the structure of the apartment block properly for the first time. The building is separated into units of four apartments; two up, two down, with a separate entrance for each unit and no visible connection between the separate units. Finn wonders if the building was converted into apartments or if the architect who designed it had some peculiar idea as to how it was going to work that just got lost in translation when the construction team showed up.
They find Santana rifling through one of the mailboxes for the apartment unit they saw the man from the diner enter on Monday.
"That's a felony, you know," Finn points out accusingly.
"Only if you open it," She dismisses, "Check it out, he's a complete freak." She holds out copies of Bon Appétit, Playbill and something called Instinct.
"What's so weird about a cooking magazine?" He dismisses, pointedly ignoring the fey young man on the cover of the third magazine and the implications it has (Suddenly Finn is wondering whether that polite smile at the diner had deeper connotations). "Besides, you don't even know if that's his mail."
"I checked the others. Girl mail and old lady mail," She gestures to two specific boxes, "The other apartment is empty."
"Well, there are two names on the box. Maybe it's for his roommate."
Santana sighs in frustration, but before she can make a further point there's a noise from round the corner that startles her into stuffing the magazines back into the mailbox. Spurred on by curiosity, the three of them turn the corner and find a small assortment of junk sitting on foldout tables on the lawn.
"Yard sale," Quinn remarks dismissively, the same way someone might flick past a rerun of an old TV show.
Both Finn and Santana are aware of the man sitting behind one of the tables on the other side of the lawn, he isn't wearing a sweater vest but it is undeniably the same person. Keeping up a pretense of casual browsing the pair make their way in his general direction.
"Something I can help you with?" A man speaks up.
Finn looks up to see there is another man. He's blond, with highlights brought out by the sun, and has blue eyes; his expression is severe, "Huh?"
"Are you looking for anything in particular," He speaks slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to someone very slow. Finn is annoyed at the treatment.
"Just looking," He shrugs. When he turns round he realizes that Santana has started looking through a rack of secondhand clothes (And since he isn't eager to learn whether it's possible to be kicked out of an event that takes place outside to begin with), he says, "Actually, um, do you have any music stuff?"
"Schuester's got some old records," The man replies, gesturing to the man at the other table, then returns his attention to the battered paperback he's reading.
Now he has a (Weird) name to go with a (Handsome) face. Not just green-eyed, curly-haired, tight-slacked, sweater-vest-guy; Schuester. He flicks through the box of records with unseeing eyes, too focused upon taking subtle glances at the man behind the table and wondering whether the man remembers him from their brief exchange of eye contact on Monday.
"Are you looking for something specific?" Schuester inquires politely.
"Um..." Finn frowns down at the box and realizes he can't recall a single title from the section he's already flicked through, "I'm looking for some rock, 80s stuff."
"Hm, let's see..." He stands up and Finn realizes that the other man is taller than he'd appeared from across the diner, only a few inches shorter than him, "Ah, here we go. Eagles Greatest Hits, Vol.2. There's a scratch or two, but it plays smooth if I recall." He sets it aside and digs around in the box again, "Hi Infidelity. You'll get a few clicks because of the dust, but the quality is sound otherwise." He puts it aside with the Eagles album and makes a third selection from the box, "Escape." Schuester smiles when he sees the grin that breaks out on Finn's face, "I think we have a winner."
"No, it's just..." Finn drums his fingers on the table nervously, "Why would you sell these, I mean: Journey, Speedwagon. These guys are my idols."
Schuester smiles warmly, "I'd keep them all if I could, but I just don't have the space so I need to trim my collection down."
Finn looks down at the assortment in the box thoughtfully, "So either you've hoarded all the really good stuff for yourself or you're selling the classics because you have sucky taste in music."
The older man laughs aloud, the sound is pleasant and a little infectious because Finn can't fight the grin spreading across his face, "Let's hope it's the former. Now, which do you want?"
Finn looks down at the three records set aside on the table, "How much would it cost for all three?"
Schuester does some quick appraisal and mental calculation then answers, "$4.75."
Finn blinks, a little surprised at how reasonable the offer is. He asked because he anticipated only being able to afford two at the most, "Here." He digs around in his wallet and hands over a crumbled five dollar bill.
The other man accepts the note, tucks it away in a tin and hands back a quarter. Picking up the records, he slides them neatly into a bag and hands it across, "We're running the sale all weekend, if you aren't satisfied with the records you can bring them back for a refund."
"Thanks," Finn smiles brightly and turns back to Quinn and Santana who have clearly grown tired of the eclectic assortment of junk for sale while he was shopping.
"Records are, like, totally lame," Santana opines on the way back to the car.
"Seriously," Quinn agrees, "When are you gonna join us in the 21st Century, Finn?"
"Fuck you; they're retro," He bites back.
Having spent his last five dollars buying the records, Finn is rather relieved to learn that Puck has found them a paying gig. It won't be much money (It never is), the place is an absolute dive (It always is) and they'll sound terribly unrehearsed (They always are) but it's a bar outside the University of Northwestern Ohio so their audience will be too drunk to realize how blisteringly awful their instrumentals are. This last fact is particularly fortunate as Sam is suffering one of his postponed hangovers from the ridiculous amount of whiskey he drank out in the parking lot with Puck at the Post-Graduation party and so he's become sullen and moody. Finn isn't sure if a brooding bassist is something that improves a performance, but takes comfort in the fact that nothing short of a nuclear bomb could make their set any worse.
At the end of the night Finn has: a headache, a renewed motivation to tell Puck they need to give up on the dream that their band is ever gonna hit the big time, thirty dollars in his back pocket, a renewed determination to find a paying job this summer, an unidentified stain on his t-shirt.
Finn wakes up in the afternoon on Saturday. This is a luxury that has not been afforded to him since the holidays started due to summer school and social obligations, so he takes a while to simply bask in it. He has toaster waffles, crispy bacon and Sunny Delight for lunch and then returns to his room to make a start on the weekend reading he'd been assigned. While looking around for his schoolbag (Thrown into some forgotten corner of the room after getting home the day before) and the US History textbook in it, he stumbles across the records from the yard sale (Similarly ditched the previous evening while getting ready for the band's short-notice performance). Pulling his turntable out from underneath his desk and setting it up carefully, Finn takes the Eagles record from its sleeve and sets it to play; dropping the needle into the groove with a sense of satisfaction he doesn't feel when sliding a CD or cassette tape into its player. He resumes the search for his textbook but is quickly distracted by Hotel California, sinking down onto the carpet with his head lolled back on the bed and the familiar tune swirling in the air around him. By the time side one has played through in its entirety he still hasn't found the book.
Finn forces himself to read through the assigned review chapter on Native American culture before he lets himself listen to side two. As Life in the Fast Lane starts playing, he retrieves his sketchbook from his school bag and makes a start on the skill refining exercises Ms. Defoe had assigned to the class. Both the Journey and REO Speedwagon albums have played through in the time it takes Finn to fill two pages of his sketchbook with shading and perspective tasks.
The clock reads 6:18 and Finn's thoughts turn to Schuester's assurance that the yard sale was running all weekend, wondering what time of day it would stay open to. (It is summer and so the days are long, but sitting in a lawn chair all day must get pretty boring and if it were him he'd probably turn in at standard store closing hours). He finally decides it's worth stopping by on the off-chance that it will still be running and when he arrives at the apartment block he sees the two men packing their remaining items away into boxes.
He locks the Aries and wanders across the lawn, hovering awkwardly on the periphery of the sale until Schuester looks up and sees him, "Hey," He greets.
"Hello." Schuester sets a box back down on the table and heads over, "Are you bringing the records back?"
"No," Finn asserts, perturbed by the hint of disappointment in the other man's gaze and eager to extinguish it. "Kinda the opposite actually, I was hoping to see what else you've got."
Schuester looks back to the other man, who is stacking several of the boxes in one of the garages, "I think we already put them away."
"Oh. Well, I can come back tomorrow I guess," He mumbles.
"No, I'll tell you what," The older man turns back to face him with a smile. "I'm having a get-together with some vinyl fans tomorrow evening, nothing too fancy really. You could stop by then and pick out what you like from what's left."
"Really? Cool, uh, I mean; thank you." Finn grins and holds a hand out politely, "I'm Finn, by the way."
"Will," The older man answers, taking the proffered hand and shaking firmly.
"Schuester," The blond man shouts from the garage. "Are you gonna leave me to shift all these on my own?"
"I'll be there in a sec, Bryan," Will answers over his shoulder before turning back to his customer. "So, I'll see you tomorrow, Finn?"
"You can count on it," The young man agrees, watching the other man pick up the box again and carry it across to the garage. Turning back to the Aries with a spring in his step, Finn feels a bubble of anticipation rise in his chest.
"This is the stupidest party I have ever been to," Quinn complains.
"I don't know," Finn defends the humble get-together. "Remember that Dίa de los Muertos party Santana made us go to where everybody had to dress like a skeleton? It was like a really unimaginative Halloween party."
"This is worse," She insists pointblank.
"Well I didn't ask you to come," He retorts. It's the truth too, she'd phoned with plans for a date and when he'd told her he was going to a party she was offended that he hadn't invited her along; he'd been neatly guilt-tripped into taking her with him.
"Are you saying you don't want me to be here?" She asks, voice soft and dangerous.
"I'm saying that I told you I didn't think you'd enjoy yourself if you came and you still insisted on coming with me," He answers her question carefully.
"I still say this party sucks," She declares petulantly, folding her arms across her chest and frowning.
Finn has dated her long enough to recognize when she is attempting to spark a fight and knows that the best technique to avoid doing so is placid compliance, followed by a hasty retreat so she can't mount a new attack, "Whatever. I'm getting a drink, do you want something?"
While he may have argued against Quinn's comments, Finn does have to admit quietly to himself that she has a point. The room is full of middle-aged geezers in paisley shirts and neckties having little grouped conversations about rpm, methods to prevent the orange peel effect and the quality of vinyl compared to shellac. There is a stack of records waiting to be played on the turntable in one corner of the room and almost everyone has a beer, but the only gathering Finn can think of that feels less like a party than this would be a funeral. He's struck by an awful anxiety that the Prom after-party was only the beginning, that all mature parties are going to devolve down to this level and he has nothing to look forward to in the future other than cheese crackers and dull conversation.
When he opens the fridge he is tempted to take one of the bottles from a 12-pack for himself (If nothing else, the quality of alcohol appears to increase at adult parties), but his conscience reminds him that he would be implicating a kindly stranger in underage drinking and so substitutes with a Coca-Cola. Turning to look for a bottle-opener he sees Will and the blond man who'd been at the yard sale seated at the side table by the window.
The blond looks up first and greets him cheerfully, holding his bottle aloft and proclaiming, "Yard sale guy!" He looks heartily drunk.
Finn tries to recall the name Will had used the day before to answer the guy's demand that he return to packing up, but ends up having to respond with, "Guy who possibly lives here."
"Bryan," Will provides as Finn takes a seat at the table. "And this is Finn," He adds for Bryan's benefit.
"And I do live here," Bryan informs with the air of a sage imparting ancient wisdom. "Schuester and I are joint members in the 'Unfairly divorced' club and this is our headquarters."
"Even if that were real, you'd hardly qualify for membership," Will says.
"Why not?" Bryan asks, sounding deeply offended.
"Because your 'annual business trips' were actually scheduled relapses of orgies, drugs and Broadway theater." From his pedantic tone Finn can tell that Will has had this conversation before.
"Oh yeah," Bryan frowns, takes a sip of his beer, grins and widely declares, "Fuck her anyway."
Finn hides his amusement at the older man's microcosmic mood swing by drinking from his soda. There's a minute or two of silence before he attempts to spark a conversation, "So, um, why are you hiding out in the kitchen?"
"Because if I have to hear one more debate on the feasibility of a laser turntable that combats the dust accumulation problem I may go feral," Will replies pleasantly, taking a long pull from his beer and grimacing. "You?"
"Because Quinn was acting like a broken record and the irony just got to me," He answers with similar forced pleasantry.
"She's not enjoying herself," Will correctly deduces the meaning. "I'm sorry, I should have told you this wasn't going to be like an actual party."
"Beer, check." Finn indicates the empty bottles on the table. "Weepy drunk guy, check."
"I am not weepy," Bryan defies, lifting his head up from the table unsteadily.
"Girlfriend complaining, check," Finn continues, gesturing to the doorway to the lounge. "Hiding out from most of the people you invited, check. Seems like a real party to me."
Will snorts and drains the lingering drops in his bottle, "You may have a point." Collecting the empties and dropping them into a recycling container, he turns to Finn again, "Come on, I'll show you the leftovers I promised you."
They make a stealthy run across the hall without being pulled into any arguments on equalizer brands or preservation techniques and slip into Will's bedroom. The box of records from the yard sale is sitting at the end of the bed with almost the exact same amount Finn remembers there being on Friday.
"You didn't sell many then?" He asks.
"Not as many as I'd hoped," Will agrees, "But this is just the stuff too scratched or warped to interest them." He gestures over his shoulder to indicate the crowd in the lounge. "I went through my entire collection and there's a set of about as many as there are there that are intact enough to be worth a decent amount."
"How much?" Finn inquires, looking up from where he's started browsing through the titles being offered to him.
"A few original prints that are worth about a hundred bucks each," Will replies.
The young man whistles, a long, low sound that says 'I can never hope to be that affluent so the very concept is impressive'.
Will scrunches up his expression in ambivalence, "They'll be looking for any little degradation to knock the price down, though. I reckon I'll get about half what the set is worth overall."
"That's still a decent amount," Finn points out.
"Quite the pretty penny," Will acknowledges with a twitch of his lips.
The two sit on either side of the box, Finn flicking through the selection and making occasional comments or questions about individual singles or albums. The mood is relaxed and comfortable.
"Why do you listen to records anyway?" Will asks in a lull in the conversation.
Finn looks up from reading the back sleeve of Styx's Paradise Theater, "They just remind me of when I was younger, I guess," He answers. "I know CDs don't scratch as easily and they're smaller and, well, just better in every way... but, to me, they aren't. Putting the needle in a groove and sitting back reminds me of when summer vacation lasted a lifetime and gas was $1.70 a gallon. Does that make any sense?"
"It makes perfect sense," Will assures with a soft smile.
When they've looked through the entire box, Finn asks the question that's been pressing on his mind, "So if these are the ones too damaged to sell for a good price and the ones out there are the ones that can be sold for more than a buck each, where do you keep the ones you aren't selling?" He sees a hesitant expression passing over the older man's face and so is quick to add, "Library rules, I'll look with my eyes, not my hands." He holds his palms up innocently.
Will seems mollified, "Okay." He gets up from the bed and opens a closet, bending over and beginning to search through it. (Finn notices idly that timeworn denim is just as flattering to Will's butt as the slacks from the diner had been).
"That's your collection?" Finn questions, eying the large storage chest with something close to awe.
"Um, it's some of it," Will answers abashedly, ducking his head as he lifts the latch and opens the trunk.
They pass an hour sat side-by-side on the floor, browsing through the collection and discussing their favorite tracks from the records Finn recognizes. In the cases where the younger man draws a blank even though Will insists he really ought to know about them, the older man waxes lyrical on the singer or band and the impact they'd had on music, songs that had changed the way people thought about guitar solos, the importance of sixteenth notes or the social messages that could be expressed exclusively through ukelele. Finn listens to every word with an attentive interest he has rarely been able to summon in class.
Although at first hesitant, Will soon acquiesces to letting Finn handle the records when he observes how gently the younger man is holding any that are passed across to him and so the pair end up both flicking their fingers through the selection, hands so close that they are almost touching at times.
"You have to play this one," Finn insists, tone reverent as he holds an album aloft.
The older man smiles gently as he recognizes the treasure that has been unearthed, "The turntable is in the other room and I wouldn't want those vultures to know I have an original pressing."
"Original pressing," The younger man repeats, looking down at the record in its hands as if it is the holy grail. He sets it down carefully so his trembling hands won't cause any accidents. "Can I listen to it, please? Maybe after everyone else has gone."
Will checks his watch thoughtfully, "Give me half an hour to kick everyone out," He requests.
Quinn accosts Finn almost the instant they return to the lounge, "Where have you been?" He opens his mouth to answer, but she's in full-on rant mode and the question isn't looking for an answer, it's looking to tear him to pieces. "I've just spent the past hour listening to that guy's relationship problems."
"Hey Bryan." Finn nods politely at the red-eyed man slumped low on the couch.
"Look." Quinn sighs and adopts an air of false-patience, he recognizes it as the posture she assumes when she's about to make demands, "I'm willing to forget about this whole stupid night if we can just get going, okay?"
"Uh."
The sound is barely out of his throat before Quinn has narrowed her eyes at him, "What?"
"There's this record I wanted to listen to," He begins meekly.
She sighs and pulls her hair back, it's a gesture of frustration that he's been seeing a lot recently, "Fine, just give me the keys to your car. I'll drop it off at your place tomorrow morning."
"How am I supposed to get home?"
"Take a taxi or something," She snaps, holding out a hand expectantly. He hands the keys to the Aries over and leans down to peck her cheek, she turns away from the kiss as she goes to collect her coat.
Some of the eccentric geezers had stopped their discussions long enough to observe the lover's spat, but now that it is over their attention returns to the detailed mechanics of vinyl records that would probably bore Finn to tears if he listened for long enough. He sits on the couch with a heavy sigh and receives another moment of grand wisdom from Will's inebriated roommate, "Don't marry that girl..." (Though this time, maybe there's some real thought behind it.) "She'll stamp on your dick," Bryan adds with a small hiccup. (Maybe not, then.)
The crowd dwindles down to only a few people and Finn goes in search of Will, finding him conversing with a gray-haired man with a mullet and an ascot.
"Hey Finn," Will looks up from the notepad he is jotting down numbers in. "I'll be with you in a second, okay?"
The man with the mullet observes Finn with interest, "I've been meaning to ask you about this young man all night, William," He remarks.
"This is Finn, we met at the yard sale the other day," Will explains, looking up from the notepad again he makes proper introductions. "Finn, this is Jack; he's the owner of Ringo's at the mall on West Elm."
"A pleasure to meet you young man." Jack smiles charmingly and holds out a hand.
"And you," Finn returns, accepting the handshake. "So, you own a store?" He asks for clarification.
"Sure do," The man confirms.
He contemplates the question silently for a few seconds, then decides to follow the 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' school of thought and go for it, "Do you have any vacancies?"
By the time the party has ended Finn has a trial shift set up at Ringo's for the following Saturday and so a solid chance of having found his summer job, he thinks of this as the second best thing about the party because a few minutes later Will has retrieved the album from his room and set it to play in the lounge, and that most definitely takes first place. The two men stand by the turntable in a trance as Second Hand News croons through the room, the air is almost electric with the original pressing rendition of songs that would go on to over a dozen platinum.
"I need to clean up," Will announces as the first song gives way to the second. Finn wants to insist that the other man stay and share the experience with him, but reflects that Will is free to listen to the album any time he wants. He sinks onto the couch once again during the opening bars of Dreams and drifts away on a cloud of iconic rock for the rest of side one.
For side two Will returns and stays after he has flipped the record, taking the spot beside the younger man and staying from the start of The Chain to the closing moments of Gold Dust Woman. They do not say a word, but the entire twenty minutes feel as deep and intimate as their discussions earlier in the evening.
"Thank you," Finn says as Will gets up to return the record to its sleeve. Simple words don't feel like enough to express his gratitude but he makes the effort regardless.
"It's no trouble," Will assures. "Music is made to be shared."
The young man doesn't have any answer to such a profound concept and so he falls back on something simpler, "Is it okay if I use your phone? My girlfriend sort of borrowed my car and I need to call a taxi."
"I can give you a ride if you like," Will offers. Finn accepts gladly since he only has the thirty dollars from the gig to last him the rest of the week and Quinn will probably expect a proper date to make up for tonight.
"So where to?" Will prompts as they load the box of records that now belongs to Finn into the backseat and secure it with one of the seat belts.
"Tremont Avenue," Finn answers.
"North of St. Rita's, right?" The older man questions and Finn nods. "Yeah, I know it."
The young man is not surprised to find that the radio is tuned to WOCR, and although the so-called 'classic rock' station has a nasty habit of playing some awful duds, they come in on the end of Light My Fire and it leads onto In A Gadda Da Vida. Finn isn't sure what the etiquette of singing along to the radio is when you're a passenger, but when he hears Will mumbling along to the first verse under his breath he decides it's fair to throw his own voice into the mix when the chorus comes up. The older man smiles across the car at him and sings a little louder for the rest of the song as they cruise up the 65, it is as comfortable (Though far more dorky) as the rest of the evening has been.
Finn thanks Will again for the records when they arrive on Tremont Avenue and words his goodbye very specifically, "So, I'll see you around?"
"I hope so," Will agrees, giving a slight wave and then backing his car out of the driveway.
Finn watches the broken exhaust dragging on the road as the vehicle pulls out of sight and then heads inside. Carrying the box of records up to his room he reflects on the evening's events (Will really is cool, for an older guy) and hopes he really will see the older man again some time soon.