A stranger comes to town
The sun was slowly making its daily hike to the top of the mountain of earth. It scraped light over the land like an exceptionally large knife over grotesquely over sized portion of wonder-bread. It dripped out of the sky, illuminating the darkest mysteries of the night. The nocturnal weirdoes of Great Britain could be see sneaking back to the odd nooks and cracks that they inhabited during the day. So the light flowed, slowly down an alley way between two old, mossy stone buildings. It crept to Wills face and massaged the thin membrane covering his eyes. He flung his eyelids back, only to jam them shut again. His brief glimpse had told him enough. It was a fine day.
He arose, dusting himself off. The scraping of a opening window above notified him that it was time to be moving on. A bucket was shoved out the window and upturned. Will sidestepped nimbly, avoiding yesterdays garbage, being added to the alley's trash heap. On the days that the sun was not his wake-up call, fermenting banana peals landing on his face were.
The soles of Will's brown shoes flapped against the pavement as he walked. His shoes were falling apart piece by piece. Though they were the newest item of clothing that he was wearing, they had accumulated large holes in the bottoms and sides. Will was surprised that they were the first to go. Making his way down the street, he stepped into a shop to his right. The bell on the door jangled a merry tune, putting a warm cowbell feel into the atmosphere. The room was well lit, with a very thick atmosphere. Racks boxes, and crates lined the walls, as well as the rest of the room. Racks of tunes, beats, jams, and hits, placed alphabetically, ordered by their genre. Will looked around at the faces of Charles Mingus, Captain Beef Heart, the Clash, and others, shooting him their blank meaningless expressions from their unmoving photographic prison.
As he stepped deeper into the house of rhythm, his feet fell into step with Marvin Gaye's voice as he proclaimed loud and clear that he had recently heard it through the grapevine. He stepped forward, searching around him. With a rattle, the door at the back of the store swung open. Standing in its frame was a woman. She was plump, with short red hair hanging around her forehead. Here eyes rambled over the contents of the store once, twice, finally resting on Will.
"Oh hi," she said in a high pitched whiny voice. "I didn't see you at first."
She waddled over to the counter, which was shaped as a square, and set directly in the middle of the room. Dropping her self into an already sagging chair, she rolled it around to face the dirty homeless boy who was facing her.
"So what did you come here for today?"
"I dunno. I just felt like getting out," Will said.
"I see. Don't you get out much? Where do you live?"
Will turned his back and started leafing through a rack of Records. The fading cardboard padded his finger tips as he looked past one record after another.
"Well?" she pressed. Will panicked. Selecting at random, he pulled a record out of the depths of the rack.
"Can we listen to this?" he asked. The woman dropped her previous question like a hippie dropping acid. She lifted it out of his hands, glancing over the record.
"Otis Redding," she said before smiling up at him. "You have good taste. Just a second."
She rolled the chair over the record player. Marvin Gaye was now asking anyone who would listen, "what's going on?" She lifted the needle from its lowered position, and removed the black vinyl off of where it turned idly. From its sleeve, she drew the record, and laid it onto the turntable, lowering the needle until it scratched relentlessly at its twisting adversary of plastic.
"This is a really good song, though it's pretty much all he is know by," the lady said. Will noted that her ears jiggled when she talked. "Otis Redding is a really interesting musician, I wish people would listen to more of his stuff than this one song.
Will nodded blankly. He had less than the faintest idea of what she was talking about. In his opinion, the song was about a boring trip to the a bay, where the singer spent most of his time sitting on the dock with nothing to do. The song progressed, and eventually ended.
Deciding that Will was not going to talk, the woman stood up, her chair groaning in relief.
"Listen," she said. "I'm going down the street to get a coffee. You can stay here, and keep listening, it's a good record. I won't be long. Is that okay?
Will was a bit thrown off. He was cautious.
"You barley know me."
"You've come in here more than five times, so I consider you a regular. I trust all my regulars. I'll be right back, I promise," she said, grabbing her coat and hat, which were suffocating a helpless coat rack placed next to the door. As she tied her a scarf the length of an average billboard around her neck, she mentioned "Just, don't steal any thing."
The door clanked behind her. Will watched her body bouncing with every step she took until she was no longer in view of the windows. Will looked around. He was alone. And he didn't like it. As if on cue, he heard a scratching at the door. He went to it and turned the handle. As he cracked the door, through the opening flew his dæmon, the black cat. She was as radiant as ever, but apparently a bit chilly.
"It's bloody freezing out there."
"I know," acknowledge Will, looking around again. He felt better. Slowly, his feet took him in a path, that eventually lead him behind the desk. He sat down in the chair, which stopped in mid groan after realizing it was now supporting someone who weighted considerably less weight. He laid his head back, letting to calm melodies of Otis Redding rock his mind back and forth.
The door jingled, causing Will to jump up. It was a natural reflex, one that he wished he could over come, because sudden movements were the most predominant attracter of human – and all animal, eyes.
The person standing in the door way was not the robust woman, taking off her coat, and preparing to scold Will for sitting behind the desk, but a tall thin man, with a well trimmed mustache. A silver star of David hung limply from a silver chain, circling his neck. He folded the newspaper he was holding, placing it under his arm, and rubbed his hands together.
Will's feet were faster than his mind. With no other aid, Will's legs stood him upright and launched him from behind the desk. The man's eyes rested on Will, who was now leaning awkwardly against the counter, bobbing his head off beat to the music. The man frowned, bringing his long, plucked eyebrows together, and pushing out his thin lips, wrinkling his nose, and squinting his eyes. Even his ears adjusted to this face. A face that must have taken lots of practice to bring it self to the all and proper state of obscurity that it now held.
"Tell me," said the man, dropping his perplexing look and transforming into a proper English gentleman. "Do you have the carry a record with the song "The Wind Beneath my Wings" by Betty Middler?"
Will bit his lip. He had heard of no such song in his life, there for it could not have been very popular. Will had listened to the radio a good deal as a child, until the year before he left, when his mother had not been well enough to pay its tax, and it was reclaimed by the state.
"I don't work here. Sorry I can't help," he admitted. Kirjava, his dæmon, leaped onto the counter. Unless will was very mistaken, the man had glanced – however briefly – at the cat. Though it was possible he was looking for an employee of sorts.
"Very well. This place looks unorganized enough for me not to be able to find it on my own, so I'll be off. By the way, nice cat." And with those final, dumbfounding words, he left Will gaping in the shop.
Will acted purely on instinct. He was at the door in seconds, and out it in moments. Glancing up the street he saw the blue collar making her way down the street, coffee in hand. Will gave her a wave, which she returned, and then he bounded after the man who had recognized his cat.
The sun was slowly making its daily hike to the top of the mountain of earth. It scraped light over the land like an exceptionally large knife over grotesquely over sized portion of wonder-bread. It dripped out of the sky, illuminating the darkest mysteries of the night. The nocturnal weirdoes of Great Britain could be see sneaking back to the odd nooks and cracks that they inhabited during the day. So the light flowed, slowly down an alley way between two old, mossy stone buildings. It crept to Wills face and massaged the thin membrane covering his eyes. He flung his eyelids back, only to jam them shut again. His brief glimpse had told him enough. It was a fine day.
He arose, dusting himself off. The scraping of a opening window above notified him that it was time to be moving on. A bucket was shoved out the window and upturned. Will sidestepped nimbly, avoiding yesterdays garbage, being added to the alley's trash heap. On the days that the sun was not his wake-up call, fermenting banana peals landing on his face were.
The soles of Will's brown shoes flapped against the pavement as he walked. His shoes were falling apart piece by piece. Though they were the newest item of clothing that he was wearing, they had accumulated large holes in the bottoms and sides. Will was surprised that they were the first to go. Making his way down the street, he stepped into a shop to his right. The bell on the door jangled a merry tune, putting a warm cowbell feel into the atmosphere. The room was well lit, with a very thick atmosphere. Racks boxes, and crates lined the walls, as well as the rest of the room. Racks of tunes, beats, jams, and hits, placed alphabetically, ordered by their genre. Will looked around at the faces of Charles Mingus, Captain Beef Heart, the Clash, and others, shooting him their blank meaningless expressions from their unmoving photographic prison.
As he stepped deeper into the house of rhythm, his feet fell into step with Marvin Gaye's voice as he proclaimed loud and clear that he had recently heard it through the grapevine. He stepped forward, searching around him. With a rattle, the door at the back of the store swung open. Standing in its frame was a woman. She was plump, with short red hair hanging around her forehead. Here eyes rambled over the contents of the store once, twice, finally resting on Will.
"Oh hi," she said in a high pitched whiny voice. "I didn't see you at first."
She waddled over to the counter, which was shaped as a square, and set directly in the middle of the room. Dropping her self into an already sagging chair, she rolled it around to face the dirty homeless boy who was facing her.
"So what did you come here for today?"
"I dunno. I just felt like getting out," Will said.
"I see. Don't you get out much? Where do you live?"
Will turned his back and started leafing through a rack of Records. The fading cardboard padded his finger tips as he looked past one record after another.
"Well?" she pressed. Will panicked. Selecting at random, he pulled a record out of the depths of the rack.
"Can we listen to this?" he asked. The woman dropped her previous question like a hippie dropping acid. She lifted it out of his hands, glancing over the record.
"Otis Redding," she said before smiling up at him. "You have good taste. Just a second."
She rolled the chair over the record player. Marvin Gaye was now asking anyone who would listen, "what's going on?" She lifted the needle from its lowered position, and removed the black vinyl off of where it turned idly. From its sleeve, she drew the record, and laid it onto the turntable, lowering the needle until it scratched relentlessly at its twisting adversary of plastic.
"This is a really good song, though it's pretty much all he is know by," the lady said. Will noted that her ears jiggled when she talked. "Otis Redding is a really interesting musician, I wish people would listen to more of his stuff than this one song.
Will nodded blankly. He had less than the faintest idea of what she was talking about. In his opinion, the song was about a boring trip to the a bay, where the singer spent most of his time sitting on the dock with nothing to do. The song progressed, and eventually ended.
Deciding that Will was not going to talk, the woman stood up, her chair groaning in relief.
"Listen," she said. "I'm going down the street to get a coffee. You can stay here, and keep listening, it's a good record. I won't be long. Is that okay?
Will was a bit thrown off. He was cautious.
"You barley know me."
"You've come in here more than five times, so I consider you a regular. I trust all my regulars. I'll be right back, I promise," she said, grabbing her coat and hat, which were suffocating a helpless coat rack placed next to the door. As she tied her a scarf the length of an average billboard around her neck, she mentioned "Just, don't steal any thing."
The door clanked behind her. Will watched her body bouncing with every step she took until she was no longer in view of the windows. Will looked around. He was alone. And he didn't like it. As if on cue, he heard a scratching at the door. He went to it and turned the handle. As he cracked the door, through the opening flew his dæmon, the black cat. She was as radiant as ever, but apparently a bit chilly.
"It's bloody freezing out there."
"I know," acknowledge Will, looking around again. He felt better. Slowly, his feet took him in a path, that eventually lead him behind the desk. He sat down in the chair, which stopped in mid groan after realizing it was now supporting someone who weighted considerably less weight. He laid his head back, letting to calm melodies of Otis Redding rock his mind back and forth.
The door jingled, causing Will to jump up. It was a natural reflex, one that he wished he could over come, because sudden movements were the most predominant attracter of human – and all animal, eyes.
The person standing in the door way was not the robust woman, taking off her coat, and preparing to scold Will for sitting behind the desk, but a tall thin man, with a well trimmed mustache. A silver star of David hung limply from a silver chain, circling his neck. He folded the newspaper he was holding, placing it under his arm, and rubbed his hands together.
Will's feet were faster than his mind. With no other aid, Will's legs stood him upright and launched him from behind the desk. The man's eyes rested on Will, who was now leaning awkwardly against the counter, bobbing his head off beat to the music. The man frowned, bringing his long, plucked eyebrows together, and pushing out his thin lips, wrinkling his nose, and squinting his eyes. Even his ears adjusted to this face. A face that must have taken lots of practice to bring it self to the all and proper state of obscurity that it now held.
"Tell me," said the man, dropping his perplexing look and transforming into a proper English gentleman. "Do you have the carry a record with the song "The Wind Beneath my Wings" by Betty Middler?"
Will bit his lip. He had heard of no such song in his life, there for it could not have been very popular. Will had listened to the radio a good deal as a child, until the year before he left, when his mother had not been well enough to pay its tax, and it was reclaimed by the state.
"I don't work here. Sorry I can't help," he admitted. Kirjava, his dæmon, leaped onto the counter. Unless will was very mistaken, the man had glanced – however briefly – at the cat. Though it was possible he was looking for an employee of sorts.
"Very well. This place looks unorganized enough for me not to be able to find it on my own, so I'll be off. By the way, nice cat." And with those final, dumbfounding words, he left Will gaping in the shop.
Will acted purely on instinct. He was at the door in seconds, and out it in moments. Glancing up the street he saw the blue collar making her way down the street, coffee in hand. Will gave her a wave, which she returned, and then he bounded after the man who had recognized his cat.