Robbie wasn’t unappealing, but whenever it came to the opposite sex he became no more than a jumbled mess of nonsensical words and jerky, panicked movements. And flaming red cheeks, of course. At the very least, naughty film scenes and titles constructed of puns and innuendos provided some assistance, and plenty of ladies loved his ability to remember and comprehend tear jerking performances from romantic comedies and period pieces, but it was difficult to sell himself at the record store, because very few suitors were in any way interested in his obsession with rock n’ roll and heavy metal. His unruly locks were a dead giveaway for his music tastes, and the abundance of pins stuck to the right side of his denim jacket weren’t particularly subtle. He could ramble about the majesty of tunes that made one thrash their head around, and could recite lyrics so laced with aggression and connotations of violence that he seemed rather dubious, or maybe even deeply troubled, a criminal hiding behind the splendour of hard music. Unfortunately, he drew a very prominent line in the sand when it came to pop music, and thus drove off a vast majority of his potential partners. And customers.
His chances were significantly worsened by the fact that everyone in town seemed to know everyone else in town, which meant his inability to finish high school was essentially common knowledge, a ‘fun fact’ people would tell tourists meandering through the streets during peak holiday periods. No matter where he ventured, Robbie felt like it was impossible to escape his past, to shrug off the self-inflicted weight of failure and shame. It was no secret that he was the laughing stock of the town, that the ex cheerleaders and varsity footballers still reflected on his foolishness, and continued to compare themselves to him to boost and exaggerate their own accomplishments. To continue riding the high of their school-based endeavours and popularity. Every so often, he would catch glimpses of old classmates pointing and sniggering from outside the record store, their faces squished against the glass as if teasing a captive animal at the zoo. Robbie lugged around an invisible suitcase brimming with humiliation wherever he went, but even when the wheels ran over his toes, or the padlock threatened to burst, he never let his friends catch a glimpse of the pain he kept hidden inside.
In moments of utmost boredom, Micky would chew gum so obnoxiously he sounded like a giraffe munching on dry foliage. He had his elbows resting on the record store’s front counter, his chin propped atop his knuckles, and his mouth was open grotesquely wide, the gum inside evidently munched to the point of losing both its colour and flavour. A splattering of oil trickled down his cheeks, obscuring the magnificence of his deeply sun kissed skin. He wore overalls nearly entirely covered in splotches of black and brown, and his curls were pinned back by a tattered blue bandana, the pattern faded but not indistinguishable, just stars and polka dots colliding. With an eyebrow raised, he watched intently as Robbie tried to recommend Bon Jovi’s ‘Slippery When Wet’ album to a woman wearing bright pink pants and prettily puffed sleeves. It was virtually impossible to suppress his laughter in response to the expression of unmistakable disgust tugging at her features. He thought the twisting of her lips looked a lot like a dog’s buttho-
“Lovely talking to you. Please come again soon,” Robbie said lifelessly, his smile strained as the woman stomped out of the store. His stiffened shoulders only relaxed once she was entirely out of sight. He tossed the record onto the floor with a dissatisfied grunt. It was as though he was tossing his dreams away with it, because every ounce of his energy had been drained by a single regrettable conversation. It never got any easier, and to him, women never seemed to make less and less sense.
Micky tapped the counter with a terrible sense of rhythm, trying desperately to stop himself from sarcastically humming a song from the discarded album. Ironically, he did look a little like the band's lead vocalist, albeit far filthier. “I think you’ve got a real shot with that one. She seemed super into you. Plus, you could borrow each other’s outfits since your aesthetics are so similar. You’d look fantastic in pink.”
If Robbie’s torn black jeans, red flannel shirt and blue denim jacket could have sprouted wings and flown, they certainly would have, fleeing far from the possibility of clashing with vivid hues and silky materials. Still, the frown on Robbie’s face said enough on its own, personifying the repulsion that stemmed right from the centre of his heart.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Robbie asked meanly. He poked his tongue out at the front display of Kylie Minogue posters and miniature cutouts. She was pretty, but lingering near her lively features for too long nearly felt shameful, like he was betraying the vigour and rebelliousness of the rock n’ roll world.
“And shouldn’t you be working?” Micky retorted, an accusatory finger pointed, straight and rigid. “Anyway, I’m on my lunch break.”
Incredulity seeped into Robbie’s features. He bit his bottom lip in contemplation. “I didn’t realise that lunch breaks lasted two whole hours.”
Micky inhaled sharply, his facade swiftly shut down. As if trying to contain a mass of secrets, he held his breath and looked away, suddenly interested in the way the store’s ceiling drooped down somewhat hazardously in the back left corner. A red indicative of struggle and discomfort pierced through the oil on his face and transformed him into a giant, curly headed tomato, and the tapping of his fingers turned to the manic slapping of two sweaty palms. He had never been able to keep his cool in a stressful situation. Lying didn’t come to him naturally. It barely came to him at all. Nothing really did.
“You lost the job, didn’t you?” Robbie questioned, his tone surprisingly nonchalant, almost completely unreactive. He didn’t seem surprised by any means. Deep down, he was all too painfully aware that his friend had never been designed to work long hours, or even to partake in shorter bouts of physical labour. An auto repair shop was the last place Micky belonged. In fact, he wasn’t exactly sure if Micky belonged anywhere at all. If he weren’t so friendly, Robbie imagined his friend could have stumbled into a future of becoming a deadbeat father who wore wife beaters and drank all day. Fortunately, he was a decent guy. There had to be something out there for him.
Micky breathed out loudly, relieved. His shoulders sagged. “I couldn’t take it, man. It’s one thing to live with two airheads, but to then have to work alongside them is freaking insufferable. I’m not made for the constant locker room banter.”
“Clearly. You just said freaking.”
“What’s wrong with saying freaking?”
“What’s wrong with it is that it’s what kids and missionaries say, because they’re too scared they’ll be struck down by their parents or God for saying a bad word. Just say fucking. Seriously, say it - you’ll feel so much better. Your whole world will change. New possibilities will arise. Let it all out, man.”
“I’m not saying fucking.”
“You just did.”
“Fuck.”
The two stared at one another in comfortable silence for a few seconds before erupting in a cacophony of uncontrollable laughter. They could always find glimpses of joy in each other’s presence. Their friendship was perhaps the best piece of evidence for opposites attracting.
Micky wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “We did well last night,” he reminisced suddenly, a brilliant, broad smile tugging at his lips. “It was nice having Al back. He’s such a riot when he’s away from work.”
“He actually looks his age when he’s at the arcade. Sometimes I see him running down the street in his little suit and I forget that he’s only twenty,” Robbie said. He chanced a wink at a woman walking into the store. She froze, quickly gazed around, and retreated.
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“That internship, those jobs, that damn degree - he’s going to work himself to death. Like, I’m proud of him, you know? But I’m worried about him, too. There’s not much point in working so hard if there’s gonna be nothing left of you to enjoy the benefits.”
Robbie scratched his head with a fingernail painted black. The darkness of his eyes grew increasingly daunting as he spiralled into a flurry of concern. He puckered his lips, as if bragging about their voluptuous plumpness, and tilted his head to the side, making his thoughts sway. He really was quite handsome. It was unfortunate that this fact was overshadowed by his frequently disagreeable personality.
“The more I think about it - he was kind of weird last night, right? Like I’m not imagining that he was being a little funky?” Micky continued, itching at the stubble along his jaw. He had never been capable of sprouting a complete beard, so always tended to border on the edges of prepubescence and scruffiness. At the very least, the minute hairs managed to obscure his tendency to walk around with crumbs stuck to his face.
“He’s always a little funky,” Robbie replied. He crossed his arms. The denim around his biceps tightened awkwardly. Perhaps he had put on a little muscle in his time away from school. “I suppose he did mention something about hearing voices. He made out like the Gauntlet’s narrator wasn’t saying the usual lines, which is impossible, since it's only programmed to say a certain amount of phrases. Honestly, he was probably just way past tired. That kid probably barely has a chance to climb into bed before his alarm rings again.”
Micky chewed a little louder, stilled, and then kept on going. The sound was seriously foul, almost animalistic, but Robbie was too used to it to find himself perturbed. “You don’t think he has been hanging with good old Mary Jane lately, do you?”
The frown on Robbie’s face was so severe it slipped into the hilarious category. For a moment, he wanted to laugh at Micky's outdated choice of description, but the apprehension settled in too quickly to allow for an outburst of joy. “Hell no. Al would rather jump from the peak of Mount Everest before he ever touched that shit. Or anything else remotely like it.”
“Maybe they just added some new features to the game and the rest of us were too focussed on winning to notice?”
Robbie made an odd guttural sound in the back of his throat, his eyebrows knitting together in disbelief. “No, no, I would notice. This thing has been my baby for years now. There’s no way I wouldn’t recognise new dialogue. Nobody even touches it without me knowing.”
The moment Micky opened his mouth to respond, a stack of records were slapped onto the counter, unsettling dust particles and startling Robbie so terribly he leapt into the air. He had a habit of reacting to sudden noises like a frightened cat. Breathing heavily, his palm over his heart as though fearful it might shoot through his ribcage, Robbie feigned a wonky grin, trying to play off the embarrassment dragging its jagged fingernails down his back. The customer, her hair cropped into short waves of flaming red, did not smile back. She simply looked back and forth between the two men, her lids hooded and her nose scrunched in disgust.
“How’s it hanging, Betty?” Micky asked, unbothered and unaware. He batted his eyelashes. This might’ve been attractive if not for the black grease all over his face.
“Are you going to ring these up for me or not?” Betty responded, ignoring the question. She glared at Robbie, who hurriedly began scanning the records and stuffing them haphazardly into a poorly branded bag. She didn't seem to notice the way his hands trembled.
Micky frowned as he watched his friend. It was the first time he’d seen him so quiet and uncomfortable, his cheeks as bright as leaves trapped in an uncontrollable inferno. Robbie was usually the kind of person to talk uncontrollably, to the point of digging his own grave and scaring people away. He had the ability to rant about anything and everything, and was the person the other boys relied on to fill in any awkward silences. But now, it was as though something had latched onto his tongue and tied it up, like someone was pressing a gun to his temple and demanding that he follow orders obediently.
“$22.50,” Robbie managed to mumble. He struggled to hold eye contact with Betty. Even as she dropped her gaze and began to rifle through her purse, he seemed unable to look at her any longer than a second or two at a time, almost like her mere presence caused him pain.
Betty slapped the money onto the counter, clearly unsympathetic as a couple of coins scattered off onto the floor. “Keep the change,” she said, snatching the bag and turning to Micky. She narrowed her eyes. “And you - maybe try breath mints instead next time. Your chewing is probably scaring away the customers.”
“Nice to see you too, Betty! Always such a pleasure!” Micky bellowed sarcastically, saluting. She did not spare him another glance, but cocked an unexpectedly inquisitive eyebrow at Robbie, who only waved robotically and suddenly seemed to wear an expression of complete stupor like it was a badge of honour. “Dude, get a grip.”
Robbie blinked a few times, shedding a film of rosy hearts from his eyes. “She’s so fucking beautiful, man.”
“She literally has no idea who you are.”
“Of course she does. We were in the same grade. Until we weren’t.”
Micky rolled his eyes. “You think the head cheerleader took any notice of the kid who spent most of his time rereading Dune behind the basketball courts?”
“Just let a man dream, man. Just let him dream.”
To the best of Robbie’s knowledge, there was no dream wilder - or more desirable - than his pairing with Betty. He had never been overly fond of those sitting atop the popularity hierarchy back in his high school days, but she was different. Ethereal. Vivid. A flash of magnificence in an otherwise drab and dreary place. He had seen her smile in the moments she assumed no one was watching, had seen her walls come crumbling down until she was no longer a cheerleader, but a girl with gentle mannerisms and a warm heart. No matter how much time passed, he was certain he would never forget her. Even as Micky tried clicking his fingers and reciting lyrics incorrectly to attract his attention once more, Robbie just wound up spending the remainder of the day imagining, rather lustily, just how soft strands of blazing red might feel as they slipped through his fingers.
By the time Robbie’s shift came to its conclusion, his head was in the clouds and his words had been replaced by the cacophonous thundering of heavy tunes in his ears. As he locked up the record store, having obviously forgotten to flip the notice on the front door’s handle from open to closed, he thought of Betty and her sashaying hips, the majesty with which she could stroll down these mundane streets and make them seem vibrant and alive. He loved her hair. It was brighter than the irregularly flashing signs out front of the arcade he so often frequented, but it was, without a single doubt in his messy, immature mind, less attainable than a win on the machines locked inside. For a moment he contemplated walking left, sauntering along until he fell into the Gauntlet’s abyss and acquired the perfect distraction from bursts of brilliant red, lips like peaches and fingernails painted just the same, but it was never any fun to play alone. It wasn’t a great deal of fun to do anything alone, really. This was likely the reason he had never truly pursued music. He could strum a guitar with fingers that flowed like the waters of a softly flowing river, and his voice, much like his laugh, was naturally melodic, magical like the chorus of a cool breeze rustling crisp leaves in the fall, but he had no one to share any of it with.
His friends adored hard rock tunes as much as he did. Micky’s bedroom was essentially an homage to the heavy metal bands of the ‘70s, half-beaten walls covered by posters and scribbles like he was a teenage girl with a crush, records stashed like a dirty little secret beneath a bed threatening to splinter any second. Black Sabbath in one corner, Deep Purple in the other. A little bit of Judas Priest on the ceiling. Although silent in his admiration, Kurt didn’t drive anywhere without slotting in a cassette consisting of aggressive drumming and wild guitar solos, and Al, too pretty and pure to break in front of his family, had a tonne of rock magazines and newspaper clippings stuffed in a drawer, hiding beneath poorly folded graphic t-shirts like they contained pornographic imagery. The problem was that none of them had the passion Robbie did. None of them saw the potential buried in a guitar’s soundhole, or believed that rock n’ roll could continue soaring into the new decade. Times were changing.
Robbie wondered if times would one day change so drastically that huddling over an arcade game with his best friends would become little more than a hazy memory.
“Valkyrie is about to die!”
A shiver ran up Robbie’s spine.
Slowly, equal parts cautious and panicked, he turned on the spot and scanned the street. It was a Wednesday night, and expectedly quiet. The foot traffic was at a minimum, just a young couple swinging their interlocked hands in one direction and a group of middle-aged women having a chuckle in the other. A few cars drove back and forth, and one rusty old thing circled a distant parking lot incessantly, likely driven by a young fool trying to show off or act out, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The air was fresh and the sky was sprinkled with stars, and small billboards flickered, and the town was boring. Dead. Normal.
“It’s official. I’m losing my fucking mind,” Robbie muttered. He pushed the unruly locks away from his eyes, took in a breath, and made his way home without sparing the peculiar voice another thought.