Pop Tunes

After I turned sixteen, my parents would let me have the car keys on Saturday afternoons. I'd get out and drive, even if I had nowhere to go. Shifting into second after the light changed, then rapidly into third, seamlessly into fourth, gave me such a power trip that, for a moment, I almost understood mid-life crises.

I cruised down Poplar until it branched off at the interstate, weaved around the streets near my middle school, drove by his house, pretending to be fascinated by something out the passenger-side window if he was skateboarding in the front yard.

Sometimes I wished he would notice and wave me down. I had grown up since I was last with him. I wanted him to look me up and down and nod his approval. I wanted to feel his hand on my shoulder; I wanted to shrug it off. I wanted to tell him that he lost his chance - that he never had a chance. There was always a little kernel of disappointment in my stomach after I drove by. I needed to make my stand. I needed closure; I needed to validate myself.

These Saturdays became my day to visit Pop Tunes. I usually went only if I had money, but even when I was broke, the clerks would load me up with free samplers. The best thing about Pop Tunes was that they had records - LPs. They had singles - CDs and 45s. Their CDs were overpriced, but you could take in a ten and come out with an armful of vinyl.

It was always chilly inside, even though the storefront was glass and the sun reflected off the floor, making you shield your eyes when you faced the parking lot. I would stand in front of the record bin for the good part of an hour, flipping through one by one, careful not to miss anything. The cold would seep up from the tiles, through the thin soles of my Converse-ripoffs.

I was usually all alone in that dusty corner; no one else browsed for records while I was there (and judging the slow turnover in stock, even when I wasn't). But he came over that day. From the way his body was blocking the glare from the linoleum, I could tell without looking that he was facing me, not the display. When I turned to him, I purposely blurred my vision, looking slightly over his shoulder instead of into his eyes. He reached out and touched my shoulder. I couldn't move, I couldn't find my words.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asked.
My brain was finally able to make my mouth move. "I didn't know you worked here."
"I don't."
My heart was pounding and my face was flushed; I wasn't cool enough to make my stand, I couldn't prove anything to anybody. "No, I'm all done here." I held up the two 45s I had picked out, shrugging my apology.

At the register, my hands were shaking as I pulled out some cash. From the corner of my eye, I could still see him standing there. Some coins fell when I carelessly shoved the change back in my pocket. He closed the distance between us with long strides, swept the pennies up with his thin fingers.
"You dropped these."
I stared at the copper coins in his palm. I knew he was watching, waiting for me to meet his eyes. "Keep it." I had my head down as I left the store, even though the reflection of the afternoon sun was blinding.

The bell over the door chimed in my head long after I left, and the bright light burned into my eyes was broken up by the silhouette of his tall, lanky form.