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Authors: Shannon Wendtland
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coming out lately. Something that most kids hadn’t heard before. Like maybe the Motels ? Or … I reached for a battered
disc by Dexy’s Midnight Runners just as another,
definitely more feminine, manicured hand, beat me to it.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you reaching for this?” She smiled and
held the disc out to me. She had dark brown—almost black—hair with a pixy cut,
and the deepest green eyes I had ever seen. Lots of eye makeup and a tiny gold
nose ring. Holy shit, hot .
Suddenly self-conscious in my grocery store uniform shirt
and my sadly preppy khaki pants, I managed to smile and say something not
completely asinine. “Nah, you take it. I have a copy at home.”
“Really,” she said, slumping to her left, and throwing her
hip out. “You have this album at home? Name one song, just one, off of the
back, and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Released in 1982, Too-Rye-Ay is the second album by Dexy’s Midnight Runners . The most popular song
was ‘Come on Eileen,’ but that would be too easy, so let me name them for you
in reverse order: 'Come On Eileen,’ 'Until I Believe
in My Soul,’ 'Liars A to E,’” I said, warming to my subject, “let's see then. there's 'Plan B,' 'I'll Show You'—”
“Okay, okay, I give. You obviously know your stuff. Though if I may say so, you certainly don’t dress the part.” She arched an eyebrow as her glance skimmed me from head to toe. She handed the
album to me. “What’s with the outfit? And if you don’t mind me asking, since
you have a copy of this album at home, what do you need this one for?”
My pulse picked up. This chick was really cute, and she
didn’t hate me. Maybe I should– “I have a job to help pay for my rig, and I
wanted this album because I’ve got a gig coming up and I can’t find my copy
anywhere,” –talk myself up a little. That was only a partial lie.
“Really? You spin?” Her mouth
quirked and then bloomed into a smile.
“Yeah. I said I have a gig, didn’t
I?”
“Let me know where, and I’ll come by for a listen. If I like
what I hear, I can hook you up with a major event. Pays a
thousand bucks. And it sure beats working at the deli.”
Shit. Now I would have to come up with something or risk
losing my chance with this girl. “Give me your number. I’ll text you as soon as
the date is set. My manager’s working out the details for me.”
“Right, cuz I want you stalking me
with your Dexy’s Midnight Runners ? No way. You give me
your digits, and I’ll text you this weekend. If you don’t have details by then,
well…” her green eyes twinkled, “then I’ll have to find somebody else.”
She gave me her phone, and I put my name and number in. What
the hell else was I supposed to do? Find
a gig, that’s what.
So it turned out that Colton’s brother’s friend was having a
party on the other end of town and he would let me spin for a few hours as long
as I did it for free plus drinks. Sadly, I don’t drink when I spin, so it
seemed like I was doing the gig for the price of a couple of cokes. Oh yeah,
and hauling all my gear out there, too. Setup takes an hour, take-down takes
another hour, spin for at least two hours and all I get are a couple of cokes? And the chick’s phone number when she texts me to get the details on my gig… Oh yeah.
There was that. I grinned. Wish I had gotten her name. I blamed it on her
little gold nose ring. It was distracting.
#
It was nighttime and the cat (I had decided to call him Mr.
Smith, after The Smiths , one of my
favorite bands), was out prowling the neighborhood again. I was watching Mr.
Smith out the window, yet another ploy to keep myself from doing what had to be
done.
I had the software fired up, my headphones around my neck,
and the file copied from my phone and onto my hard drive. All I had to do now
was click the damned button. My finger hesitated. What was wrong with me?
From the street, I could hear the yowl of a very angry cat,
and I jumped a
disc by Dexy’s Midnight Runners just as another,
definitely more feminine, manicured hand, beat me to it.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you reaching for this?” She smiled and
held the disc out to me. She had dark brown—almost black—hair with a pixy cut,
and the deepest green eyes I had ever seen. Lots of eye makeup and a tiny gold
nose ring. Holy shit, hot .
Suddenly self-conscious in my grocery store uniform shirt
and my sadly preppy khaki pants, I managed to smile and say something not
completely asinine. “Nah, you take it. I have a copy at home.”
“Really,” she said, slumping to her left, and throwing her
hip out. “You have this album at home? Name one song, just one, off of the
back, and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Released in 1982, Too-Rye-Ay is the second album by Dexy’s Midnight Runners . The most popular song
was ‘Come on Eileen,’ but that would be too easy, so let me name them for you
in reverse order: 'Come On Eileen,’ 'Until I Believe
in My Soul,’ 'Liars A to E,’” I said, warming to my subject, “let's see then. there's 'Plan B,' 'I'll Show You'—”
“Okay, okay, I give. You obviously know your stuff. Though if I may say so, you certainly don’t dress the part.” She arched an eyebrow as her glance skimmed me from head to toe. She handed the
album to me. “What’s with the outfit? And if you don’t mind me asking, since
you have a copy of this album at home, what do you need this one for?”
My pulse picked up. This chick was really cute, and she
didn’t hate me. Maybe I should– “I have a job to help pay for my rig, and I
wanted this album because I’ve got a gig coming up and I can’t find my copy
anywhere,” –talk myself up a little. That was only a partial lie.
“Really? You spin?” Her mouth
quirked and then bloomed into a smile.
“Yeah. I said I have a gig, didn’t
I?”
“Let me know where, and I’ll come by for a listen. If I like
what I hear, I can hook you up with a major event. Pays a
thousand bucks. And it sure beats working at the deli.”
Shit. Now I would have to come up with something or risk
losing my chance with this girl. “Give me your number. I’ll text you as soon as
the date is set. My manager’s working out the details for me.”
“Right, cuz I want you stalking me
with your Dexy’s Midnight Runners ? No way. You give me
your digits, and I’ll text you this weekend. If you don’t have details by then,
well…” her green eyes twinkled, “then I’ll have to find somebody else.”
She gave me her phone, and I put my name and number in. What
the hell else was I supposed to do? Find
a gig, that’s what.
So it turned out that Colton’s brother’s friend was having a
party on the other end of town and he would let me spin for a few hours as long
as I did it for free plus drinks. Sadly, I don’t drink when I spin, so it
seemed like I was doing the gig for the price of a couple of cokes. Oh yeah,
and hauling all my gear out there, too. Setup takes an hour, take-down takes
another hour, spin for at least two hours and all I get are a couple of cokes? And the chick’s phone number when she texts me to get the details on my gig… Oh yeah.
There was that. I grinned. Wish I had gotten her name. I blamed it on her
little gold nose ring. It was distracting.
#
It was nighttime and the cat (I had decided to call him Mr.
Smith, after The Smiths , one of my
favorite bands), was out prowling the neighborhood again. I was watching Mr.
Smith out the window, yet another ploy to keep myself from doing what had to be
done.
I had the software fired up, my headphones around my neck,
and the file copied from my phone and onto my hard drive. All I had to do now
was click the damned button. My finger hesitated. What was wrong with me?
From the street, I could hear the yowl of a very angry cat,
and I jumped a
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