Under My Boss's Direction

The fact that I was the one who actually set the schedules was a great comfort as I rose from the chair. That plan didn’t exactly go down like gangbusters, my stiff and aching legs clearly not listening to a word my brain was shouting.

The needle came up off the vinyl without a sound, the sleeve laying empty on the floor. It was a first pressing of Immortal Territory by Lords of Sacred Shadow. It had been Luna’s favorite. I closed my eyes, silencing the screaming ghosts, and slid the record back into its proper place.

For someone not considered to have a ‘real job’, until I started making six-figures that is, I could be a real stickler for organization. Part of why I’d done so well. I also never really got into the drug scene. Music and sex were my own highs of choice. No less potent, but not as likely to leave you insensible, at least not for long.

Warm water embraced my aching muscles, reducing their piteous cries to a manageable whimper as the droplets ran the gauntlet of scars and tattoos from my neck to my feet. Most were more intentional than others, yet almost all of them were permanent reminders of youthful mistakes.

That was okay, though. They helped to keep me humble.

The closet doors slip open like the entrance to an ancient cathedral, my suits lined up like dutiful sentinels. A neat row of Converse sneakers was lined up under them, like a last nod to my mad formation.

The rest of my outfits trended towards the dress casual. Usually slacks, sometimes subtle jeans, with a polo shirt. They went better with my shorter hair and corrected vision. I only made the admission, even to myself, that I really did need glasses, in my mid-20s. How I managed to live that long going about the world half blind was a sort of miracle.

The engine roared to life like a poked dragon, settling down into a steady rumble. Closing up the garage, I rocketed out onto the empty street, the other members of my quiet suburbia having already gone about the business of their day.

I’d lived downtown for a while, but you only needed to hear a couple shootings outside your window before a suburban ranch seemed like much less of a ‘sellout’ – a term I never really understood even in its most limited form.

My good friend Cam and I had often debated whether music should be made for art, or money, or both.

Wasn’t the idea of recording records to sell them and make money from your art?

How was that a bad thing if you stayed true to your vision?

Parking was easy, since I was later than usual, and most people had already gotten to their day jobs, including those who served coffee to the likes of me. It was a mixed blessing, to be sure. While I lamented their loss of autonomy, the very notion of me trying to use an Espresso machine brought about a sense of existential dread that was roughly on par with the feeling I got when I thought about nuclear proliferation.

“Tall hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

“Going on a detox?” Skyler asked, punching in the order.

She was the barista who was always here, and knew that I was a regular.

“Good guess.”

Not that there wasn’t still caffeine in the hot chocolate, of course. Just a lot less than even the smallest latte. I wasn’t to the point of muscle jitters, but I thought it was a good idea to give my heart a break. I wasn’t as young as I used to be and two and a half decades of copious coffee consumption could be cause for concern.

Following the time-honored tradition, I stepped to one side, and waited to be summoned by the beverage guardians. The chair creaked softly under me as I eased down, even though it was unlikely to be a long wait.

I saw someone I didn’t want to see just then, and wished I could pretend that I hadn’t, but there was no way to avoid it.

I would know her anywhere, even though I hadn’t been told she’d been released. She hadn’t seen me yet and my first instinct was to run. Her name, Clara, was on the tip of my tongue. It was an unutterable hex that could only lead to my immediate doom.

Never had I been more thankful for my change in appearance. I just turned in my chair, so my back was to her, wishing I had given Skyler a fake name to call out when my order was ready.

Seth wasn’t that unusual of a name. Far from a Tad or a Layne. But still nowhere near as common as a Curt, even with the Germanic K, or a Chris.

I got ready to move fast when beckoned to the counter, an event that couldn’t come soon enough as far as I was concerned. And mercifully, I retrieved my beverage without any drama.