@softestmood​​ || sc

                Folks of every kind ventured into Uncle Ollie’s. It was a quaint, mom and pop type shop; rustic and worn, but not without charm. Benji was coming up on what was to be his fourth year of employment with the place. Wasted years, in his opinion. Sure, he loved to marvel over the endless rock memorabilia mounted upon the walls. He fawned over tattered records for hours, many of which had probably outlived their original owners. He even dreamed, sometimes, of his own music, someday, taking up shelf space in this very shop. 

But reality always reared its ugly head. 

It was during one such instance that Benji, perched upon the front counter with his chin rested in his palm and his shoulders slumped, heard the little bell over entryway titter. A customer. The first customer in hours. Record shops were hardly popular these days. He’d come to appreciate any variety of company during his shifts. Mostly.

He gave the patron a quick glance over, from toe to head, then leaned back on his palms. First impression? He was a short little shit and seemed like the stuck up, born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-mouth kind of guys. Those clothes? Probably designer. Accessories? On point, but definitely expensive. The question was, what was he doing in a hole-in-the-wall establishment like Ollie’s?

Benji, ordinarily not concerned with what other people thought of him, was suddenly very aware of his own secondhand sweater and cracked leather pants. He could practically feel a spotlight on his grown out roots, on the swatches of rubber peeling away from the soles of his boots. 

But it was a temporary feeling. As soon as it came, it was gone. 

“Welcome to Ollie’s Records,” he drawled through a lazy grin. His eyes lit up. They blazed like flames. “Lookin’ for anything in particular? Or are you just here to show off that hat?”

@landforces || sc

            “Listen, I’d say I’m sorry, Gil, but it’s just not my fault,” Benji produced a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket, a slanted grin favoring one side of his mouth.  He was leaned against the elevator wall, directly in front of the control panel. His eyes glistened with mischief. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he continued, glancing down at the carton of Marlboro Ultra Lights in his palm as though he was very interested in the warning label. He wasn’t. And his playful tone probably gave his intentions away. “I mean, maybe I hit the emergency stop button, but it was a complete accident. Totally. I’d never do it on purpose.”

          “Have you ever wanted something so fucking bad that your soul is on fire? It’s like, your nerves flare like a spread of vibrant, quivering butterfly wings and your heart powers so hard against your chest that it keeps pushing you forward with this magnetic force, hounding you on until you have nothing left but that overwhelming, aching desire?” Benji says all of this in one breath, hands shaking as he delivers a cigarette to his lips. He paused just long enough to strike his lighter against it and puff a few times. He continued through an exhale of smoke, brows knitting. “it’s like something is calling me. I can’t explain it. It’s like, I’m meant to do this. It’s not just that I want to make music -- it’s like my soul has to. It’s like breathing; if I don’t do it, I won’t make it.”