cuddlecity | ( open ) i come up hard baby, but now i'm cool

( open ) i come up hard baby, but now i'm cool

CHARACTERS: marcus keane and anyone!
LOCATIONS: b-shop, the record store for cool kids who loves sick jamzzz
WARNINGS: none
SUMMARY: marcus gets a job at the record store. his previous employment involved screaming at demons and the creation of soft padded rooms, so his customer service skills could probably use some work.

[ one afternoon marcus wanders into the record shop in town for the seventh time in a week and accidentally walks out with a part-time gig after a heated debate about mod revival. he's become something of an odd fixture at b-sides over the past month, if only because for someone who's never done anything at low intensity he doesn't seem that committed to working. sweeping floors? please. reorganizing? sometimes, and with an incredible amount of bickering with other associates about genre sorting.

mostly, though, he can be found seated in a stool behind the counter with his feet up and a tall newspaper as ann sexton or james ray or marvin gaye blares too loud over the speakers. for a presumable salesperson he doesn't seem too worried about sales numbers. his face is almost never visible above the newspaper, although he's polite when someone tries to fetch his attention and good-humored with everyone who catches him in the middle of not giving a shit.

anyone who frequents the record shop might want to tell him to turn it down a little. or ask for recommendations. or try to make a purchase. or just say hi if you know him. some of the local teenagers have found that he's also terrifically easy to cajole with snacks, so he's also rarely seen without an open container of something that can be eaten with his hands. it's probably a good thing the shop owner is incredibly chill, because it doesn't look like he's gunning for employee of the month anytime soon. ]

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[ over the months, tomas has grown used to music playing at home. it's almost like marcus can't do anything without background music. he's usually out all day, doing mostly volunteer work or helping at the local place of worship so he has no idea of what marcus does all day. he'd ask but honestly, marcus deserves time away.

as he's walking past the store, though, he recognizes the music so he steps inside. ]

Good afternoon?

[ today it's ben e. king, more mainstream than his usual tastes but still a banger. the store isn't busy at this time of day, people keeping daytime hours at their own jobs, so marcus probably hasn't had to speak very much at all.

and he doesn't really intend to start, so when the bell over the door tinkles and someone issues a greeting that marcus doesn't hear too well over the incredibly loud music he just hums in response. the sound is barely audible over the speakers, except for the rough timbre. but on the other hand, upon closer inspection the hand on the newspaper may be familiar; the stick-and-poke tattoo at the wrist and the medallion even more so. ]

[ marcus has very distinctive hands even without the tattoo and bracelet. the whole scene is so very marcus he has trouble not laughing.

he steps up to the counter and taps on it just to see if marcus will deign lower his newspaper. ]

[ in your dreams, pal. he's engrossed in an article about local farming practices. it would be nice to visit a farm, he thinks. roaming the countryside in america you pass plenty of private farms, but it's not as though people are obliged to be welcoming. ]

You looking for something in particular?

[ he's polite, but bored, and also rude, because that newspaper isn't going anywhere. ]

Yeah, I'm looking for the manager.

[ the music is loud but his accent is very distinctive so this could go either way. ]

[ yeah, that voice marcus knows better than his own at this point. and it never fails to make a light bulb go on in his head when it sounds like tomas is in a good mood. the only sign that he's surprised at all is a slight shift of a fingertip on the edge of the paper. ]

She ain't in on weekends.

[ he flips to the next page. there's an audible smirk in his voice. ]

Can I take a message?

I'd like to file a complaint. I could hear the music from across the street.

[ marcus always looks like he belongs to a different time so it's weirdly amusing to see him in a place that, for the most part, matches him. ]

[ there's another pause, and then marcus flips down the top half of his newspaper to look critically at tomas. his eyes are glittering in amusement, his smirk sharp and mean. ]

Did you consider going to a different street?

[ wow, that's terrible customer service. how did you even get hired?

it makes him laugh, though. ]

Also, the cranky old man at the counter is very rude.

Well, they do say the customer is always right.

[ truthfully the shop is run by someone whose passion for some genres matches marcus' passion for other genres. it's not an elitist environment, but it does mean a mutual respect for connoisseurship that gives marcus just enough job security for him to be, well, himself. he might even call himself and the owner. ]

You're out and about early today. [ just a casual observation from someone who knows everything about tomas' schedule, no big deal. ]

I felt like going for a walk, seeing the bits of the city I haven't been to before.

[ like this store apparently. ]

Can you lower the volume a bit?

[ he folds the newspaper in half and reaches down to turn down the volume obligingly. ]

Clearly you've been missing the best parts.

[ like a record store, wall-to-wall with vinyls, cassettes that marcus cycles through the retrofitted stereo. marcus has been here pretty much four times a week since he arrived. ]

In my Father's house there are many mansions. [ john 14:2. ] A place like this would certainly rank among them.

And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. [ john 14:3. tomas didn't know the bible back and forth before he started traveling with marcus, but he sure as hell knows it now.

he looks at the walls, the shelves. ] It's somehow exactly where I'd have expected you to work.

[ unlike christ in heaven for his disciples, marcus didn't prepare a place for tomas in the record store. it's not like he didn't want tomas to know, but also it didn't really feel like tomas' business, exactly. especially with it all so new. ]

Truthfully, I didn't expect to work anywhere.

[ he reaches up and scrubs the back of his neck. the newspaper, now settled on the countertop, has sketches on the sheets that marcus has already read. ]

But it passes the time well enough. And introducing people to Marvin Gaye is absolutely contributing to my [ hand quotes ] good deeds minimum.

Right, of course. This is community service, I see.

[ tomas knows more about music than he'd ever thought he'd know just from living with marcus. possibly, marcus' obscure music knowledge rivals his knowledge of scripture. ]

Have you told any kids to get off your lawn yet?

[ he points at tomas with an accusatory hand. ] Watch it.

[ age jokes he'll take from the cool teens in this town, but not from you, buddy. i can still kick your ass!!11 ]

And no, not really. The other staff have been introducing me to contemporary work and I've been perfectly receptive. I might add they're doing a better job than you did when we was on the road. [ he found tomas' taste in radio stations to be mostly appalling. ]

Banda music is art, you're just too British.

[ banda music is terrible and it all sounds the same. ]

It was shockingly rubbish.

[ he's very amused, though, a grin hiding in the corner of his mouth. he leans forward as he speaks, a forearm resting on the counter. ]

And I don't say that lightly about any music.

Next you'll say pop in Spanish is rubbish too.

[ tomas really likes despacito ]

Not all of it is rubbish, but I know what example you're about to name and that one is absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent rubbish.

[ he is very entertained, though. also it feels good to joke around with tomas a bit. they slip into a good-humored rhythm more often lately, when they only have to worry about base survival here and the city takes care of most of their needs. ]

It got a grammy!

[ he's also very entertained. he's been having a very good time in the city, it's nice to have a life somewhat resembling normal even if it's temporary. ]

Lots of rubbish has won a Grammy. That doesn’t place it in very select company.

[ you uncultured nerd.

marcus rests his chin on his hand and looks him over again. ]

You gonna be out and about all evening?

I was about to head home.

[ he's shuffling through the records looking up at him every so often, smiling. ]

I'm thinking I should buy something to torture you with.

[ eyebrows up. ]

And what would I have done to deserve that, exactly.

It'd be educational. Plus it's only fair that we listen to music I like every so often.

[ he's looking for mariachi classics f t r ]

It’s not as though you’ve been forbidden to put a record on at home.

[ ... it’s just that marcus will be a huge dick about it if he doesn’t like it. ]

Have you seen yourself when you don't like a record?

[ he's learned so much about music and he cares so little about it. ]

( his choices in music are, unsurprisingly, absolute old man garbage. baby may have slowly expanded her top 40s zumba playlist a decade or so, but that doesn't make the wah wah wah sound of the old man classics any more enjoyable to listen to. honestly, she's dying. she's not sure how anybody tolerates working with him in conditions like these. it's basically inhumane.

so, without asking or even really waiting for an answer to her unspoken "may i" query, kimberly pushes past the flimsy swing door by the counter in order to reach the sound system. there's an aux cord, thank god, and a flip switch that's easily moved from "records" to "music from after the great depression". hopefully marcus likes a little new-age rap ballad. if not? well, that's too bad.

it's a good beat for filing her nails, anyway. )

[ how dare you call soul music old man garbage!!!

marcus snaps down the newspaper as soon as the music changes, ready to bark at what is certainly a coworker trying to elbow in on his poorly-earned chill time. it's clearly an argument with a coworker he's prepared to win, but as soon as he catches sight of kimberly he stops, does a kind of half smirk and half frown at her, part irritation and part amused familiarity. and then he visibly pricks an ear up to the speaker. ]

What's all this?

[ his reaction isn't one of immediate dislike, but he does look back at kimberly with a >:| face. ]

Aren't you supposed to be on the other side of the little gate?

[ it's mostly facetious, but also marcus does not spend a lot of time in retail environments, so ... you know. it's not like he's ever had to care before. ]

Probably. ( she's never worked retail before, but when has that ever stopped her? go go power teenagers or something like that. ) Nobody else cares, though.

( to the thumping beat of m.i.a.'s surprisingly appropriate cash register chimes, kimberly notches the nail file; ching, ching, rasp, rasp. it's a fun little rhythm that matches the kick of her feet, back and forth, one and two. )

I'm not gonna rob you, dad, don't get your boxers in a knot.

They absolutely care. One time I tried to take a pack of cigarettes from behind the register at the chemist because no one was on register and an utter stranger had a coronary at me. You can't just change the music.

[ these are the rules of society as marcus was given to understand them, as someone who drifts through normal life like a tourist and hasn't quite adjusted to its daily rhythms. marcus' life is travel. it used to be on airplanes and trains and ships, and now it's a road trip bookended by dirty motel stays and sleeping intermittently in the passenger's seat or the bed of an old pickup. either way, he knows there are rules! he just hasn't really cared for their contours.

his eyes flicker to the nail file and he ROLLS!! HIS EYES!! and rustles the paper defensively ]

What you are robbing me of, is music with actual instrumentation. I might have preferred a stickup, actually.

I mean, nobody who works here cares. ( like baby, mostly, who tends to be here more often than not. she actually had come looking for him, but this had been a good alternative. she wasn't opposed to spending her time needling an old man in need of serious entertainment. ) Though, to be fair, they usually play better music.

( she watches his eyes flick back and forth across the page of the newspaper. he reminds her of her dad in a weird way. super uptight, so sure of himself and what he thought of the world. though, admittedly, thinking of her dad at all in a place like this is weird as hell, so... )

There's actual instruments, by the way. Just because it's not whiny old dudes crying about potatoes...

Crying about potatoes?

[ HE'S NEVER BEEN MORE APPALLED IN HIS LIFE ]

That's incredibly reductive of a genre rich in history and emotional expression.

Womp, womp, womp.

( LOOK AT THIS FACE. do you think she cares? god, sound more pretentious, why don't you? )

You sound like my — ( a brief pause, because how the fuck do you explain zordon? other dad figure? guy in a wall that i occasionally got unwanted advice from? ) — history teacher.

( gr8 save. )

At least you can dance to this.

[ 9___9 he can practically hear kimberly's words in kat rance's voice, too.

but he huffs in amusement and leans back. ]

Honestly. Only a modern American adolescent would say you can't dance to soul music.

( oh my god, he's so obnoxious. she's rolling her eyes so hard they're pretty much guaranteed to pop right out of her skull and flop onto the ground like twin hackysacks.

also: who's kat rance? )

Yeah, dad, honestly. You can't actually dance to that garbage, you just lean sadly from side to side while your partner tries to count their ration coupons. Haven't you ever heard of Kanye?

[ marcus is good with young people in weird ways, not in the least because some of them cotton onto the fact that he's actually mostly a kid himself, someone who never outgrew his own adolescent obnoxiousness. it's been odd, living this quiet life in cadelle. he has too much energy, a mission back home, purpose. here, with a soft bed and guaranteed three meals every day, it's like the universe wants to put him out to pasture, as kindly as it can.

the last time he thought he'd been retired was the casey rance case. the sister, kat rance, didn't trust him at first. too worried about casey, who struggled in the grips of demonic possession. and then he and tomas (mostly tomas, he recollects, with some pride, a little envy, some misplaced bitterness, an upswell of affection) had saved her. and then kat became another teenager in a long line of people who affectionately gave him shit for awhile, a tentative and true affection that only people who have been through unspeakable horror together can find mutual footing on, before he lost contact. he always eventually loses contact.

it'll be the same here too, once they leave. but even so. he likes kimberly. ]

No. But I have to ask, when exactly do you think I was born?

( she shrugs at first, a casual little gesture of inattention and uncertainty that doesn't mean much more than it seems to. but she doesn't answer right away, either; instead, her gaze drops down to the nail file in her lap, fingertips twisting it over and over to expose each painted side of the emory surface. )

I don't know. ( it irritates her a bit, if she's honest, that he's asked the question. how is she supposed to know that? ) Like, the twenties?

( it's a complete bullshit guess. she has absolutely no money on that answer whatsoever. )

Nobody wears a pedostache like that anymore, so...

I bet you'd say that even if I had a foot of beard.

[ some kids, so critical of facial hair at a time when he's reasonably sure it can still be fashionable. he huffs and rests his chin on his hand, elbow on the counter. ]

I was born in '63. [ he fwips a hand out dismissively. there's a decided primness to his body language sometimes. he's gay as hell is why. ] Save that war ration talk for your nan.

True. ( she's not judging him, technically. she's just pointing out a fact. ) Nobody says 'nan' anymore either. And my grandma's in Fresno, not here, so I'm pretty sure she's not going to get it.

( the song in the background fades into quiet for a beat, just long enough to be noticeable before the next one plays. it's a new addition to her playlist; the artist is beyonce this time — or, more specifically, destiny's child. the telltale thump of independent ladies earns a wry grin at the corner of her mouth. )

You can't tell me you hate this.

Oh yeah? And where are you back home, Fresno as well?

[ it's always nice to meet someone from a universe that vaguely approximates marcus' own, if it isn't actually his. it can be grounding, for someone as naturally suspicious of the city and his continued good fortune as marcus has been.

his eyes flicker up as the song changes. he grins as well. ]

I don't hate it. —I didn't hate the last one, either, mind. But also I have no idea what it is. [ what has two thumbs and doesn't know pop culture, it's meeeee ]

No. ( fresno's a bit far, and really boring. not that her own hometown was much better, but at least it had a bigger mall. ) Angel Grove. California, but not... the fun part, anyway. It's not LA or anything.

( she wishes. but things would have been very different if a giant gold monster had gone attacking buildings in los angeles. it probably would have made the national news, at least. there's something to be said for a sleepy town. )

Have you seriously never heard of Beyonce?

[Vasquez doesn't really actually want any records. Truthfully, music comes from a guitar or a person singing or an instrument, not these strange things that people use. The thing is, maybe he's coming back from a very long night of poker and drinking and he'd thought that this was a different shop. He's sober by now, but he can tell that this isn't where they sell his tobacco within a few seconds.

He cringes when he hears all the music, wandering to the front of the counter, because now that he's here, maybe he should be thinking about how to get some of it for his own place. Maybe Claire or Caroline would appreciate it some more?

Tapping the top of the newspaper a little, Vasquez figures he's got a little before he passes out from complete exhaustion, so why not try?]

You have any recommendations for someone who doesn't know any of this?

[ marcus lowers the paper obligingly. he looks vasquez up and down appraisingly and then—cracks a smirk, thin. ]

Depends on what you mean by what you don’t know.

[ if the man doesn’t know contemporary music then boy are they ever in the same boat. but marcus cocks his head to one side. ]

But you look like you need a seat more than you need a record.

[Vasquez holds his gaze, not flinching, maybe preening just a little with the way he stands up straighter. He knows he can be good to look at, so there's no point ignoring it.]

The only music I know are old lullabies and whatever someone decides to sing in a saloon.

[The last few songs he'd heard had been awful warbling, because all the pretty songbirds had flown away. Then, they'd all been forced to sing things here. He glances at the other man with a sheepish shrug, because maybe he's not in great condition, but it's not so bad.]

I've had worse. I'm barely even passing out.

[ thea does not ask him to turn the music down so much as... crawls on to the counter so she can reach the controls and turns the knob down her damn self. entitlement of the rich finally comes in handy. yolo.

she stays on the counter, hands on hips. ]

Dude, not everyone is deaf.

[ there’s a moment where behind the newspaper marcus mouths dude to himself, and then he lowers it to look at thea, his head cocked to one side. ]

My hearing is perfect, thank you. I’m listening for nuance.

Sounds fake, old man.

[ but she's maybe smirking so maybe old man is something of a term of endearment. maybe she's remembering his terrible skating and that image is what brings the sweetness back to her expression. ]

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( open ) i come up hard baby, but now i'm cool

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xoxo, gossip girl.

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