I use my need for a laptop as my excuse to tag along. A Google search has revealed an electronics store a few blocks past Studio Sounds. Obviously, I can’t buy anything tonight, but I can check out some models and figure out what I like the feel of before I search for cheaper comparisons. Hopefully, I can find something nearby so I don’t have to wait for delivery. The sooner I can start working, the sooner I can generate some income. But a laptop is key to that plan. I can make do with the clothes and makeup I took to Africa until my account is restored, but I can’t do graphic design on flowy skirts with a mascara wand.
Despite the fact that we sat at my condo for over an hour waiting for the police, then another hour with them once they finally arrived, the sun still hasn’t set. It’s at that angle where it makes the fronds of the palm trees that line the street glow like they’ve been lit from within. The air smells like tacos from a Mexican place we pass. There’s a general sense of relaxation in Los Feliz that contrasts starkly with Santa Monica. Bikers pedal by. Most of the people who pass us on the sidewalk have on headphones, their hands free instead of occupied by iced coffees and shopping bags. In the entire seven-minute walk, not one passing car honks with rage.
A bell dings over the door as Deiss swings it open and waves me through. It’s dim inside, with spotlights over the record bins but ambient blue lights lining the walls. A song I’ve never heard pulses through the speakers, louder than a normal establishment but not aggressively so. It has the kind of beat that moves its way through your body, making you feel unexpected things. The back wall is lined with guitars for sale. To my surprise, Phoebe is sitting on the counter, talking to a guy with dreadlocks that skim his shoulders. He’s on a stool behind a cash register and a mounted iPad.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, passing a couple with their heads bent over a bin to get to her.
“It would be more shocking if a day passed without her here,” the guy behind the counter says. Up close, I can see that his arms are covered in tattoos. They almost blend in against his dark skin, giving the impression they’re ridged in a way you could feel if you ran a finger over them.
“You come here every day?” I ask her, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. This whole time, I’ve assumed we all look forward to seeing each other on Third Thursdays. I knew Phoebe and Mac and Deiss live closer to each other than Simone and me, but I assumed they saw each other occasionally. Once a week, maybe. Certainly not daily.
“It’s walking distance from my house,” she says apologetically. “The last time I went to your place, there was a wreck on the 10, and it took me two hours to get back.”
“I take it you’re Olivia,” the guy says, clearly hoping to curtail the weirdness I’ve just brought into his den of chill. “Phoebe told me what happened. I’m really sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you . . .” I trail off, my mind churning over the realization that my failure to participate in group trips isn’t the only way I’ve distanced myself. My actual physical distance has left me on the outskirts. While I’ve been living life alone, my friends have continued on living it together. Absentmindedly, I proffer my hand like an accountant meeting her new coworker.
“Booker,” he says, an amused smile flashing across his face. His teeth are even and so white I immediately wonder if it’s time for me to get mine bleached again. He slides a large hand into mine, despite the fact that I can tell by the curl of his mouth that my awkward formality has been noted. “Booker Zane. Nice to meet you.”
I smile, but I’m distracted by the stack of flyers for Saturday night’s show. The info is written in Sharpie, and the handwriting is terrible. This underwhelming display of craftmanship must be his doing. I’ve heard more than one story about his laissez-faire approach to employment.
“Z,” Deiss says, coming around me to go behind the counter.
Booker lets go of my hand to slap Deiss’s; then they hug like Deiss has been gone for months rather than ten days.
“How did it go?” Deiss asks when they let go of each other. “Any issues?”
“Please,” Booker says. “Your job is easy.”
Deiss nods. “What I’m hearing is an offer to do next year’s taxes.”
“You think I’ll still be working here next year?” Another gleaming grin breaks across Booker’s face. “That’s adorable. Movie stars don’t have side jobs.”