Majors
untitled
In early June, when the winds are warm as they blow through the city streets, Regan props the doors of the grocery store open to beckon customers and the breeze. Days when the doors are open are slow, with customers lingering in the floral department and longing for the blossom laden branches of the April trees. I sit on the ledge of the customer service counter, staring out the windows at the lazy world while Regan weaves words into the fabric of the air. I can't help but love the way she swoons and sways talking about the James Dean Film Festival , the show her ex-boyfriend's band played (and how she ruined their chances of getting signed by telling the record scout a few dirty little secrets), or her latest resale shop find .
I wait for the sunsets to stain the sky in impressionistic pastels or modernist neons when the cashier and bagger for the evening shift will shuffle in and I can escape to the beats of the music in the darkening city streets.
"Practice tonight, Patrick?" Regan pops her gum as she shimmies up onto the counter beside me. The laces of her Converse hang down, pointing to the floor and dancing with the beat her feet tap in the air.
"Every night." I laugh. Would tonight be the night we actually practiced or would we find ourselves again on Ed's roof discussing existentialism and the transcendentalist philosophy. Of course, only Ed really knew what that was. For me existentialism only related to "Existentialism on Prom Night" by Straylight Run. Regan pushes her hair back behind her ear, fingers brushing against the earrings she'd made herself from pennies she'd saved for weeks. They sound like wind chimes and hung like Chinese coins hung for Feng Shui.
"When's your next show?" She asks, closing her eyes and listening to the song. The managers had long ago given up on music that was sent by corporate and settled instead for Regan's mixes with bands that no one had ever heard of but became popular by and by. Regan writes the names of those bands on the bottom of her shoes and on the back of her hands. Boys with piercings and guitars and tattoos were perpetually stopping by the store to give her EPs and tapes with the song titles handwritten in magic marker on construction paper.
"I don't know," I answer truthfully. We haven't been booked in weeks and I'm beginning to get worried. Ed is seriously considering college and I hadn't ever made plans for that. If he goes away to major in English and become a teacher lost in the shuffle of the public school system.
"Let me know when you know." She pops her gum again and leans back on the palms of her hands. "So this is our last summer?"
"Guess so," I answer, slumping forward to rest my elbows in the soft flesh of my thighs right above my knees. Maybe I can still get into the community college in the next town over. I have no idea what I'd do with my life, what to major in, where to live, nothing. Regan pushes herself of the counter and dusts herself off, looking up at me.
"Hey, kid." I look at her, eyebrow raised. "Cheer up, ya God forsaken Emo kid." She runs a hand back through her hair again and wanders over toward produce.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, tilting forward to give her my best impression of an incredulous look.
"Call me if we get any customers," she replies with a wave of her hand over her shoulder. I shake my head and think that maybe I should major in business and open a grocery store where girls like Regan and Boys like me can spend their summers talking music and wondering if you can tan through tinted windows. Then again, I can't even be sure that would work out for me. The song changes and I sigh.
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