Matthew Wayne Selznick

Previously: Alex Kent has to find a job. Carson Meunetti made arrangements to audition for a band.
“Interviews”
Alex Kent sat in a small booth inside Hagar’s, a burgers and tacos fast food joint at Belltower Plaza in El Toro. The plastic bench was cold through his jeans. Across the table, the day manager spread across the opposite bench, small eyeglasses perched low on his nose as he perused Alex’ job application.

Alex knew there wasn’t much to look at, since he’d never had a job before. What was taking the guy so long?

“Hm. So…” The manager pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and tapped the application. “Just out of school, eh? First job?”

“Well, I hope so.” Alex smiled through the lie.

The manager put the application down and covered it with plump, white fingers. “Why do you want to work for Hagar’s, Alex?”

Dear sweet God in Heaven, the last thing Alex wanted was to work at Hagar’s. He was tempted to tell the truth and shut the whole thing down… but he needed a job. Any job.

“Well… I have friends who worked at fast food jobs.” And they hated it, and got the hell out as soon as they could. “I think it would be a good experience.”

The manager — Alex had already forgot his name and didn’t want to seem rude by glancing at the name tag pinned to the guy’s left breast — nodded slowly.

“What do you think your duties would be on an average day?”

The question seemed so obvious, Alex was momentarily confused. He covered by putting on a thoughtful expression. He imagined a day in the life of a wage slave. He pictured himself in the maroon polyester shirt, the cap, the brown slacks, sweating behind the counter. He felt like a cornered animal.

“Well, I guess… taking orders, making the food, cleaning up, helping customers… re… re-stocking..?”

“That’s about right,” the manager agreed. “It’s hard work, but it’s a good feeling to get people what they want. That’s the best part of the job.”

“I bet it is,” Alex said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. This made the manager smile.

“Oh, it is. And there’s a lot of room for advancement, if you decide you’d like to stay with the Hagar’s team for the long haul. It only took me six weeks to make manager, for example!”

“Really?” Alex looked impressed. “That’s… just another reason to hope I get the job, then!”

The manager laughed. “Well, Alex, your prayers are answered. I’d like you to start next Friday, if that’s okay with you.”

Alex flinched. “Really..?”

The manager seemed to interpret his dismay as surprise. “I know you probably weren’t expecting such a fast decision, but that’s how I like to run this ship, you know? Go with my gut.”

“Yeah…” Alex nodded. It didn’t have to be forever. It didn’t have to be forever. “Okay, thanks!”

“So you accept?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

The manager held out his hand for Alex to shake. The flesh was warm and moist.

They stood up. “You get two shirts,” the manager said. “You have to provide your own slacks. Any dark brown shade is fine. Oh, and shoes, which should be black dress shoes.”

Alex was going to go into debt before he even started the job. Totally awesome. Maybe he could get his mother to spring for the clothes.

The manager squeezed behind the counter. “I’ll get your shirts.” He went into the back, leaving Alex alone with the kid manning the cash register.

Alex nodded to him. “I’m Alex. I guess I’ll be working here next Friday.”

“Bill,” the counter jock said. “Good luck, man. I’ll be outta here by then.”

“Oh… well, good luck to you, then, too…”

Bill laughed and moved off to take an order from the take-out window.

The manager came back with two shirts shrink-wrapped in plastic. “Here you go, Alex. These are Hagar’s property, so if you lose them or get them messed up, you’ll have to buy the next ones, okay?”

“Sure.” Alex took the shirts. “Thanks.”

“Welcome to the Hagar’s family,” the manager grinned. “See you next Friday!”

Alex left Hagar’s for the relative warmth of the mid-day June sun and walked to where his bike was chained to a lamp post.

Well. He had a job.

Whoopee.

Hagar’s was the third place he’d filled out a job application and the only one to interview him on the spot. Just his luck. There was a chance the toy store or movie theater might call him for an interview before next Friday, though. He didn’t need to abandon all hope.

“Fuck.”

He just didn’t want to work at a fast food joint. It was embarrassing.

There wasn’t much point in anything but to head back home. Still, no trip to Belltower Plaza was complete without going into Pinnacle Records. He didn’t really want to walk in there holding the plastic-wrapped Hagar’s shirts, though. He’d look like a dork.

Fate intervened in the form of a ratty but still serviceable Fargello’s grocery bag the breeze had stuck on the corner of a nearby parked car’s bumper. Alex appropriated it and shoved the shirts inside before he pushed through the doors of Pinnacle Records.

The record store was a kind of sanctuary for Alex. It was the size of a supermarket, with row after row of vinyl, a huge cassette section… even a classical music section in its own glass-walled room. One side of the store had been dedicated to tee-shirts, posters and “smoking paraphernalia,” but that had been replaced with a video department since Alex had last visited.

The booming, store-wide sound system blared what sounded like the Tubes’ “White Punks on Dope” sung in German by a harsh-voiced woman. Alex had no idea what he was hearing, and that was part of what was so freakin’ cool about Pinnacle Records.

He didn’t have any money, of course, so he browsed the aisles and admired the huge murals on the walls. He could tell all the art was custom-made; air-brushed stuff mounted on huge squares of foam core. He wondered if the artist was on-staff, or if they commissioned the pieces.

In the imports aisle, Alex checked to see if any new U2 or Alarm 12-inch singles had arrived.

“You like U2, you should check out the Virgin Prunes, man.”

Alex turned to see a tall, broad guy with a ruddy face and black flat-top haircut standing behind him. A Pinnacle name badge hanging from a lanyard around the employee’s neck told Alex he was being addressed by Frank.

“Oh… thanks. I hadn’t heard of them.”

Frank raised an eyebrow but nodded with no apparent surprise. “Yeah, both bands go way back. In fact,” he pulled a record out of the stacks and tapped one of the blurry figures on the cover, “it was this guy who gave Bono Vox his nickname.”

“Huh!”

“And this guy,” another tap, “is the Edge’s brother.”

“No kidding?”

“Of course,” Frank shrugged, “they don’t sound anything like your U2.” Alex picked up a little good-natured criticism there. “So you might not be that into them. It’s a lot more dark.”

Alex smiled. “I’m just browsing today, anyway… but thanks for letting me know. I’m gonna check them out.”

Frank carefully put the album back in it’s proper place in the stacks. “My pleasure.” He held out a big hand. “I’m Frank.”

Alex shook his hand. “Alex.”

“Nice to meetcha, Alex.” He pointed a finger at him. “Tell you what. Swing by next week, look for me. I’ll put together a tape of some Prunes stuff for you.”

Alex smiled. This place was built out of cool and the people who worked there were totally boss. “That’s — that’s really great. You want me to bring you a blank tape?”

Frank waved his hand. “Pshah. I work in a record store. Don’t worry about it.” He nodded. “I gotta get back to it. Catch you around, Alex.”

“Thanks again, Frank.”

Too fucking cool.

Alex resumed meandering through the store. He was a little surprised to see a “now hiring” sign hanging near the TicketMaster booth near the entrance of the new video section. If he hadn’t wandered over to that side of the store, he never would have seen it.

He realized he had never even seriously considered working at Pinnacle. Part of him assumed the store was fully formed, all one thing, and that the people who worked there had come included with the walls and floor and ceiling, built into the whole Pinnacle Records thing.

Of course, that was ridiculous… but would they ever hire someone like him? It didn’t seem likely.

How badly was he looking forward to wearing maroon polyester and a hair net?

Alex strode into the video department. He stopped short when he saw the woman behind the counter.

She looked like the daughter of Little Steven and a carnival fortune teller. Long strands of fuchsia, white, green and black hair flowed from the tight scarf that covered the top of her head. Her green eyes were framed with carefully drawn, over-the-top eyeliner that seemed inspired by Cleopatra. Her cheekbones were high; her face graceful and almost elfin. Huge, slender hoops dangled from her ears. The light, patterned shawl over her shoulders barely concealed the black leotard and the curves of her upper body.

Alex didn’t know where to look and where not to look.

“Um… do you… can I get…”

She favored him with a languid smile. “You want an application?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She handed him the sheet of paper and a pen. “You can fill it out here if you want. It’s slow enough. Just let me know if anyone comes around, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” What had happened to the rest of his vocabulary?

She went to the far end of the counter and left him to it. The application was pretty straightforward, especially since he didn’t have any previous experience. Under “Hobbies and Interests” — a section the Hagar’s application had not included — he put down that he was a guitarist, singer and painter. That couldn’t hurt, right?

After a few minutes, the woman came back. This time she was on his side of the counter. Alex tried not to stare at the sway of her black spandex and silk scarf-clad hips as she approached.

She held out a thin hand, fingers covered with rings of chrome skulls and flowers. “All set?”

Alex handed her the application. She gave it a quick look. “Hi, Alex. I’m K.C.”

They shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She turned and sashayed toward the rear of the store. She looked over her shoulder and waved. “Good luck!”

“Thanks…”

Screw maroon polyester.

To hell with that.

He really, really wanted to work at Pinnacle Records. Oh yeah.

Carson Meunetti loaded his bass and little Fender amp into the back seat of his Bug and made for the address Don Zensaulstein had provided, which turned out to be a house at the south end of town. The garage door had a regular door cut into it; this opened before Car was halfway out of the car.

A tall guy, with a shock of loose curls above his dark-complexioned narrow face, walked down the driveway. He wore a white tank top and big surfer’s swim trunks. His flip-flops slapped against the cement.

“Carson?”

“Hi — you’re Don?”

They shook hands. “Yeah. Glad you could make it.”

“Totally,” Car said. “Thanks for giving me a shot.”

Two others emerged from the darkness of the open door. Don indicated a pale guy with waist-length blond hair and slightly darker muttonchops. “This is Zane; he’s the drummer.”

Carson and Zane exchanged nods. Don put his hand on the shoulder of the diminutive, buff guy with the shaved head next to him. “Cary plays guitar. This is Carson.”

Cary stepped forward and shook Carson’s hand. “S’up.”

“S’up,” Carson replied.

Don started back up the driveway and motioned to the others. “C’mon in; we’ll talk for a little bit.”

Carson followed Zane and Cary through the door-within-the-door and into the garage. Inside, the garage was completely given over to practice and recording space for the Donny Zombie Murder Show. Carpet covered the floor, walls and ceiling. In the corners, egg-crate foam hung suspended in wooden frames.

There was a low riser for Zane’s drum kit against one wall. A man-sized stack of speaker cabinets topped with softly glowing electronics loomed to the left of the drums. In front of everything, Don’s microphone, an old-fashioned thing that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Ed Sullivan Show, perched atop a black stand. A wedge-shaped monitor sat just in front of that.

Opposite the band’s set-up, PA speakers hung from the ceiling. Wires and cables, carefully contained by well-worn duct tape, snaked from all the speakers and amps and into a tiny, glass-enclosed room in the far corner.

Jesus, these guys were totally pro. Car tried to hide how impressed he was.

Don indicated an old couch and a couple of folding chairs near the sound booth. He and his band mates took the couch; Car sat in one of the chairs.

“So,” Don said. “Tell us about yourself. How long have you been playing bass?”

“Well… not that long, honestly.” Car’s leg bounced with nerves. His put his hand on his knee and locked the impulse down. “A few months.”

Don shrugged. “That’s not that bad. It’s what you’ve learned in that time, right?”

“Hope so,” Car laughed. He glanced at the others; Cary was picking at his nails and Zane, who regarded Car directly, wore a nearly blank expression. “I… uh… I’m self-taught.”

Cary looked up. “How?”

“Playing along with the radio, mostly.”

Cary grunted and nodded.

Don smiled and carried on with his officiating. “How old are you, Car?”

“I’ll be eighteen in a couple weeks.”

Don frowned slightly. “Hm… that might be a little bit of an issue, since we play a lot of twenty one-and-over places.” He shrugged. “Whatever. Too early to worry about that. You’re out of school, though, right?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Zane spoke up. “Why us? Have you ever seen us play?”

“I haven’t, no… sorry.”

“So why us?”

“I know what kind of music you guys do,” Car said. “I’m into it.”

Zane looked at Don. “He’s into it.”

Don gave Zane a sideways grin with a hint of warning. “Whatever. We’re all into it.” He stood up. “Let’s get to it. We’ll get set up; Car, you want to bring in your rig? I didn’t see your amp…”

“Oh, it’s in the car.” Car stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Zane’s flat statement, “Cool,” revealed just how much he seemed to be looking forward to that.

Car went to his car, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the dimness of the practice room, and retrieved his bass case and amp. He suppressed the growing nervousness in his gut.

He went back in, bass case handle in his right hand and amp handle in his left. “Where should I plug in…?”

From behind his drum kit, the now-shirtless Zane stared. Cary looked up from fiddling with the knobs on his guitar and shook his head slowly. Don, a perplexed smile playing on his lips, scratched the side of his head.

“Dude,” Zane said, “are you fucking joking with us?”

Car wondered if Zane was the reason the last bass player left. “What..?”

Cary laughed. “Next!”

Don said, “Carson… do you have… ah… is that just the amp you use to practice with?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So… you have another rig, right?”

“A real one?” Zane added.

Car looked at the massive stack of speaker cabinets behind Cary. He flexed his grip on the little boxy amp hanging from his left hand.

Oh, shit.

I’m an idiot.

“No… I mean, this is it.” He tried to sound sure of himself. “This is what I have.”

Zane got out from behind his drums and put his shirt back on. “When’s the next guy coming in, Don? Do I have time to take a shit?”

Don looked at Car. “Yeah. You do.”

Zane walked out as if Car was already gone. Cary turned off his amp and effects rack and unstrapped his guitar. He placed it carefully on a guitar stand and followed Zane out.

Don looked at the floor and shook his head slightly. “Car… dude, this is totally my fault.”

Car hoped the interior of the practice space was dim enough to hide his burning face. “No… I should have… it’s cool. Thanks for having me down.” He turned and went out, back down the driveway and to his
car. Thankfully, Cary and Zane were nowhere to be found.

Stupid!

He put the bass case and practice amp back onto the back seat of the Bug and walked around to the front driver’s side door. He looked up to see Don coming down the driveway.

“Hey, Carson…”

“I’m sorry for wasting you guys’ time…”

Don laughed gently. “Yeah, well… whatever. Now you know, I guess…”

Carson laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right.”

“Dude, it’s cool.” Don looked at Carson over the roof of the Bug. “You want to play bass, play bass. Everybody fucks up, especially when you’re really into something, right?” He laughed again. “Shit, you do not even want to know about my first band…” He shook his head. “Anyway, you had balls to come down here.”

“Thanks.” Car opened the car door. “Better luck with the next guy.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.” Don laughed without malice, and Car had to laugh as well.

“Tell the other guys I’m sorry for wasting their time.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Don said. “But… well, this is a pretty small scene. You probably haven’t heard the last of this, if you know what I mean.”

Car did. “Awesome.”

Don started back up the driveway. “Hey, it’s a character builder. Keep in touch, dude. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Car drove home in the blackest of moods. He hadn’t even been playing long enough to really built up his callouses yet; he barely knew how to play. Who was he kidding? He should have auditioned for that cover band… they sucked enough to be more on his level than Donny fucking Zombie. Stupid. Fucking stupid.

He got home to an empty house. His parents would be putting in some long hours before they left for Costa Rica on Friday. That suited Car just fine. He needed room to brood.

The answering machine blinked at him. He pressed the play button.

“Hey, um, Carson. Preston,” the machine’s ancient micro-cassette warbled. “I think I told you about the party at my place. Friday night, bring your own whatever, etcetera, blah-da-blah. See you there. Later.”
…to be continued!

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