Chapter 1
Just my fucking luck.
Gene kicks a stone on the sidewalk into a small patch of grass as he hangs his head, walking to the bus stop.
He wouldn’t have needed to even go to the bus stop if his car hadn’t broken down.
But for some odd reason, the alternator just had to die on him, unable to jump his battery back to life, his car stalling out before he could leave the parking lot of the record store. Of fucking course.
So, he had called a tow truck and brought his car to a mechanic.
An alternator replacement is an easy fix, however, the shop was so backed up that they told him he’ll need to wait until the morning to pick his car up.
Meaning, if he wants to get home, he’ll either need to walk for an hour, or take public transit.
And he’d rather not walk such a long distance in such a sour mood, so—public transit it is.
I wouldn’t have even bought these records if I knew I was gonna need to spend money fixing my car. At least I have towing covered by insurance. Fuck.
While in theory, his father could’ve helped him out—he is the assistant director of the General Motors plant, after all—Gene didn’t want to bother him with this.
With his father being stuffed away at work doing overtime this week, the last thing Gene wants to do is disappoint him with some bullshit like this, asking a favor when he can handle it himself.
It likely would be faster getting it done at the shop anyway.
And besides, Gene’s eighteen now. No need to be running off to Dad when things go sour.
Holding his bag of records in one hand, Gene takes his other and brushes his bangs away from his eyes, black hair tickling at his eyelashes from him constantly keeping his head down.
At least the weather is still fairly nice.
A warm breeze rustles his blazer, and a few early fall leaves dance around his feet.
Various old buildings hosting all sorts of businesses line his right side, while cars shuffle past on the road to his left.
When he makes it to the bus stop, he looks up.
Already standing there is another young man, similar-looking in age, the same height as himself, wearing jean bell-bottoms and a flower-patterned button-up.
He almost looks familiar, with his curly, dusty blond hair and boyish pale face, but Gene can’t place why that would be.
He doesn’t remember him from any of his classes in high school, or as someone he works with at Meijer.
Maybe he’s one of the many shoppers that frequents there… ?
Before he can think of any more possibilities, he recognizes something else—peeking out of the top of the bag the young man is holding.
“I’d recognize that cover anywhere—that’s Sticky Fingers, ain’t it?” Gene says, pointing to the album.
“Huh?” The young man turns his head, looking at Gene. “Yeah! Just bought it. You like the Stones, too?”
“I’d be nuts if I didn’t, eh?” That elicits a chuckle from both of them. “What else you got in there? Looks like you got a few different records.”
“Ah, I also got Exile, and then my best pick of the day—the 78 single of Elmore James’ Dust My Broom. I’ve been looking for this one.” He pats the bag on his side, then plucks the single in question out slightly, showing the plain jacket with scattered handwriting on it, labeling what it is.
“Wow!” Gene gasps, showing a smile. “That’s a great one.”
“Looks like you’ve got some records yourself.” The young man slides the Elmore James record back into his bag, and points to the one Gene is holding. “Don’t tell me, did we just leave the same record shop?”
“Ah, well, I was at Ferdinand’s record shop earlier. But that was before I had to stop at the mechanic…”
“That why you’re here at the bus stop?”
“Yeah. Car broke down.”
“Damn, that sucks, man.”
Gene shrugs. “It’s alright. I’ll have it back as good as new tomorrow.”
“That’s good. But yeah, I was just at Ferdinand’s too,” the young man says with a bit of excitement.
“I must’ve missed that Elmore James one when I was there, not looked hard enough, if you got it,” Gene chuckles. “I got a Muddy Waters LP here, plus some more recent stuff like the Who and Pink Floyd.”
“Groovy, man, groovy!” The young man smiles wide, and for some reason, that charming smile gives Gene an odd sort of fluttery feeling in his chest. “Say, what’s your name? You’ve got great taste in music.”
“Gene. And thanks, same to you. What’s yours?”
“Gene?” He gives a curious expression. “I’m Ray.”
“Ray?” It almost seems like a game with them repeating each other’s names. But the name rings a bell—Ray. “What’s your last name?”
“Roderick. Raymond Roderick, though I usually just go by Ray. And yours…?” With how he asks, it’s almost like he recognizes Gene as well…
“Gene Hillard. And—oh my god!” It hits him. A huge grin stretches his face. “Raymond Roderick! I think I went to elementary school with you before I moved! Kent Hills, right?”
“Yeah, I went there!” Ray’s face mirrors the same expression as Gene’s. “I thought you looked familiar. It’s been so long. You look a bit different now that we’ve grown. I remember we were in class together—you left our school after fourth grade, right?”
“Yeah, my family moved across town when I was nine. Dad got a promotion and we moved a bit closer to his work. I’m surprised you remember…
I don’t think we hung out much back then.
I was kinda shy.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.
He remembers Ray as a studious and popular kid, wearing nice, pressed dress shirts and getting compliments from the other boys, while Gene usually sat in the corner on his own, admiring him from afar, scribbling nonsense doodles into his notebooks.
Ray smiles a sweet, genuine smile, and he fiddles with the strap of his bag. “I remember. And I’m sorry we didn’t hang… Just different being a kid, y’know. Even I didn’t always know how to approach people. But… hey! Here we are now. Never too late to make friends, eh?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” That wonderful fluttery feeling swirls in his chest again. A new friend his own age—and one with great taste in music—he could never say no to that. He may have been shy as a kid, but he’s glad he was able to break out of his shell for Ray, now. “Where are you headed?”
“Back home; I live on campus at Grand Valley. I don’t have a car at the moment, so I’ll take this bus and hop off, then get on another that takes me there. What about you?”
“Same, home. But—maybe I can get your number? I’d love to catch up some more.”
“For sure!”
“You got a pen?”
“Yeah, I think I got one in my bag… hang on.”
Ray searches through his bag, finds a pen, and Gene hands him his receipt from the record store to write on.
Using the bus stop sign behind them as a hard surface, he scribbles the number down quickly, and then Gene does the same, writing his own number on Ray’s receipt.
As if on cue, once their numbers are exchanged, the bus approaches and pulls up to the curb.
The two young men hop on and sit next to each other, chatting away about records and music for the rest of their ride.
Having a friend to talk to about this is exactly what Gene needed—someone who appreciates his special interest in music and enjoys it with the same enthusiasm.
Music itself has always been there for him growing up, making him feel not so lonely despite not connecting very well with his peers.
All of his other friends from high school, while they might’ve been fun to hang out with from time to time, watching movies and playing cards, they never truly gelled with him the way he would’ve liked.
They were just there. And now that many of them have started college or begun working harsh hours, he really has been alone; they seemed to have left Gene in the dust.
But there’s something about Ray that just clicks.
When Gene saw that Stones record in his bag, he didn’t even think twice before he said something—it’s as if he knew he just had to strike up a conversation.
As Ray gets off at his stop and Gene rides the rest of the way home, he can’t stop thinking about the charming blond young man.
What if this is it—a new beginning? The perfect start to his adult life, finding a true friend?
He smiles to himself and reaches into his bag, running his fingers over the receipt to make sure he hasn’t lost Ray’s number.