Chapter 3 #2
I find the Mellencamp, R.E.M.’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi, and the new CD from blues legend Junior Watkins on a new-release endcap.
I wander over to movies. The VHS of the Tina Turner biopic What’s Love Got to Do with It is on sale, so I grab that, too.
I wrote a paper about Tina’s relationship with Ike—and how she got out of it—for one of my women’s studies classes.
I walk back to the rock section for her greatest hits album, Simply the Best. And now that I’m buying way more than I intended, I get in line at the one open cash register.
When it’s my turn, I hand over my credit card and inwardly cringe.
The cashier staples a flyer to the receipt and says with forced cheer, “We’re hiring! If it’s not the right fit for you, pass this along to someone else!”
Definitely not the right fit, Stacy.
As I turn toward the exit, I nearly run into a tall, slim white guy holding a clipboard, dressed in light khakis and a green polo. He shifts out of my way. His icy blue eyes behind the black frames of his glasses sparkle under the fluorescent lights, a contrast to dark, thick, wavy hair.
I gasp. It’s Jaws. In sexy glasses.
Everything is always working out for me. It’s like I wished him into existence. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I am not. And wow, is Jaws handsome in the full light of day. He looked good last night, but now I see something classic about his features, like a movie star from the fifties or sixties. His eyes flash when they meet mine. I can’t look away, and he doesn’t, either.
“Well, well,” he says. That one corner of his mouth tilts up. “If it isn’t Abbey Road.”
“Close enough, Jaws,” I reply. “It’s Abbey Rhodes.”
And suddenly, I realize that perhaps working at Hometown Electronics is the right fit after all. For the time being, of course, until I find something at a newspaper. A job here could tide me over until I figure out what to do next, not to mention help pay the bills.
I nod toward the cashier. “Stacy over there tells me you’re hiring.”
“Do you know her?” His voice is gravelly, low, like last night, dark and rich like the color of his hair.
“I don’t. I’m a customer.” I hold up my bag.
“But you know her name.”
I tap the name tag pinned to his polo. I wonder why he wears a polo shirt, not a jersey. His name tag reads Wil, with one l, and not Jaws, which is clearly a nickname. “She’s wearing a name tag, Wil.”
I lean in to read the smaller words on his name tag.
Merchandise Manager - Drafted 1985. He’s worked here for eleven years, even though he can’t be much older than me.
And wow, he smells good, just like last night.
I recognize the fragrance: Originaire for Men.
Brianna covered a coworker’s maternity leave at the men’s cologne counter this spring, and one night, while I waited for her to finish her shift, I ranked my favorites.
Originaire made my top five. Not cheap but not obnoxiously expensive or pompous. Fresh and woodsy and crisp.
Wil raises only one eyebrow and tilts his head. “If you’re serious, I can tell you what positions are available.”
“I’m serious.”
“Do you have retail experience?”
“Is it required?” I frown. I don’t think shopping here counts.
“Not necessarily. We’re hiring for customer service, entertainment media, audio, and computers.”
If “entertainment media” is code for music and movies, I’m in. “Tell me about entertainment media.”
One side of his beguiling mouth lifts again, like I’ve given the right answer. I resist the urge to fan myself.
“I somehow knew that’s what you’d say. We sell music, movies, video games, computer software, and accessories, so you’d help customers a lot,” he says.
“People come in and they only know half the chorus of a song, which they sing off key, and they expect you to know exactly what album they’re looking for. ”
“Sounds fun!” I blurt.
“It’s the only department that merchandises their own products,” he continues, “so there’s some warehouse work, but it’s mostly stocking shelves and setting displays.”
I have a college degree. It can’t be that hard to set up a display of CDs.
“So,” he says, “do you know much about music besides The Beatles? Or the other products in the department?”
A job where I can talk to people about music and movies? Sign me up. The rest I can figure out. “Absolutely. I’d love to apply.”
He gives that half-smile again and leads me to a small office behind customer service, rummages around in a filing cabinet, and hands me an application. “Leave that on the desk when you’re finished. Our hiring manager will review it and contact you if she’d like to continue the hiring process.”
My shimmering bubble of excitement pops. It’s not like I can’t wait a couple of days for an interview, but I don’t want to. I could barely stand having nothing to do this morning. And as I already calculated, that final paycheck won’t last forever.
My dreamboat future husband turns to go, but I reach out and grab his arm. His skin is warm, and I feel a little jolt in my fingertips, that same tingling swizzle I felt last night, and my stomach dips. I jerk my hand away, my cheeks warming.
“Wait,” I manage. “I’ve got a four-year degree. I wrote for a local newspaper for the last three years until… uh, recently. You already know I have good taste in music. I worked at Mr. Movies during high school, so that’s sort of like retail. Please, couldn’t you interview me now?”
Wil’s eyes haven’t left my face, and I feel my cheeks heat even more. For a few miserable seconds, he doesn’t speak, and I’m kicking myself for being that overzealous applicant so desperate for a job, she’s practically begging. Not to mention the flirting from last night…
“Can I see what you bought?” he asks.
I hand over the bag and he peers in. “Nice. I met Junior Watkins once, at a fundraiser with my mom. He’s her favorite.”
“You met Junior Watkins?” Junior Watkins is one of the biggest names in Chicago blues. I’ve seen him live only once, at the Hopkins Raspberry Festival a couple of years ago. “I have a new goal in life.”
“A Junior Watkins and HollowPoint fan,” he muses. “I’ll see if Aurora’s available. She’s the media team captain—that’s what we call department supervisors. I’ll give you a few minutes to fill out the application.”
He leaves and closes the office door behind him. I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief, then grab a pen and get to work.
There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later, and a petite woman around my age in an oversized Hometown jersey walks in surrounded by a cloud of fruity perfume, a valiant attempt to mask the pungent smell of cigarette smoke.
Her chin-length platinum blonde hair is striking against her light brown skin.
“I’m Aurora,” she says, her tone flat. “You’re Abbey?”
“Thanks for meeting with me on short notice.” I pass her my completed application, and she scans it, her button nose wrinkling.
“Abbey Rhodes. Interesting.” Her dull delivery doesn’t convince me that she’s at all interested.
“This position requires open availability, including weekends.” She looks up and meets my eyes.
“Like, wide open. There’s also some overtime, depending on the season, including mandatory sixes during the holidays.
That means all full-timers are required to work six days a week from Halloween to New Year’s. You get time-and-a-half for overtime.”
Sounds exhausting. But as dreadful as working weekends and “mandatory sixes” sounds, I need the money. It’s only September; with luck, maybe I’ll have gotten a new job at a different publication before the holidays, even if I’m not writing about music. “I can do that.”
Aurora speeds through more info—the best of which is the employee discount, the worst, starting at 6:00 a.m. most days.
“It’s not so bad,” she says at my unsuccessful attempt to mask my horror.
“We have four hours before the store opens. That’s the tricky part about working media.
You have to get all this work done, but you also have to help fans—that’s what we call customers.
The baseball stuff is a little much, but whatever.
Sometimes, you end up closing on a truck night, and you don’t get out of here until, like, eleven, and then you need to be back at six. Can you handle that?”
“Sure.” It’s almost like going out to see a show on a weeknight but without drinks or good music.
“This is, like, a three-level interview process. The merch manager will meet with you, and then the general manager. I don’t even know if Jeremy’s here today, but Wil can set something up. I’ll get him.”
Aurora leaves without another word. I glance around the office: stacks of reports printed on green-and-white striped paper, a charging station of walkie-talkies, someone’s half-eaten sub sandwich, and an unopened bottle of Mountain Dew.
The computer monitor shows a home screen for something called HEAS, Hometown Electronics Automation System.