Page 3 of King of Pain

Anthony

Devil Records is an eclectic mix of vinyl and cassettes, old wood floors, and nostalgic decor. The store is a long, narrow space tucked between a remodeled pub and a vintage clothing shop off Mill Avenue in Tempe, a bustling little city primarily inhabited by college students.

The walls are lined with shelves that bow slightly under the weight of albums and tapes spanning decades. Concert posters of music legends—Tina Turner, Springsteen, Madonna—cover the walls, curling at the edges and faded from years of exposure to the sun streaming in the front windows. A neon sign readingDevil Recordsflickers above the cash register, bathing the counter in a retro red glow.

It’s quiet today. The soft crackle of the vinyl feels like the shop’s heartbeat: steady, soothing, and alive. I’ve gotRumorsspinning on the turntable that’s connected to the shop’s speakers.I’m sure my coworkers are tired of hearing Fleetwood Mac every shift I work, but it’s the album that got me hooked on classic rock and pop. While my heart belongs to ‘80s music, this album calms my mind in a way no other can. In my opinion, “Dreams” might be the greatest pop song ever written. Frank, one of the shop’s owners, loves to argue otherwise. He insists there are too many masterpieces to crown just one. He’s probably right, but at this point, I keep defending my choice just to give the old hippie something to debate.

I’m halfway through reorganizing the classic rock section when the chaos that is my coworker—and best friend—Jen, cuts through the silence like a cymbal crash.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she says, leaning against the end of the shelf with a smirk.

“I’m assuming you’re talking to me and not having a flashback to whoever you lured into your web last night.” I say, not even bothering to look up. “Either way, the list of things I do wrong is extensive. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Jen laughs. It’s a sharp, bright sound that matches her energy. Her auburn hair is tied back in a messy bun, a pencil sticking out of it at an odd angle. She’s wearing a black concert tee—The Clash today—paired with ripped jeans and combat boots. Everything about her screams unintentionally cool. She knows it but couldn’t care less at the same time.

“Alphabetizing albums is a crime,” she says, crossing her arms.

This should be fun.

“Uh, it’s how people tend to look for things in bookstores and music shops,” I shoot back. “How do you think anyone is going to find what they’re looking for?”

“I think you just don’t want to do it the right way because it’s harder,” she counters, arching an eyebrow.

“And what is the right way, Jen?”

“Everybody knows you organize it by who you’d like to fuck. It’s harder, Anthony. For instance… do I want Bono or Blondie up front?”

“Don’t you mean Debbie Harry?” I ask.

“No. The whole band. But Debbie does get first dibs.”

I snicker at her ridiculousness. “Is this your way of volunteering to do this for me?”

“Not a chance,” she grins, snagging a vinyl from my stack and examining it. “Ooh, Concrete Blonde. Nice!” Then she spins around, walking backward while flipping me double birds.

Frank’s voice chirps from the back office: “Anthony. Jen. Get in here.”

We exchange a look, and Jen groans. “What do you think Frank misplaced this time?”

“Could be anything,” I say, leaving the stack and following her toward the office.

Frank and Kathy are standing behind the desk, going through a tall pile of paperwork that looks like it’s been there since the 70s. Frank is tall and broad-shouldered, his graying hair pulled back into a ponytail that’s both practical and ridiculous. He’s wearing his usual uniform: a Hawaiian shirt with his old man cargo shorts and the whole socks-with-sandals combo.

Kathy, on the other hand, is the picture of hippie chic—long, flowy skirts, layered necklaces, and hair that seems to have a life of its own. Her round glasses perch on her nose as she peers at a clipboard.

“I can’t find that invoice anywhere,” Frank says, waving us in.

“Gee, I can’t imagine why,” Jen says flatly.

“I tried to tell him,” Kathy chimes in, not looking up from her clipboard.

Jen sighs dramatically. “Frank, I can have all that input and organized into the computer system for you in no time and you’ll never be looking for things again. Well, not paperwork at least.”

Frank waves her off, distracted. “Fine, I’ll think about it. But first, we’ve got a couple things to go over. When’s the nextVino & Vinylnight?”

This gets Kathy’s attention. She perks up, bracelets jingling as she clutches the clipboard to her chest. “Ooh, what vendors are coming? People keep asking. And by people, I mean me. I love V&V!”

“First Friday of next month,” I say. “We’ve got the same food truck as last time—the pasta one run by the chef that wonTruck Warson FoodTV. I also confirmed with the wine vendor this morning. They’re bringing a new cabernet they’re excited about.”