Just Keep Your Head Above

“Whoa, slow down there, friend. The food isn’t gonna go anywhere.” I chuckled, as Naked Boy swallowed another fist-sized chunk of Rita’s apple pie.

“Sweetlordbabyjesus,” He moaned, his head rolling back as he chewed, “It’s like the nectar of the gods.”

I chuckled. Losing your Rita’s-food virginity was a memorable experience, but watching someone lose their Rita’s-food virginity was fucking hilarious. Naked Boy, now dressed as a highlighter, sat in the back lounge, cramming as much food as was humanly possible into his mouth, while Alex and I watched him in reverence. I still didn’t know his name, but watching the spectacle before me seemed much more important at the moment. He was currently attempting to wrap a piece of pie in a pancake, and tie the whole thing together with a strip of bacon, while simultaneously chewing and swallowing the gob of pie in his mouth, which was so crammed with food that he looked like a chipmunk, cheeks blown out and eyes focused on the task before him. The whole thing was quite entertaining.

“So, Naked Boy,” Alex questioned, still fixated on gazing up at our new friend in admiration, “do you have a name?”

Naked Boy looked like he wanted to reply, before realizing his mouth was too full. He attempted to swallow, unsuccessfully. His eyes clouded over with focus as he tried to push the food down his throat, which was probably not the best idea, since he promptly began to choke.

I thumped his back, attempting to open his airways a little, while offering him a napkin to spit his generous helping into. Stubbornly, he swatted my hand away, chewing feverishly in an attempt to ingest the heap of pancake crammed in his mouth. He screwed his mouth to the side, concentrated on consuming every last crumb of the heavenly breakfast.

“Dude, seriously, I’ll buy you some more pie, but I don’t know if your insurance covers death-by-breakfast-food.” I coaxed as I watched his face turn purple.

He looked hesitantly at the napkin in my hand, before reluctantly taking it and spitting out the asphyxiator. He gasped, taking desperate gulps of air as his face slowly returned to its normal hue.

“Carter. Carter Jagnod,” he informed us between pants.

“So,” I said, after he’d caught his breath, “where’d you come from, Carter? What’s your story?”

He stiffened, looking down at his feet nervously. “I, uhm, came down to live with my uncle, Ray.”

Alex and I exchanged a look. The suddenly serious look painted on his normally cheerful face told us this was a subject that he was not okay with discussing, but the thought of Ray taking care of a kid seemed so absolutely ridiculous, it was almost laughable.

Ray Turmani, the owner of the bar across the street, The Town Drunkard, appropriately named, since he was, in fact, the town drunkard, was practically a child himself. He had never quite grown out of the play-beer-pong-every-night-and-look-for-unsuspecting-drunk-girls-to-fuck stage of his life. It was like he was stuck in a state of perpetual frat-boyhood. He was a nice guy, really, but he was the last guy you’d want babysitting your kids. I would’ve probably found the whole situation hilarious if Carter hadn’t ended up naked and hungover in the middle of the store.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he cut me off quickly. “So,” he said, spreading his arms out and gesturing to his surroundings, “What is this place?”

“Naked Boy, the King of Segue Ways!” Alex proclaimed, as he exited the room in search of his phone, which had begun to ring loudly.

Carter looked at me, silently pleading me not to attempt to broach the subject. Instinctual empathy kicked in, and I smiled apologetically. “Don’t mind him; he’s a bit of a dick.”

“I heard that!” called Alex from the adjoining room.

I rolled my eyes. “In response to your question,” I said, pulling Carter out of the back lounge and into the actual store, “this is a music store. And a concert venue. Combined. “

“Combined?” He asked curiously, looking around for a stage of some sort.

“Yeah. Here, in the upstairs, we have a record store,” I gestured at the rows of records, arranged alphabetically, “and over there,” I pointed at the long corridor in the back, “is where we have the extra rooms; for lessons, or if a band needs a place to practice. And this end of the store is dedicated to instruments and their accessories,” I finished, showing him the multitude of guitars, drums, and basses.

“Damn.” He said, eyeing his surroundings in awe. His eyes scanned over the formerly glass counter, now completely covered in posters and stickers, the black chalkboard that covered a whole wall, littered with signings, messages, and art, the shelf completely dedicated to Elvis Presley bobble heads, and the section of wall covered in stolen public property: stop signs, traffic lights, ‘no trespassing’ signs, the lights off the top of police cars, etc. He was quiet for a moment, absorbing its enchanting atmosphere.

I smiled knowingly. The store was a kind of safe-haven for the oddballs in town. It had a character and personality unto itself, and it was impossible not to love. The employees here were a tight knit family, and the customers weren’t just customers, they were friends. We all connected on a more personal level here, bonded by this one, teeny, tiny, quirky shop, in the middle of a teeny, tiny, quirky town. It was a treasure, a find, and would never be classified as anything but extraordinary. It had an almost magical quality to it that brought people together in ways they would have otherwise never imagined, and being exposed to that type originality for the first time was a captivating experience. “I know,” I replied quietly, before clearing my throat, “But anyways, downstairs, there’s a stage and floor for the audience, and behind all that, there’s tables and a bar. It’s like a restaurant combined with a concert venue.”

“And you live here?”

If you looked in the dictionary, under the term “Piper’s least favorite question of all time”, you would find that the words printed on the page were the exact ones that had just come out of Carter’s mouth. It wasn’t so much the question itself that annoyed me, as it was the barrage of questions that inevitably ensued. Do you live alone? When did you move up there? Where are your parents? Who takes care of you?, et cetera, et cetera. It was always the same. The same judgmental looks and pitying expressions. The same tight smiles and averted eyes. I didn’t want it. I didn’t need it.

I grimaced. “Uhm, what makes you think that?”

“Well, you’re here hours before this place opens, completely comfortable walking around in your pajamas, and there’s stairs going heading for the upper floors. Since you didn’t mention that there was anything up there, I just assumed they led to apartments, and that you lived in one of them.”

Fuck. This kid was way too observant for my taste. “Okay, yeah,” I said tersely, my guard already up, “I live up there.”

“I get it,” he said, immediately reading the tone of my voice, “Personal boundary line crossed. And since you took pity on me earlier, I’ll let it be. But you’re going to have to spill eventually.”

“Is that right?” I retorted, raising an eyebrow; secretly grateful for the way he had skillfully lightened the subject.

“Yep. You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

“Because we’re best friends now.” He said, his face spreading into a wide, goofy grin.

“And what makes you think I’d want to be best friends with an exhibitionist?” I teased, poking his side playfully.

“Piper,” he said, draping a friendly arm across my shoulder, “in my book, friendship is eating an orgasmic stack of pancakes and choking on pie at inappropriately early hours of the morning. Therefore, in my book, we just became best friends.”

“Fine, but only if you promise that I’ll never have to see your genitals again.”

“Sorry, sweetie, I only make promises I’m sure I can keep.”