Chapter 5: Candy Warlord

Through the gaps in the blinds came the morning light, basking Aster and the loft in it's warm softness as it rose and spilled in with the sunrise. Her raccoon eyes all at once scrunched and then burst open, arisen from slumber by the ringing of a brass-tipped cane.

“Miss Aster! It's time to start the day!” warbled Floyd's fair voice up to the loft. Aster immediately came to. A horrendous fit of anxiety followed almost instantly upon hearing his voice, and at seeing the loft— the concept of having fallen asleep and having awakened in the same simulation struck a chord of deep existential terror Aster did not realize dwelled within her. A pointed, insidious fear like that of an animal trapped crept under her skin, as the reality of her situation became clear and soberly impressed upon her.

Floyd could be heard walking to some indeterminate point in the shop, his cane tapping against the wooden floor, almost in sync with her accelerating heartbeats. She sat for a moment, unable to process her surroundings. The wild thump of her heart was audible in the silent loft. Floyd again rapped his cane.

“Oh Miss Aster! It will be time to open the shop soon! Please make yourself ready and come join me. There is a shower to the left of the biggest stack of records,” he called, this time audibly nearer to the stairs. He did not wait for a response— his footsteps soon followed the end of his sentence, drifting to some place further off in the shop. Aster fell back onto the bed, her mind racing.

She wished more than anything in that moment to just phase through the bed and disappear. Never had she felt this uncomfortable, this awkward and this out of place. Never before in her life had she ever slept anywhere that wasn't her bedroom. She felt as though her brain were going numb.

“I'm really stuck here,” she whispered, the realization finally settling in. Whether escape was to ever come or not she realized she was going to have to do her best to survive in the meantime.

That meant securing a job, and it also meant securing a place to live— both of which Aster had at the moment, though they were only temporary. Maybe if I manage to not fuck today up somehow, I can stay here, she pondered as she stared up at the ceiling. Her stomach formed into knots as she realized how difficult something like that would be for a consistent fuck up like herself.

She fixated on all of the social situations she was going to have to maneuver through during an entire day of work, and imagined the worst outcomes for each and every one of them.

Aster had never worked a day in her life— the AI revolutions of the mid-21^st century had done away with the need for anyone to do all but the most specialized of jobs. Thus, Aster was pretty much ignorant in how any job worked— a fact which gave her considerable distress considering the day's docket.

What is he going to have me do? Am I going to have to sell to customers? How do you even sell things to people?! I'm going to look like an absolute idiot! were a few of the thoughts and anxieties ping-ponging through her mind at a quickening pace as she desperately searched for the will to get out of bed.

However, fleetingly sweet notes of excitement did pepper that intense anxiety and fear. All her reservations about work and the anxieties that came with it aside, the fact that work was to be done in a record shop— a job solely and singularly devoted to the love of music and the spread of that love unto others, could only bring a small twinkle of exhilaration to Aster at the thought of it.

She watched the morning light spill into the room, the rays broken intermittently as the dust of the loft filtered through it. Aster was now solidly in acceptance of her need to find a job, to support herself like an adult for the first time in her life. She shuddered with anxiety at the thought of it, but knew in her heart that this was the stage on which she would have to prove herself. If she were truly not a failure, she would have to make herself believe it.

Still, she couldn't shake the deep unease that came from treating a simulation so seriously— regardless of how lifelike and realistic it may appear. Such a thought ate away at the very pillars of actuality and how one saw oneself within a self-defined framework of what they deemed their reality. It was an existential uncertainty that was slowly manifesting within Aster, and she desperately wished it would halt.

With no great effort spared she broke from these thoughts and made her way towards the shower, per Floyd's instructions. She turned to the towering stack of boxes nearest it, and grimaced upon peeking at their contents— Floyd Childress' Variety Hour! read the jacket on the heap of records in the box. Upon the cover Mr. Floyd's smiling, camp face was printed in faded ink.

“What the fuck is this?” she mumbled, picking one up. “Row Your Boat? Easy Jazz Standards?” she read off in a deriding tone as she looked the record over. A twinge of self-loathing came upon her in realizing how strong a resemblance it bore to her own homemade albums.

Her own records— Aster's depression was suddenly uplifted by the most significant feeling of excitement as she set the record back in it's box. She hadn't had a moment to think about her own music since arriving here, but suddenly the realization was all over her— this was the 1960s, the golden age of the rock band. It made sense she thought— Eden was the granter of dreams it was told, but the awareness of this fact was now unbearably apparent. So much so that Aster could not even fall prey to her usual swings of manic depression when it occurred to her that she was in no state to form a band with her severe anxiety— cloud nine her throne, she simply told herself she'd somehow manage it.

 

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“Miss Aster, good morning!” chirped Floyd in high-pitched affectation as Aster made her way down the stairs, fresh from the shower. “All ready I see. Shall we get started with the tour?” he asked, sorting through a box of vinyl. Aster mumbled a mouse-like peep of 'sure' and followed him to the back of the store.

A door in the very back of the shop opened into a small storeroom, filled with boxes in various states of disarray, similar to the loft. Posters of all sizes lay coiled up in tubes, resting against the dinged cardboard boxes that held brand new record players. “This room is where every week's shipment is delivered. More precisely, it is where all of the inventory for the shop is stored. It is a very important room!” he trilled. “It is most important of all to remember, do not leave Sylvia alone in here. She gets trapped under boxes,” he warned to the confused arch of Aster's brows.

He marched on through the shop, educating Aster on the various models of record players— which were top of the line, which sported the best features for their price, which ones sold like hot cakes. He introduced her to the long-lost world of analog music in a marathon session that left her once again creeping anxiety temporarily sated by the bliss of molded plastic and faint hiss of empty record trays.

“And you just drop this needle on the record...?” she inquired curiously as she tried it out for herself, the needle bouncing across the black plastic grooves, a quick and low rumble ushering forth music. Aster's orange eyes lit up as the song burst forth in fidelity and warmth, rough and archaic but with an affection for her soul the music she was familiar with never knew. In such primitivity was such an unarguably pure sensation that Aster barely knew how to handle it's discovery.

She was assuaged by what she felt was a tacit confirmation of all the dislike and ill-will she felt for the trends of her time. The utter slow-burning, nascent rage creeping forth in the realization that this all had been denied her in the sake of 'progress'.

“A little more lively today, aren't we?” Floyd teased as Aster hungrily flipped through various records whose covers and genres intrigued her, playing with the needle and marveling on its dance within the grooves as she figured out how to master the device.

“Well anyways, I guess we should move on to what your job shall entail today!” he said, strutting his way to the front of the shop. Aster was reluctant to tear herself from the record player, but followed in tandem.

“I think we shall give you an easy task for your sole day here,” he mused, standing before an intricate, metal device. Aster looked down at it, the metal box a faded robin egg's blue whose chipped paint gave away splotches of rust. From it sprung forth a delirious number of buttons and symbols.

“What is this?” Aster stuttered out in alarm.

Floyd turned to her, confused. “Whatever do you mean? This is a register Aster. You know, a machine you use to ring customers up?” he replied quizzically.

Aster's face went beet red in response. “Oh yeah, of course! I meant what model of register is it,” she stammered, tearing her eyes away from Floyd's incredulous look. What the fuck is 'ringing up'? she thought as her eyes darted around the shop.

Floyd observed the register for a second. “Hmm, I could not tell you dear. But the job I have for you today is to just help customers check out, so it should be rather simple! Today is Tuesday— We don't usually have much business on Tuesdays,” he explained with a smile. “Sylvia should be in soon to help you out, and then you are free to take your leave at six!” he continued, walking back to the box of records he had left unsorted.

Aster stood in her horror at the front of the register, the words 'six o' clock' ringing throughout her bushy-head. There was no talk of a job, no discussion of her being allowed to stay in the loft. Her stomach squirmed in agony as the scope of the room narrowed. She thought about calling out to Floyd and asking directly, but knew that she could never manage.

Her glassy, terrified eyes drifted down to the register below her. And what the fuck is this?! she shouted inside her head, prodding at the different buttons with great care and hesitance. Various numbers popped up, then went away with the press of another button. Cha-ching! rang out the register's drawer, rendering Aster nothing but a being of awkwardness, anxiety, and self-consciousness in that moment. Her muted blush of midnight eye-circles once again met the rosy-redness of her embarrassment as she fiddled the register door shut.

The sudden timid jingling of the shop's bell alerted both Floyd and Aster to the presence of a peppermint-colored bow that could be seen bobbing outside the locked door. There, through the door's window, rested Sylvia's usually effervescent face, replaced by a total mournfulness in those eyes of hers that peered at them through the glass.

“Well would you look at that, it's already time to start the day!” chimed Floyd as he made his way to the door, fumbling with his keys. “Good morning Sylvia—”

“Prepare for battle!” she uttered as the door opened, a horde of frantic customers following in her wake, as if the two of them were witnessing the birth of some short, confectionery warlord.

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