Strange Friends Azana W. 21

Azana W. ’21

I feel a cool breeze from the window blow on my face, and that is my first alarm clock. I’m up, but do I want to get up? The short answer is no. I pull the covers over my head in an attempt to hit snooze.

As I settle in bed, ready to have round two of sleep, I hear a shaky voice yell, “Questttt. Quest, wake up baby.”

I know who the voice is, but I stay under the covers in hopes that my second alarm clock would leave me be.

The second voice yells, “QUESTT! GET UP! YOUR LATE!”

I shoot up to see my elderly neighbors looking through my window. Ever since I left Portland at 21 to pursue my dreams of being a famous musician, they have indirectly been my parents. The one with the softer voice is named Ms. Rose. She is much gentler than the louder voice, Ms. Stone. Ms. Stone has a stoic look and never sugar coats anything, I appreciate her honesty though. From the sentences I exchange with them, I can tell they have been best friends forever. Ms. Rose bakes cookies on Sunday evenings, and Ms. Stone plays an aggressive game of dominos with other neighbors who are complete opposites. But, from the laughs echoing from their apartment, I know they wouldn’t have it any other way.

I look at them with an awkward smirk and say, “I’m up! Thanks Ms. Stone and Ms. Rose.”

I get up and run to my closet, but not without tripping over the spread of sheet music and lyrics I was working on last night. I slip on one of the new music sheets, ripping it completely in half and flinging the rest up into the air.

I sigh and say, “Man, I can’t be bothered with this. Did I pack lunch last night? Where’s my phone?”

I knew it was gonna be a long morning. Despite such a hectic morning, I manage to get dressed in the spiffiest suit. I am late to work, but I don't care, as long as I am dressed to impress.

I show up to work in the record shop with coffee in hand. My boss looks at me and says, “You’re late. I’m not surprised, just annoyed.” “Hey, but I brought your favorite coffee,” I say, with a smile on my face. My boss is always mad that I’m late, but with a nice smile and a coffee, he gets over it easily.

He snatches the coffee with a smirk and says, “We got a new employee I need you to train.”

“Noted!” I yell as I walk to the back to settle down.

Unlike the others, meeting a new friend isn’t a foreign idea to me. I have a special knack for being able to read people without knowing everything about them. That’s how I knew my boss’s favorite coffee and my neighbors. Eventually, they will share their memories or secrets with me. It is a fun game for me, and I always win. The new employee is dressed in simple colors, just a black tee and dark jeans. I can’t tell much about him, what a challenge.

“Hi, my name is Quest,” I say to the simple boy.

The boy can’t even hear me, nor does he want too. He is blasting music from his headphones. After standing there for a while, the boy notices me and takes out his headphones, which prompts me to repeat myself.

“Hi, I’m Quest, and I’m gonna train you today.”

The boy just shakes his head and says, “Dylan.” He stars blankly at me, waiting for me to make the next move.

“Alright well, let’s take a tour” I say.

We walks around the store. Making sure to visit every room and every record section. Dylan’s eyes never light up for anything. It seems like he is just a ghost walking around the store. I can’t read him. I even give him the task of ordering cd’s, in hopes that he will stumble upon a record he likes and make a shocked face, but nothing.

I spend the whole shift just watching him, hoping that he will flinch in a way that would give me a little insight into what’s going on in his head. But to no avail. He is stone-faced. I walk over to him.

“So, why’d you pick to work here? I mean, there are a lot of other record shops in New York,” I say.

“First place that got back to me,” he says with the most expressionless face.

“Well, what’s your favorite record?” I ask.

He looks up from his work as if the subject requires deep thought. I think I have finally scratched his surface. By mentioning his favorite record, I will basically know everything about him. If he likes jazz, I’ll understand him as a mellow fellow with an appreciation of history. If he likes hiphop, I’ll look at him as a person who appreciates lyricism and a good beat. Perhaps he likes pop, which means he just likes to have a good time. My eyes widen with glee awaiting his answer.

“I don’t think I have a favorite,” He answers.

My face flattens. Just as I am trying to prepare another question, a customer comes in. Another chance to see what kind of person he is.

“Hi! I need help finding a record for my little cousin’s birthday,” the customer says to me.

“No problem. Dylan will help you out,” I say as I wave my hand in his direction.

The customer walks over to Dylan, and I continue to watch from the front counter. The whole interaction is nothing out of the ordinary. He gets the customer to buy the most basic record in every record store, Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I mean Michael Jackson is an icon, but everyone loves Michael, so it doesn’t really show much about a person.

After trying to examine him for a little longer, with no success, I decide to call for lunch. I check my bag to see I in fact did pack a lunch last night. My favorite is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no crust, apple juice, and oranges.

“Hey, Dylan. Do you have lunch?” I ask him.

“Um...no. I was gonna skip lunch for today,” he says with a slight smirk as he scratches his neck.

“Here,” I say as I try to hand him half of my sandwich. “We can share.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Dylan says. For the rest of lunch, we sit together, eating in silence.

After a few hours, it is time to close the store, so we close it together. I make sure to lock the door, and the lightbulb in my head lights up. Maybe if I add him to the work group chat, he would show some kind of emotion, personality, or anything. I get his number and add him.

I go home feeling defeated. How was I supposed to understand a person of so few words and emotions? I plop on my bed and hear a ding. I check my phone.

Dylan texts the group chat: “Lunch on me tomorrow. :)” Maybe this will be easier than I thought.