The Apple of Their Eye (Part 2)

Aster sat petrified, led into stoical ruin by the knocking that rang out from the door the floor below her. She sat, cradling fat, heavy tears in her eyes as she realized what was upon her— Eugene, manager of The Cherubs, had come to watch her play on Floyd's overly-insistent behalf.

Fuck, isn't this what you wanted? You told Floyd to get you signed, she thought to herself in pure panic as the knocks continued to echo into the empty store front. You need to fucking do it, you idiot, she reiterated as she closed her eyes, her tears scattering to the dusty floorboards that now bore their wet marks. She shook violently, overcome by intense nausea as she tried to will her being into motion.

Aster rose slowly, her body weak in light of her appetite being killed by anxiety throughout the day, and crept down the stairs, glacially and without remark.

“Good evening. Aster, I presume?” the well-dressed man greeted as the door opened to reveal to him the silent, trembling girl, her eyes more swollen than usual and stained with both fresh and faded tears. “It's absolutely frigid out there!” he said as he made his way inside, making loose attempts at striking up conversation. Aster only nodded and led him to the coat rack where he removed his tailored jacket and reams of scarves.

“So, Floyd was very insistent about you all— said you're going to be superstars. But again, you haven't really played anywhere, have you?” Eugene began, finding his own seat on the leather recliner.

“No, we've only played a couple so far,” she mumbled, her gaze cast out at the aisles that lie unperused past shop close. I've only been doing this for a month, asshole, she couldn't help but think in anger of the question.

“I see. Well, your single with Johnny Vallerie, as unfortunate as the whole thing turned out, has been a big success, so— I think at least giving you a shot is due,” the youthful looking man said with a smile, leaning forward in expectation as he motioned to Aster to pick up her acoustic guitar. “Please, go on. I'm all ears.”

Aster sat and pondered in the infinite, infinitesimally small second that bridged Eugene speaking and the sensation of the cloth strap draping down against the back of her neck. She lay anguished with confusion on how the human form was so feeble with its consideration of others, and why its biological processes betrayed and assailed her so, as she considered the very real chance she could throw up and pass out in front of Eugene right there and then. Nevertheless, the strap did slip over her shoulder. With great struggle and much anxiety her shaking hands tried to claw forth the familiar shapes of chords she'd heard millions of times.

She struck timidly at the first notes, her despairing brain in disagreement with her body as she tried to be comfortable in the only little slice of the world she could ever usually find comfort. But the chords rang out, stuttered and hesitant. They chimed and stumbled in an off-kilter rhythm that betrayed all small legends one might hear about the Love You Forevers' few shows up to that point. To anyone not introduced, Aster would appear as if she had only just started playing guitar recently.

She continued with this pained performance for a minute, as she recollected just exactly what the chord progression was. She returned her numb, shaking fingers to the tonic, her brain alight and feeling-less with a totally encapsulating and debilitating nervousness that would sweep the rug out from her thoughts whenever they dare try to form.

She had to sing, she knew, her mouth completely dry and voice no doubt beset with the meek warbling and cracking of heavy nerves. She wished deeply that her body would turn off as she once again tripped over the chords, the slightly untuned strings she'd forgotten to remedy chorusing in a gross, unresolving fashion. She began to sing, her voice quieter than death at first, then louder as she closed her eyes. It too wandered with shaky unsure steps over the teetering bed of chords she laid out for herself, occasional off-key notes juxtaposing in striking unpleasantness with the slightly sharp strings below them.

She blundered over her tongue, her worry-wracked brain in little position to remember the lyrics she'd halfheartedly and quickly put to paper weeks before. The grandfather clock's timeless and timekeeping hands struck away at the next few minutes, her wholly uninspiring performance folding into itself in a whimper symbolic of the one she'd introduced the song with.

The final chord rang out, unsatisfactorily, as Aster laid her gaze to her feet, saying nothing. Jesus, what a complete embarrassment, she thought, anguish sinking into her heart as her eyes grew hot with tears. Eugene sat silent a second, leaning further back into the recliner.

“Well, do you have a few more songs?” he asked. Aster's stomach dropped at the thought of humiliating herself to that degree several times over.

I just want this to be over. I just want this stupid shit to be done with, and to just accept I'm a fucking loser. I can't fucking do it, she thought, her mind ebbing into the slick tide of self-hatred as lethargy consumed her body, her interest in going on waning in tandem with the sun dying over the horizon through the shop's windows.

She struck at another chord, resigned and no better than the first, and continued with awkwardly subjecting the fire that drove her to Eugene's commentless audience. She bumbled through the songs with little improvements in each successive performance, her heart breaking with every off-note and misplayed chord. The girl, utterly defeated by the end, bothered not to even play the final chord, accepting that the both of them knew the performance had been a complete disaster. She left the guitar limp in her hands and lap, her dead gaze in silent conversation with the floor as she resolved to merely existing before Eugene.

The shop gave not a response to this void of activity, save for the eternal ticking of the grandfather clock. Eugene finally rose, dusting off his cuffs in a subconscious reflex of vanity. “Well, my apologies Aster, but I will have to pass on any present involvement between your group and The Cherubs,” he said, looking down at Aster's lowered head. “Best of luck in the future,” he gave as paltry consolation as he made his way out the door, disappearing into the evening without further comment.

Aster's gaze remained married to the floorboards, scuffed and marked with hints of dust and wear, its varnish wearing off in spots. The wood bore flecks of dark droplets as Aster's tears fell from her eyes, slowly at first then in a considerable cascade. They streamed to the floor as she began to sob, reaching for the acoustic which she lunged into the ground beside her, the detuned instrument crying out in an ugly crash as one of its strings broke.

The death rattle of the guitar and her pained screams filled the empty shop as its front door suddenly swung open. Aster was too enveloped in her weeping to pay any attention to Sylvia and Marion as the former gleefully hopped in, her pep almost immediately neutered as she noticed the crumpled ball of misery broken down before the leather recliner.

With no to-do spared she ran over, moving to hold Aster as she had become increasingly accustomed to doing. She held on to the scrunched up mess as she howled, stroking her back as Marion awkwardly made his way across the shop to join her in consoling Aster. He cast a look of worry and mild confusion down towards Sylvia as she held her silently, but she inquired not, gleaning all she needed to about Aster's performance for Eugene as her eyes made their way over to the discarded guitar that lay ruined on the floor.

“Let it out,” she cooed, holding Aster tightly as she coughed and hiccuped in hysterics, the fluttering streaks of white which danced against the young moonlight outside the shop windows encapsulating the scene inside in something reminiscent of a snow globe of grief.

“Hey,” Sylvia spoke up with a firm voice, not finishing what she had to say until Aster was looking her in the eyes. “We're gonna beat the Cherubs anyways, right?” she continued, holding her gaze with Aster's bright orange eyes as she spoke to her with all the conviction she could muster. “So who needs them! You're much better than them anyways, and we'll—” she paused, her voice breaking as she tried to continue her comforting monologue. “And we'll ruin Johnny Vallerie's show too,” she finished, Sylvia's eyes themselves now sparkling as her cheery inflection devolved into tears alongside Aster.

“That complete jerk!” she cried, holding onto Aster's billowing lavender shoulder puffs, “How could he do that to you! We were only trying to help him!” she yelled, sniffling as she continued to rub at Aster's back as Aster sobbed even more severely in the wake of Sylvia's tears. Marion stood idly by, near breaking his toothpick in half as he tried to occupy himself by running his teeth along it, searching for any opening to claw his way into the duet of tears.

“Well hey, we've got some good news—” he stiffly delivered as he glanced away from the sniveling girls embracing each other, his words however, having no apparent effect on the intensity of their cries.

“Shoulda' been at fuckin' work right now,” he mumbled as front door bolted open, its frame near divorcing the hinges from the wall as it slammed loudly into the wall behind it. There stood the visage of a shapely, dignified man, his cylindrical white curls the perfect match of the hibernal palette which set the stormy backdrop behind him. His black leather jack boots came to rest with a thud as his snowy feet stepped inside, the clack of a cane soon joining them.

“Huzzah! Old Floyd has done it!” he falsettoed triumphantly as he cast his frilly cuffed arms into the air, the room turning bitter to the skin as the door remained wide open behind him. He cast his gaze down to the puffy red eyes of Sylvia, who held the still weeping Aster as Marion stood beside them, casting Floyd an unsettled mixture of disbelief, uneasiness and confusion as the room held not a word, only the soundtrack of tears and winter howls.

—

“That Eugene is too stuck up for his own good!” Floyd clamored some minutes later as Aster finally, hesitantly filled them in on the embarrassing scar that now haunted her heart. He sat in his leather recliner, tracing his glass of brandy as Sylvia wiped at her and Aster's tears with a tissue. “I should have never pushed for this audition. I am sorry Miss Aster,” he gave, his silver curls dropping as he tipped his head in apology. “It is quite obvious he is only in this for money anyways. No soul to their business!” he hollered as Marion rolled his eyes.

“So, what was it you wanted to tell us, Floyd?” he asked.

Floyd leaned forward, his face growing crooked in a self-important grin surely honed from his time with Sylvia, as his fingers rubbed together in anticipation.

“Our issue with the Wally's Walleye Wagon has been solved,” he announced, Sylvia lighting up instantly.

“Really?! Does that mean we get to eat for free?” she sniffled as she handed another tissue to Aster, who had finally reached the end of her sobbing.

“Even better my dear Sylvia, we are not playing at Wally's,” he replied, threading them along in a cloy tone as Sylvia's puffy eyes went wide.

“Pat's Potato Palace?!” she squealed, leaning forward.

“I have secured us the entire center square of Peppermint Plains,” he announced with glee, all three of them going silent.

“Wait, what?” Aster finally spoke up, her eyes suddenly dry.

“Floyd, man, they just stopped crying so if you're messing with us—”

“I am not, Marion,” he smugly uttered. They looked back at him speechless, the prim man smiling radiantly.

And speechless they remained, as the conversation fell to the shop's front door opening for the umpteenth time since close, as the moppy head of Cecil flecked with white presented itself in the doorway, the flurries outside now turned to the torrential maw of arctic waves of a hideous blizzard as the wind pulled the door closed loudly and suddenly behind. To the left of Cecil stood a girl of equal height, her messy red hair tossed in long bangs over her face, which itself was framed at each side by ones yet longer. There she stood, dusted in snow, dressed as elegantly as any classical pianist Cecil had ever harped on about, a wild smile on her face as Cecil moved to speak.

 “Everyone, I introduce to you my beat poetry partner— Sísí.”