Home, In Many Ways

 Like a mother's warmth— or at least what she imagined it to be— that great all-enveloping embrace of kaleidoscopic colors once again filled up all that Aster could see. In contrast to the apprehension and confusion she had felt upon first experiencing it, she now welcomed it with a near unbearable joy as her heart and body shuddered in anticipation of her paradise which lay on the other side.

“Aster! You daydreaming, silly?!” cried a cheerful voice as the colors gave way. Aster's eyes opened, and before her stood Sylvia once again, a good-natured smile and look of perplexment across her face as she held her hand to her hip. Aster's heart couldn't help but stop momentarily upon seeing her, every white-hot exclamation of joy felt to be welling up inside her instantaneously.

Without a word or a second missed, Aster suddenly latched onto Sylvia, embracing her as tightly as one could to be just shy of inflicting discomfort. Both Sylvia and the rest of the party assembled at Floyd's record shop were taken aback at the sight of the aloof Aster showing such outwardly affection, but Sylvia returned her embrace without question, wrapping her arms tightly around her.

Aster tried with everything in her to hold back the tears as she held on. For so long it seemed certain that she would never return to this place. It appeared so sure for so long that the rest of her days would be haunted by memories of this bliss.

And yet, it had returned to her.

The pure happiness she experienced in that silent moment was so intense it felt as though her very mind dangled from among soft, white clouds of euphoria. The smell of wood and aged paper that filled the shop electrified Aster's brief memories spent there and colored them anew, warming her body in a welcoming embrace that could only be referred to as 'home'.

It was in that very moment as she shook in Sylvia's embrace that Aster realized that one of the guiding principles of the rest of her life was being etched upon her hurting, anxious soul— that so long as she lived, she would never again give up these moments, or say goodbye to this group of people, who for the first time in her life painted upon her canvas with feelings other than woe.

This is what she existed for, she now understood.

“Aster! What's gotten into you?!” chuckled Sylvia as she smiled brightly. Aster held that sensation of comfort in her heart for a moment, driven by a strong feeling of greed to bask in it while she could, her body recoiling in an embrace of safety and fond familiarity. A familiarity not just for Sylvia, but for the other faces stood around her that she had slowly come accustom to— Mr. Floyd with his goofy demeanor and air of chaos, Marion, always fiddling with a toothpick in his mouth, and the self-enthused look of Cecil. The whiplash of such polarizing moods as this bliss and the pure suicidal idealizations she dwelled in not even hours before had left her momentarily unaware of the vigorous hug she was giving Sylvia.

Aster, suddenly becoming aware of her actions as she felt the sensation of Sylvia's t-shirt rubbing against her cheek, turned bright red and broke off the embrace. The eyes of those gathered around— Mr. Floyd's, Cecil's, Marion's, and Sylvia's herself set on her with curiosity— and though they meant no harm in their gaze, the sight of it reduced Aster to a mess of insecurity and absolute embarrassment.

Her face growing hotter by the second and no answer or explanation managing its way out of Aster's mouth, Mr. Floyd began to speak. “Miss Aster, are you ready?” he asked with a look of slight worry, no doubt given to him by Aster's sudden uncharacteristic behavior.

Aster froze upon being asked this, utterly clueless as to what Mr. Floyd could be inquiring about and suddenly very aware that some hours or perhaps even longer had passed in this world since she had last been conscious in it. The rays of early morning drifted through the shop windows, as all members of the shop gathered in the listening corner. Mr. Floyd tapped a cigar into an ashtray as he waited on Aster's reply.

What do I even say? she thought to herself, heart racing. Why didn't it resume where I left off? Why is everyone gathered here? I can't just ask “ready for what?”

“Ready for what?” she stammered.

“Are you quite alright, Miss Aster?” gave Mr. Floyd with a tone of increasing worry. The other three adopted similar looks of concern and surprise as Aster demonstrated a frightening lack of awareness of the present at hand.

“The reporter. There's a reporter coming any minute now,” Cecil replied firmly, himself looking at particular unease.

“Sylvia, did something happen to her last night?” asked Marion.

“No! I took her to bed and she dozed off real quick! She was out before I knew it,” she replied, the look of worry she now too adorned striking Aster with deep discomfort in how unfitting it looked upon her.

“I'm fine,” Aster attempted to offer as meek assurance as the others began to talk over her in intense discussion. How was she going to explain this, she wondered. She couldn't bear the thought of them believing she had gone insane, she thought as she gazed off down the aisles of the empty shop. Suddenly however, a little inkling of some recollection wormed into her brain.

“Mr.— Mr. Mareby-Roquefort, right?” she gave sheepishly, though utterly puzzled as she spoke. The others turned to her, a quick wash of relief apparent in their faces. That which they found relief in however was only an ocean of concern for Aster, who looked inward with great, abhorrent terror at the fact she had just recalled something that she could not at all remember experiencing.

“You shouted in his ear when answering the call, right Sylvia?” Aster again put forward with caution, looking up to see her reaction with hesitance. Sylvia closed her eyes in an expression of that great beaming, sly smile she always gave— her ever coy way of saying, “oops”. This tacit confirmation plunged Aster deep into worry, now completely cognizant of who knows how many unfamiliar memories and events she could bring to mind if she just thought on them— despite her not being consciously present for them.

What the fuck is going on? I'm sure I wasn't here for that phone call— no, I know I wasn't here for it! But then how do I know that's true? How do I know I even really remember anything leading up to this?!

“She's probably just nervous for our first interview, you know?” Marion mumbled to Cecil, who nodded in agreement. “You know how she gets about these things.”

“Aren't you nervous?” Cecil inquired of Marion, turning back to look at him.

“No, not really. Are you?”

He stared at Marion with a curious expression. “It's an interview, of course. That sort of thing is always a little nerve-wracking.”

“Eh, we'll get asked questions by some square in an oversized suit, so what?” Marion shot back, as Sylvia scurried over to Aster.

“Okay Aster, time to practice for the interview!” she exclaimed.

Donning one of Mr. Floyd's ties, which draped down near the entire length of her torso, she shuffled together a stack of invoices as she adopted an official air before Aster.

Aster was now acutely aware of the present worry which lurched over them, and offered Sylvia nothing in return but a thousand-yard stare.

“What made you all decide to form a band?” Sylvia began with a haughty voice, doing her best to furnish her wait for Aster's answer with all due seriousness.

“Uhm, we—” Aster began to immediately sputter out, her mind going blank in search of a response.

“What are the inspirations behind your songs?” Sylvia fired back, leaning in to face Aster with an even more serious affect to her expression.

“I—I don't—”

“Actually, I am pretty worried,” remarked Marion to Cecil as the two watched the girls in their mock interview.

“Don't what?!” Sylvia demanded with a sly grin, leaning now totally into Aster's face. Mr. Floyd could only help but grimace and stammer from afar as he watched Sylvia bunch together the store's yearly financial reports in between her stubby hands as her interview turned to interrogation. Aster's broken answers quickly devolved into a stream of unintelligible stuttering that was cut just short of full-on tears by the entrance of a well-dressed man.

The attention of the room turned instantly to the youthful-faced individual— an esteemed looking man who appeared to be no older than his mid-twenties. Behind him trailed an older, significantly less appealing man who carried in his mittened hands a stack of papers. The younger man's air of self-importance was inflated by his manner of dress— a sharp, immaculately well-fitted blazer that married in strong aesthetic taste to the dress shoes that he trailed the sleet of winter into the shop with. This haughty air from the start threw the denizens of the record shop into a mode of defense and slight complex of inferiority.

“Hello all!” he greeted warmly, giving a slight nod towards Mr. Floyd. “Apologies for our tardiness. If you'd only just direct me to where you'd be most comfortable we can start the interview right away!”

“Of course, of course, come right this way!” Mr. Floyd responded earnestly, motioning the group over to the worn couch and chairs of the listening corner.

Mareby-Roquefort looked on in confusion as he followed behind Sylvia, who pitter-pattered over to the sofa with Mr. Floyd's oversized tie whipping behind her. Aster took her seat in silence, her glassy gaze showing no sign of life as the rest of the group assembled around her.

Mareby-Roquefort took a seat in front of them, the gentleman in his company doing likewise. “Alright, so you are the 'Love You Forevers', correct?” he began, picking up a pen.

Aster sat unaffected by said question or visibly aware one had been asked at all. Marion covering answered in the affirmative.

“Yeah, that's us.”

“Wonderful. I'm here today to ask you some questions about the event you organized yesterday. It was the talk of the town and I'm very curious to know more—”

“I acquired all the necessary permits,” Mr. Floyd interjected as he stood to the side of them.

“Well, yes I'm sure you did,” Mareby-Roquefort replied with a courteous smile. “I'm curious however in what drove a rock 'n' roll— you all do play rock 'n' roll right?”

“Dream pop tinged neo-psychedelia,” Aster mumbled, her long gaze still unfixed on any one thing.

“Pardon?” puzzled Mareby-Roquefort.

“Dream what?” chirped Sylvia.

“Yes, we play rock 'n' roll,” Cecil gave nervously, shifting in his seat.

“Okay, my question is then, what drove a rock 'n' roll band to throw such a massive event? Why grand vandalism? Why not stick to bars—”

“As I've said before there is no conclusive proof—” began Mr. Floyd.

“Well alright, but I'm more just enamored that such an unknown group of musicians could pull off something of that scale. We were all on the other side of town gearing up to cover the first night of the Johnny Vallerie residency when we got wind of this massive festival that was taking place— in the middle of December! Can you believe that? I certainly couldn't. Who the hell would brave this cold just to see a band play? But brave it they did, and so I knew I just had to go and interview that enigmatic group of people.”

Mareby-Roquefort was almost beaming as he told the group this, yet a stark silence followed his words. Aster remained quiet and apparently catatonic as Sylvia, tie crumpling as it draped on the floor tried to covertly nudge her. Cecil shifted uncomfortably as Marion feigned a look of disinterest, gazing out through the shop windows. He noticed Mr. Floyd had taken off with a hurried gait towards the door, a vexed preoccupation apparent in his face.

“Where is he going?” Marion mumbled aghast as the silence was now fixing to a painful point.

“Uh, nobody was really booking us for shows so we made our own,” gave Cecil, finally speaking up.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Mareby-Roquefort, hurriedly jotting down into his notebook. “And it was a community effort right? You all gathered together to throw a most excellent get together, correct?”

“No, we uh, kind of didn't know what we—”

“Yeah! You should've seen all the stalls!” interjected Sylvia, taking pause on her prodding of Aster. “There were stands selling funnel cakes, cotton candy, beans!”

“Beans?” Marion interjected, baffled.

“It's not like we gave them any time to set up,” whispered Cecil back.

“Yeah! Everyone was so confused! We didn't tell them about anything, and they still did such a great job! It'll definitely teach Johnny Vallerie—”

Marion's toothpick fell to the floor as Aster's brows furled with rage at the mention of his name.

“Oh yeah! The bands too, make sure you get that down man. There were lots of local bands that we—” Marion began to dictate, placing his finger on Mareby-Roquefort's notebook.

“Wait, hold on now. Teach Johnny Vallerie what?” he asked, immensely puzzled. Cecil dropped his head into his hands as the others became dead silent, their utterly bewildered expressions stoking the intense curiosity building up within Mareby-Roquefort.

Just as he had moved to speak however, was his line of questioning split by the sudden scream of Sylvia, pointing in hurried excitement at the door. “Mr. Floyd is getting arrested!” she yelled, running out of the shop where the others quickly followed in turn.

“Lay your hands off of me!” bellowed Mr. Floyd as two officers escorted him to a police wagon waiting just outside the shop. Heads peered out of nearby apartments and stores across the street in curiosity at the commotion. Some shook in expressions of shame but most others looked not really surprised at all. The record shop group however were over themselves in astonishment at the sight of their manager in handcuffs.

“Floyd man, what's happening?!” asked Cecil as he rushed over to the wagon.

Mr. Floyd's face was as red as an apple, his curls whipping to and fro as he continued to scream at the officers as they closed the door to the wagon.

“Make sure you learn how to fight!” Sylvia screamed wildly into his window.

Floyd did not return an answer, nor even seem to acknowledge the two of them. Nor Marion, who assuaged him in less compassionate terms with intense recommendations that he “better not start talkin'”.

The cherry-faced man however was too invested in hurling insults, so focused on the depreciation of their character, that he returned not a word to them as the wagon started up and drove off, leaving the group and the two journalists behind in a cloud of exhaust and a thousand questions.

Mareby-Roquefort began to scribble away hurriedly as Marion walked after him, leaving the dazed group alone with the older man. After some seconds of silence necessitated by the events that just transpired and necessary for their digestion, he cleared his throat— and for the first time that morning, began to speak.

“In light of whatever that may have been, and perhaps more so because of it, I'd like to say I agree with Mr. Mareby-Roquefort in that you all are a pretty interesting lot. That being what it is, I would like to extend an invitation to you all to play the Cherryaire Youth Ball this coming Saturday. I think it'd be an excellent chance for you all, if you accept.”

The three of them stood in complete shock. Cecil turned inward to Sylvia and Aster, and began to whisper.

“We can't do it. We haven't had a single show that wasn't a total wreck,” he began.

“Yesterday's show was great! What are you talking about?” argued Sylvia.

“How would you know?! We couldn't even hear ourselves playing!”

“I could feel it!” she fired back in an irritated tone.

“We'll do it,” said Aster out of the blue, who Cecil and Sylvia realized had left their huddle.

“Are you serious?” mumbled Cecil as the old man clapped his hands together.

“Excellent! Excellent! We'll have the contract to you tomorrow to sign!” he exclaimed, shaking Aster and Sylvia's hand with a wide smile. Cecil had already made his way back into the store.

“A real show Aster! We're doing it!” beamed Sylvia.

“Yeah,” mumbled Aster as she watched her breath trail up into the December chill. Christmas decorations had already begun to swallow the square whole, encasing it in a sheen of winter sun upon garland and filling it with an omnipresent whisper of holidays faintly present through the flutter of ornaments and jingle bells.

The sentimental scenery only heightened that strange plastic nostalgia Aster held for this place and its people. Her heart grew warm as she watched Sylvia celebrate, and as she observed Marion continue down the street in pursuit of Mareby-Roquefort, confirmed the seriousness of her earlier vow— that no Earthly nor virtual obstacle would ever be allowed to impede the happiness that she desired.

Even if it isn't real, the feeling isn't any less sincere, is it?