Showbiz

“What is she doing?” Cecil asked with slight annoyance as he watched Aster fiddle with a two-track recorder she had found up in the shop's attic.

“Making a 'sound collage' or somethin', she said,” Sylvia gave innocently as the two carefully observed her trying to figure the machine out.

What the fuck is all this? Aster thought to herself in horror as she fumbled with a reel of tape which spooled out onto the floor in a pile. A flash of crimson overtook her face as she looked back and noticed that Cecil and Sylvia were watching, the latter of whom looked quickly away with a sly smile, which only caused Aster to grow even more flushed.

Goddammit, what if he calls while I'm fucking with this?! she thought to herself in a panic. She wiped at her burgeoning tears ever so slightly, trying to avoid Cecil and Sylvia's notice as she kept her eyes glued to the phone.

Cecil, no longer finding much interest in Aster's woe at present, leaned back in his chair before the register, rubbing at his eyes as he attempted to catch a moment's break now that store had finally closed.

Johnny Vallerie's single had finally completed the momentous climb to number one on the charts that day and the store, left without Mr. Floyd's stewardship, had barely managed to contain the onslaught of holiday shoppers frothing at the mouth for the chart's hottest new song— a demand rendered especially violent by the personal tie-in to his own store Mr. Floyd had bartered with Johnny Vallerie.

Such demand was unheard of at the small shop— dwarfing even the mayhem which ushered in Aster's first day of employment all those weeks ago. So sought-after was the single that for the entire day the shop operated with a line which wound out of it and queued in front of the neighboring stores, much to the shopkeepers' delight.

Aster, kept at bay by the giant, garish, life-sized cutout of Johnny Vallerie that stood in the windows and directly in front of the register, chose to watch the havoc in the wings of the store with a daylong scowl as she tried her best to keep the store's inventory from completely and utterly collapsing under the march of the yuletide militia of parents. Sylvia somehow managed to retain her otherworldly burst of exuberance in the face of it all, fueled brightly by the forthcoming Christmas spirit, but Cecil was considered a casualty.

“How is that ass going to leave us with this?” he groaned.

Sylvia and Aster did not answer, themselves preoccupied with recuperating by the warmth of the listening corner's fireplace.

Suddenly, the sound of the shop door unlocking caught their attention.

“Cecil! Cecil!” yelled Sylvia as the door swung open.

Cecil opened his eyes in irritation as Sylvia's outburst and a sudden gust of freezing cold put on hold his long awaited attempt at rest.

“Sylvia, can I just—”

He saw before him the shop's door swinging against the gale of the blizzard outside, nothing but pitch black darkness apparent.

“What the fuck?”

“Mr. Floyd?!”

Cecil sat up in his chair, squinting. With a howl of ind the harbor of night was suddenly marked sheer white by a swirling winter storm which churned outside, through which a curtain of snow then opened for their wild-eyed, red-haired guest.

“You've got to be kidding me,” groaned Cecil as Sísí came into focus, and entered the shop. Sísí flashed a mischievous smile, reams of snow covered fabric in hand.

“Mr. Floyd has sent me,” she replied.

“Mr. Floyd?! How is he Sísí?!” exclaimed Sylvia.

“Wait, yeah— you spoke to him?” added Cecil in astonishment.

“I haven't known him long, but I do know I have never seen him in a worse off state,” she gave bluntly, to which Sylvia recoiled in horror.

“Aster, I told him to fight!” she exclaimed, grabbing at Aster's dress as Sísí began to unpack that which she had brought.

Cecil glanced down to see a set of white uniforms, each frilled at the collar and complete with a red tie and beret.

“What are those?” he asked with total apprehension and a tone of someone who hoped just his denial could change what answer he knew was about to come.

“You need to have a consistent look,” she stated simply, holding up one of the uniforms before Cecil as she sized it up in her eyes. “Appearing on stage ragtag in whatever dress you please is not going to help you if you really wish to succeed.”

“A successful band is a successful product,” Aster mumbled.

Sísí turned to face her, her teeth shining through a sly smile as Aster avoided eye contact.

“Exactly. I was sent here with Mr. Floyd's wishes that you four would become properly professional before the ball.”

“But is he ok?!” Sylvia again exclaimed.

Sísí handed Sylvia a beret and outfit, giving no acknowledgement at first to her worry.

She stared at Sylvia a moment, who hesitantly received the outfit. Sísí's soft, aesthetic face showed no indication, positive or negative, towards the tone of what was to be her reply.

The wind howling outside shook at the rafters as the moment etched on, Sylvia appearing to deflate into a lump of worry at every passing second.

“...Mr. Floyd is alive,” she finally gave, handing Aster her outfit.

“Sísí, cut the bull crap, what's up with Floyd? Is he getting out or what? I can't run this place myself,” interjected Cecil, growing irritated at both Sísí's aloofness and the sight of both Aster and Sylvia with berets.

Sylvia continued to look towards her with great sadness and apprehension.

“Mr. Floyd is in— an agreeable state,” she replied, continuing to work on their outfits.

“But what does that mean Sísí? Is he going to prison or what?!” Cecil pleaded.

“—More than just outfits, I think we should all be distinct in our characters as well,” Aster put forth sheepishly. “People should be able to easily identify us. A strong connection would sell more records,” she continued as Sísí nodded her head.

“You have good ideas,” remarked Sísí, who now excitedly turned her attention towards Aster. Aster looked towards the ground as Sísí began to ramble on about which personalities would be most interesting, and which fit each member.

Aster took great mutual interest in this discussion and began to slowly fix her gaze from the floor towards Sísí in slow increments, as Cecil bemoaned every point of their talk.

“Why don't we just act the way we are?”

“Because actual personalities aren't colorful enough,” argued Aster.

“What nihilistic shit are you reading?” replied Cecil incredulously.

“Marion is the bad boy. Aster is the mysterious one. Cecil is the angry one,” gave Sylvia impishly as Cecil shot daggers in her direction.

“Yeah, exactly like that Sylvia. Everybody needs a role,” replied Aster as the phone rang.

Without allowing a second to pass Aster's head whipped around to look at the rotary shaking in its frame, quickly dashing over to start the two-track recorder.

Her hands shook just slight of violently as she fumbled to start the archaic device, clumsily placing the receiver against her ear.

“Hello?” she stuttered, her eyes going wide as she received her answer.

“What, is someone there?” asked Cecil with a confused look.

Aster turned, her expression one of complete shock, and answered him with a slight nod.

—

In much the same fashion as Sísí's entrance, the winter storm, now turned to a fever pitch, obscured their second guest until they had just stepped through the doorway, upon which Cecil groaned audibly.

It was none other than Eugene, manager of the Cherubs, holding in his arms not garments, but two large crates of seven-inch single records.

“The Cherubs' debut single,” he announced proudly, setting the crates down before the register. “Your store is such a hot ticket right now it was only a matter-of-fact you'd get some of the first pressings!” he stated, looking over at the life-sized cut out of Johnny Vallerie as he spoke.

“Is it any good?” mused Cecil as he held one up, grimacing at the four men clad in suits on the cover.

“Is it any good? It's absolutely fantastic! And I say that not just as their manager, believe me,” he replied warmly. “Go on, go on. Throw one on for yourself!” he continued, beckoning Sylvia over to the listening corner with a copy.

“What's with the suits though?” Cecil asked, hardly able to contain his distaste.

“Have to look professional of course. What parent is going to let their kid buy a record with a bunch of leather jacket clad punks on it, you know?” he replied, to which Sísí and Aster looked at Cecil with much self-satisfaction.

“I think it looks square honestly. Very stiff,” he said, frowning.

“Well, there's a reason you're no longer part of the band, isn't there?” Eugene gave sharply, his off-putting smile contrasting the bitter look of silent rage which suddenly fell over Cecil.

“I'll return with more once these sell-out. Make sure to give me a call when that happens,” he said, waving the group goodbye as he made his way back out into the storm.

Cecil had quickly departed for the storeroom where Sísí and Sylvia followed in tow after locking the door behind Eugene. Aster, left alone in the storefront, inevitably followed as well.

“Motherfucker,” growled Cecil, throwing on his coat.

“Does he really get to you that easily?” asked Sísí, who stood arms crossed beside the storeroom door. “What happened to going on for ages about how talentless and inconsequential he was? How it didn't bother you because he 'couldn't see past a checkbook?'”

Sísí looked on at Cecil with a stern glint in her eyes, the severity of which caused him to halt his exit and take a seat on a nearby chair.

“Is it embarrassment? They're your bandmates, you might as well tell them now,” Sísí recommended.

Aster and Sylvia stood adjacent to Sísí on the other side of the door. They shuffled and fidgeted in silence, the air fraught with the uncomfortable tension of knowing one was audience to a discussion they should not be part of.

Aster especially had little skill in dealing with most any sort of social situation, let alone moments as awkward as this.

“Yeah, Sísí's right. Don't let a jerk like that get you down Cecil. You never have a problem telling us off!” Sylvia finally gave, trying to cheer him up.

Cecil did not smirk as Sylvia had hoped, nor snap at her slight sarcasm as was her backup plan. He instead sulked forward in his seat, resting his head between his hands.

After a few seconds, he began to speak.

“—I had a chance to join the Cherubs when they were forming. Well, actually I was in the band for a moment, up until right before the first show. Then Eugene— who was this cool cat a couple guys in the band knew who hung around our rehearsals— suddenly made himself manager. 'Rock and roll bands don't need a pianist,' he told me, and kicked me out of the band. I'd known those guys for years, but not one of them defended me.”

Cecil's grim countenance made eye contact with no one as he recited his tale to the floor, strewn with vinyl covers adorned with Johnny Vallerie's face.

“—What a fucking jackass,” Aster suddenly gave, much to the great surprise and mischievous smiles of Sylvia and Sísí.

“No forreal, fuck him. You'd be going nowhere with him,” she continued, growing visibly angry. “Pieces of shit like that solely exist for following a profit, regardless of the damage they leave in their wake. So don't you sit there and take that shit. You fucking work and make them regret losing you.”

Whipped up by a storm of her own vicarious vitriol and fury, Aster began to take steps towards Cecil without realizing it. Her large eyebrows trembling, she leaned in and looked him in the eye. “You're only going to succeed by making them regret. Can you do that?”

The room fell once more silent as Aster backed away.

Cecil was visibly shocked. The tiny, sullen girl had hardly spoken more than a few words with him or anybody outside of Sylvia. Yet, the fury and rage that emanated out of her voice, the mannerisms that etched a respect for the total genuine and well-worn scorn of which she seemed to speak hung Cecil entirely to every word that she said.

He stood stupefied at his inability to articulate any sort of response, before he could finally stumble out an affirmative nod.

“Then let's do the best that we can at the ball. Make them victims of your success.”

Aster's fire-laden sun-streaks for eyes locked with Cecil's once more, before the sudden ring of the phone tore her gaze away from him.

In an instant, Aster bolted into the shop front, her fingers fumbling for the recording button on the two-track recorder.

“Hello?” she stuttered, clamoring for breath.

“Hello? This is Childress Records, right? Who am I speaking to?”

Aster froze, heart stopping. Her blood ran cold, recognizing the voice that waited on the other line.

“—This is Aster, from the Love You Forevers.”

“Ah yeah, that presumptuous, self-important looking bitch, right? Yeah, I remember you. Hey look, Aster, I don't really appreciate your little fucking show you all threw yesterday. What are you trying to do, make me look like a fucking fool? You should remember that it was your manager who signed the contract. Your manager was responsible for reading it. It's on you for hiring a dumbass—”

“You stole my fucking song—”

“And? That's fuckin' showbiz, babe. Don't kid yourself, you couldn't have done that song justice if you tried. You're lucky you had me to see it through. It's number one on the charts right now, you know. I got your song to number one—“

Aster gripped the receiver, the sound of its plastic housing creaking audible in her ear. Sylvia, Cecil, and Sísí, curious as to the commotion, were now poking their heads through the door.

“You listen HERE you stupid fuck. Your washed up ass couldn't deliver a fucking hit if it bit you on the ass. The sole reason you're worth anything to anybody is because of my song, you hear?! If any other band had backed you they'd hear you for what you truly are— a weak little bum note in the cacophony of wannabe stars who only ever manage a pathetic little gasp before fading into nothing. The fact my song was good enough to put your disgusting ass into the minds of anyone is—”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you conceited bitch? You think this is a joke? Do you think you can speak to me like this because you can hum a tune? This isn't a game, kid. Do not do anything like this ever again. Leave the business in the band to the two guys and maybe you can sell a few records with that pretty face of yours— if you ever drop that fucking scowl. Maybe then you'll have enough to buy a few of my records.”

Aster heard the line click.

“...Aster? Is everything alright?” Sylvia asked.

Aster stood teary-eyed, trembling violently with the receiver in hand.

The storm outside raged on audibly as the dial-tone bled out into the room.