The Waiting Place
Dan Houser
Published by Dan Houser at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Dan Houser
“We must talk, you never telephone, get eaten off the web,
We must rip out all the epilogues from the books that we have read.
And in the face of every criminal strapped firmly to a chair,
We must stare, we must stare, we must stare.”
- “At the Bottom of Everything”, Bright Eyes
One: “The Complex”, Bradley
-1-
Walter Gamble wondered how he ended up in such a place. Staring off into space, it occurred to him that working in this record shop, named ‘The Complex’, seemed to be the last thing in the world he’d have done ten years back. In his twenties, he disliked music, to be perfectly honest. Walter simply had no use for it, as he felt a little left out of conversations over bands and styles of music. Music filled his childhood, the pop sounds of the early Beatles, and the southern blended rock of Creedence Clearwater Revival. Through his childhood, the other kids would be up on what the latest and greatest sound on the radio was, and this perplexed him. It was only music, after all.
His current job being the height of pretense in his mind was nothing compared to his last job, that of an actual nightclub DJ. The audacity of someone like Walter being a DJ was borderline blasphemous to anyone who knew him. However, that job changed Walter’s view on music and his taste in music as well. It was as if someone turned his head to look out of the proverbial cave, and he saw the entire world painted with the shimmering colors of music. He found himself getting in on conversations with people about music, giving his opinion of the newest artists, most of who seemed to be clones of underground music he liked.
Walter loved revealing the underground source of bands to people he would meet. He would find himself mourning the loss of an underground artist with his hipster friends occasionally. One who gained some popularity, simply because whoever thought that the band was ready for the mainstream found a way to distill the band down into hooks and choruses, and strip away the soul. Walter could not blame a band for selling out, though. If anyone waved hundreds of thousands of dollars in his face, he would take it and not look back. Compromise seemed to be the currency of the modern world, and Walter resigned himself to this fact. Even with this pragmatic understanding, Walter still mourned the loss of an artist’s unique view from time to time when he was all alone.
Thirty, and Walter was looking back. Now, he wondered whether something supernatural had occurred without him knowing. His entire personality seemed to have changed when he embraced music. Thinking about it this way gave him a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he’d thought of this before in a dream. It helped him immensely in passing the time at the store, too. A pastime was something he needed desperately. He hadn’t seen another living soul in over six weeks.
-2-
It wasn’t just customers Walter hadn’t seen. No one on the streets, either. After the second week, Walter grew bold enough to peer into windows of homes and knock on doors. Nothing sounds as empty as the rapping on a door on a street with no traffic. Walter’s own hands made the soundtrack for his life, the hollow rap of knuckles on wood, knuckles on metal, knuckles on glass. Walter would call out for people occasionally. The sound of his own voice struck his ears as tinny and bleating, and the clip of his footsteps on the pavement did not linger, simply falling flat in the still air. No birds in the sky either.
He wandered around the town of Bradley, trying doors, and wandering into shops in the second week. He felt strangely exposed, but never found a newspaper explaining the absence of everyone. Walter tried television. If a station ran on computers, the programming continued. The news never played, though, and no emergency broadcast network messages explained the absence of everyone. Walter tried every phone number in the book one weekend, and no one answered. This only proved that there wasn’t anyone in Bradley.
On Saturday of the second week, Walter decided that the absence of people was not going to stop him from living his life, and so returned to The Complex to wait for a customer. Or anybody, for that matter.
Electricity still worked, so the lights were on, the sign burning through the night. He hoped, too, that the music would be a beacon to anyone who would have been like him, peering into shops, rapping on doors, and wondering where everyone was. Walter could not have been happier over these weeks, as being alone was never a problem for him. His mind finally had nothing to worry it, none of the constructs of the world to keep him occupied until he was dead. No more bills, no more bad food, no more bad music, no more bad anything. Then, his mind turned over the possibility that everyone left without telling him.
While Walter did not mind being alone, treasured time to himself, the thought of being left out of the most significant occurrence in the history of man blanketed him with hollow melancholy. He had not said a word in a week and wondered if it was the mindset that allowed monks to go an entire lifetime without speaking.
The world was turning. Walter came into work, walking the four miles or so from his home, simply taking time to stop and enjoy the breeze if there was one or the warmth of the sun if it was out. Walking seemed to make him feel closer with the world; it put him back into a groove worth circuiting. The next week passed without much in the way of events, Walter spending most of his time re-organizing the cds in the store, or simply playing music he’d never liked before to find the notes or turn of phrase that allowed someone to make these artists popular to someone else.
Often, Walter would find that there were one or two songs that retained the artists’ true vision without compromise for what would be ‘popular’ on each album. Incredibly funny, that. Right now, he, Walter Gamble, decided what was popular or not, being the sole member of the populace. Vaguely, the notion of taking his favorite Cds and playing them at a radio station for all to hear occurred to him. However, he hung about the store, reorganizing music and playing whatever he chose over the sound system.
The store used to be a pharmacy at one point, but the current owner decided to make another foray into the record business. He painted the racks and the walls a flat matte black. What resulted was that the employees in the store stood a full foot above the customers. Walter thought this height advantage gave the employees an inflated ego about music, and knowing what was good and what was shit. Every employee had their own tastes, but often, Walter found that people latched onto what their friends thought was good. Walter wondered whom the alpha people were, determining the popular sound, considering all the shit that used to be out there making a profit.
Walter himself was directed toward music by his mentor in the DJ-ing field, who let him in on the ‘sound’ of music, the ephemeral quality that places music into genres. Knowing that sound made or broke a DJ, he found. Walter liked lonely songs, he liked songs with an aggressive edge, and loved jazz for its wildness, its improvisation. Walter would offer suggestions to customers based on his own tastes and their purchases. Often, he could help them find new and interesting music they would have otherwise overlooked.
The door to the store was a glass entryway, made of two metal framed glass doubles that were plastered with music posters; a huge calendar of new releases for DVD and Cds that were soon to be released. There wasn’t a bell on the door, but it creaked like a coffin lid when opened and squealed like a rat when coming to a close. The interior was filled with bins of music, from 50 Cent to Billie Holliday, to Daft Punk and The Flaming Lips.
On that day, a Monday in late September, Walter had walked to work, and in his hand was an album he found amongst the new releases (the last new releases of this age, he supposed, and felt the weight of pretension haunting that thought). Walter head into the store and walked behind the counter. Turning on the CD player, he put the disc in the tray and pressed play. The pulse of the music filled the store, and he wandered into the stacks and began putting compact discs in order.
Walter spent the better part of the morning re-organizing music.
“Ree-Eeeent.” the door groaned as it opened, letting sunlight stream in around its borders.
-3-
She walked into the store, a puzzled look on her face that was immediately recognizable to Walter. Walter had looked like that for six weeks now. Her hair was a faded chestnut color and straight, falling around her face and straight to her shoulders. She was wearing a long cotton slip under a nightie which brushed the floor. The nightie wasn’t ratty, but the bottom and her feet were blackened by walking down the road. The music in the store flit and lilted over their heads, bearing down on both the girl and Walter. Their eyes met as she looked up at the counter, behind which Walter was looking through cds and taking the security casings off. Finally, Walter noticed the girl with a start.
“Do you need some help?” Walter said, looking down at her, and coming up with the only question he could think of.
“You…ah…work here?” she replied to him asking another question. Walter thought it over for a second.
Walter said, “No--Yes. Is there something I can do for you?” Walter seemed to be on solid ground now, establishing the customer’s needs and determining how best to help them. God, had he been brainwashed. Her eyes were haunting, also faded chestnut and locked onto his. Walter stared at her for a moment as she drank him in with furious curiosity. Finally she smiled, and Walter felt something in his stomach stir.
“Yeah…do you have a bathroom?”, she said.
“It’s for employees only.” he said, “I don’t think that matters now. It’s back here.”
“Thanks.” she said and followed as he walked through the store toward the rear area where they kept the DVDs. Walter wasn’t exactly unkempt, but his wild tangle of hair on top was overgrown because of his solitude, and his clothing was a simple black shirt with a white logo reading “give up.” and a pair of black pants. He motioned to the door, and nodded, slightly embarrassed.
“Thanks.” she said again. Walter stood outside the door, hovering and glancing at the door.
From inside the bathroom the girl said, “What is this that’s playing?”
“The Arcade Fire, 7 Kettles.” Walter said. He shifted his weight a bit. He did like when people asked him that question. As if he’d provided them with a nice surprise in an otherwise boring day.
“It sounds very…appropriate.” she said.
The door opened after a bit and bumped into him. He blushed and the door stood between them.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn‘t--” Walter said.
“It’s ok. It’s sweet.” she said, seemingly relieved that he was still there as well, standing guard.
“I just, it’s that…Well, I thought I might have hallucinated you.”
“I know what you mean,” she said, “I haven’t seen any people for weeks.”
She closed the door, and Walter led her back up through the store. The disc shuffled the tracks and another tune began playing. As simply as the girl entered the store, Walter accepted her existence as real. He walked behind the counter, putting that artificial barrier between him and her again to put him back on familiar footing. She sat down on the small stoop in front of the counter, looking through Cds.
“Would you like a shirt?” Walter asked. He tossed a promotional t-shirt over the counter of a band he’d never heard of before. She grabbed it, and slipped it over her head.
“Got any pants?” She joked, and looked down at the writing, smiling.
“Ah, no.” Walter said. He grinned down to her.
The music filled the silence between them. For a while they enjoyed the song, and she stood up and smiled at him.
“My name’s Jen.” she said, offering her hand. Walter reached out and took it, shook it, and felt himself reluctant to let it go. They both locked gazes for a moment, and the stirring in his stomach felt like wet sheets rolling in the washer.
“Walter.” Walter said, wishing he’d said something else. He let go, and so did she. The hands came apart like magnets being pulled, silent stutter of energy lost.
“What did you mean before?” she asked, walking around the store. Walter cocked his head.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“When I asked if you worked here, you said ‘no’. Were you trying to be cryptic?” she said laughing a little as she called back to him.
“No! Well, see…I was fired about six weeks ago.” Walter said. His voice was a little quieter, and again Walter was on unfamiliar ground.
-4-
Walter stepped out of his car, and wandered up the walk to the store. Today was a shipment, which meant a shitload of busywork and labeling, all of which would have been easier if the owner would make the move to a computer-based database. Everyone complained about it to Sadie, the general manager, and her constant reply was invariably ‘Too Expensive’. A computer would have solved a litany of stupid problems with the store. Not major things, but time wasting things. Inventory would be easier for one. Now, everything was counted by hand. Which meant on shipment day, you had to count all the new releases and all of the other shit that came in too. By hand. Walter was sure that just computerizing the inventory would save loads of time.
The door opened “Reee-eeeenk.” and the door’s sounding like a coffin immediately made him wonder if this job wasn’t just nickel and diming his fucking life away.
Crappy pop music greeted him as he entered the store, and his manager immediately came around the counter. Becky handed him a slip of paper, and asked him to come into the office with her. He followed, and the pit of his stomach dropped out of him. He could feel the hand of ‘bad things’ dropping onto his shoulder. Walter sat down in the shoddy plastic chair of the office, and Becky, dressed in her business casual plopped into the chair across from him.
“I hate to have to do this, but we’re letting you go.” Becky said, pushing a small stack of papers across to Walter. Becky looked genuinely saddened. Walter found it curious that when you’re let go, the people you’ve come to know as friends become ‘we’ and you are left as ‘you’.
Dumbstruck. Horror. All of these things occurred to Walter to feel about this, but relief settled over it all. Finally, the other shoe dropped. The world, once again in balance, began to turn again. Once again, Walter’s luck ran true to form.
“Sadie called me during our shift yesterday and told me to do it.”
“It’s okay…What the hell, though? What’s the reason?” Walter asked, deciding to not make it easy on anyone. Becky shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Often Walter’s candor was off-putting because he was direct about questioning the arbitrary reasons given him in life.
“She said to put ‘Not working out’ on the slip.” Becky said. Walter nodded absently as he signed his walking papers. Walter left the store, got into his car, drove home, and had a fitful sleep that night in his small apartment. He mulled over what in the hell it could possibly mean before he went to bed. He wondered why he felt so relieved.
The next morning, Walter returned to the store to get his final paycheck. Walking up to the door and finding it slightly open was a bit odd. When he went in, no sound greeted him. There wasn’t music playing and all of the lights were on. Walter wandered the store, saying ‘Hello’, and looking for his co-workers. Walter left after finding no one and shrugging to himself. He walked down the road, and noticed the Taco Bell was closed too. Or, simply unmanned.
Walter returned later in the day and still, no one. No traffic, nothing. It was then that it dawned on him there weren’t any other people anywhere. He kept coming in, and the weeks melted away.
-5-
“Not working out?! What the fuck does that mean?!” Jen said, laughing.
“I know!” Walter said, “It’s as if they were breaking up with me, not firing me. They might have well put ‘It’s not you, it’s us’ on the fucking thing. Well, after I noticed there wasn’t anyone around anymore, I just came in and played some music. They have a hell of a sound system.”
Jen laughed. “Yeah, I suppose.” She got up from the stoop and looked around the store. “So, is this your cathartic release? To just stick it to them, and keep coming in?”
“Well, there’s that.” said Walter, “Also, there was a chance we might get a customer, and no matter how fucked up the management is, I’d feel terrible if someone broke the windows or something. Is that weird?”
Looking up at him, smiling at the corners of her mouth Jen said, “Yes.”
Walter laughed, and it felt bright and real and better than he’d felt in months, let alone this long stretch of loneliness. He looked down at the stack of unpackaged Cds on the counter and took another look around himself. What was he doing here? He couldn’t put a finger on exactly why being here made him feel both happy and sad at the same time. Looking at Jen, he realized the truth of their situation.