In the year 2002, four twenty-something-year-olds attempt to navigate their surroundings in New York City while getting drawn into a culture of drugs, glamor, and violence.
At the same time, an old bookstore clerk struggles to overcome grief, until...
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Raoul's Records is full of music geeks.
From rebellious punks explored The Doors and Circle Jerks; peaceful hipsters shimmy their way towards the shelves to find rare Fleetwood Mac and Jimi Hendrix albums, while old-schoolers get into another heated debate about LL Cool J. Employees help customers pick out vinyl records and mixtapes, whereas Matt paces in his office, like a madman.
His hand drenches his Nokia cellphone in sweat. His teeth gnaw on his chapped lips until Matt tastes the blood in his mouth. Ever since Callie's father called Matt, he has been trying to contact his wide. He knows Callie is doing a project with her friends, but Matt needs to tell her about the unexpected call because he hates lying to her.
"352-919-2242," Matt grumbles for the twentieth time.
After jabbing the keys with his sore fingers, Matt prays for Callie to pick up the phone. He jabs his sore index finger on the buttons then presses his ear on the phone's speakers. The incessant ringing continues until Callie's gentle tone calms him down.
"Hi, honey." she greets awkwardly. "I am so sorry I haven't picked up the phone, my friends and I were doing our project at MoMA when-"
"Your father called me." Matt blurted.
A long, uneasy silence came from the other end of the phone. Kids' laughter and weird slang seep into his eardrums. Clicking heels, flirty accents, and cheesy jokes exchange amongst people until his wife's urgent tone startled him.
"When did he call you?" she demanded.
"Well, he called right after you left," said Matt. "He told some shit about cleaning up his act and all. I thought it was bullshit."
Callie's angry voice wanes into a scared whisper.
"Jesus Christ, I thought I fucking blocked his contacts."
"Callie—"
"I never told him where I live!" Callie cried. "How did he get our phone number?"
Matt massages his eyelids and picks up the picture frame off of his desk. He stares at the old wedding photo of him and Callie standing behind Holden's beautiful mansion.
He borrowed one of Holden's old suits and a pair of his favorite Addidas sneakers, while Callie wears a white strapless gown with a veil shimmering down her back. Her hair is in luscious ringlets. Long, sleek eyelashes stretch like wings. Though she wore an uneasy smile, Matt believes Callie is an angel sent from heaven.
"Baby," Matt mutters. "Don't freak out, I believe you."
As the background noise dwindles, Callie releases a relieved sigh. She thanks him for being patient and apologizes for her behavior.
"I am sorry you had to talk to that asshole," she tells Matt. "I never expected him-"
"Hey, don't sweat it," Matt reassures in a casual tone. "Just finish your project and I'll see you tonight."
