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AUGUST 27, 1959
MY hand collided with the record/book store door, the chime of the bell traveling through the space. My piece of shite boss grunted at me in greeting, furrowing his eyebrows at my attire.
"Is there a problem, mate?" I rose a pointed brow at him, throwing my purse behind the wobbly counter, walking around to sit behind the register. I nearly fell off the stool, forgetting one leg was shorter than the rest. I disregarded the old, rickety building, taking in the view of records and Elvis cardboard cut-outs.
"Why don't ya show some more tats, increase the sales." He winked at me, walking to the staff room, probably to fondle his sack like a twat. My mood faltered, as I was proud of my outfit choice this morning. A cream colored sweater, plaid mini skirt with a belt, and my Doc Martens. I only tucked in the front part of my sweater, just enough to show the belt buckle. It was the little things I did with my wardrobe that earned me looks on the street.
I flipped a bird at his back, huffing while pulling out a book to read. The only thing to keep me from screaming was the charm of Mr. Gatsby.
Thinking rather than reading, I came to an obvious conclusion: I'm going to fucking quit. I'm meeting with a potential roommate today, I can survive off of toast and tea for a little while.
The chime of the bell broke me from my thoughts. I glanced up quickly to see two messy teddy-boy haircuts, and leather jackets.
"Welcome to records and shit. Can I fucking help you with anything?" The two boys looked at me, mouths agape.
"Oi, are you aloud to swear like that?" I put my book down to look at the speaker. A chubby-cheeked, doe-eyed boy looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"I'm giving me weeks notice, I'm quitin'," I explained. My boss would never fire me, I'm the only one stupid enough to have applied here.
"Isn't supposed to be a two week's notice?" The slightly shorter, skinny faced boy spoke up with an amused smirk.
"My boss wouldn't know Beethoven from Elvis," I stated with a smile.
"Are you American? Your teeth are quite fab. I'd love to see what that fab mouth of yours could do," Chubby-cheeks flirted, with one eyebrow furrowed, dawning a small smirk.
"Do I fuckin' sound American?" I mocked his facial expression, ignoring his flirtatious remark that made my heart try to jump one beat out of my chest, which either annoyed him or amused him. "So why did you blokes come to the grand record store?"
"We're in a band," Chubby-cheeks spoke with a smirk. He looked at me expectantly, like I was supposed to jump on his cock right then and there. A dry laugh ran from my mouth.
"So is every teddy-boy that walks in here. Sorry boys, but we can't sell your records, can't sponsee you, and can't give you discounts. All we can do is let you put up a poster." My arms leaned on the countertop.
