Broken Carts ✔️

Aisle 10: Anthem

Any worries I had about post-weekend awkwardness melted as soon as I walked in the door of the apartment. Ezra and Lynette were in a heated argument about which record to blast so they could properly annoy their upstairs neighbor, and they asked for help making the decision. I flipped through their box of vinyl as they loomed over me, watching.

"He's not gonna know anything," said Lynette. She sipped her beer, scowling judgmentally.

Ezra chuckled. "Give him a chance."

"Oh, Elliott Smith!" I said excitedly, pointing to an album I'd found in the box. "That's that one guy... the sad guy. And I know this one, Manchester Orchestra, they have that song about friends or whatever. Then this band, FIDLAR... don't they make angry music about getting drunk and doing heroin?"

Ezra smirked at Lynette, who seemed pleasantly surprised. "See? I'm rubbing off on him."

"Hand me FIDLAR, I forgot we had that," Lynette said. I passed it up and she ran her fingers over the graffiti-laden cover art. "This is the album we use to piss off the neighbors. Settled?" she asked Ezra.

"Hell yeah. Queue that shit, baby."

"Wait," I said, jogging over to the fridge. "I have a last-minute entry."

"Is it hiding in the vegetable drawer?" asked Lynette.

"No, I need a drink before I willingly embarrass myself."

After downing half a beer, I hooked my phone up to the speakers and unapologetically blasted a DJ HighLo classic. I prepared to cringe through every awkward transition and failed bass drop; as the track began, however, Ezra offered his hand to Lynette, who accepted the unspoken invitation to grind against his leg.

I laughed, and they danced their hearts out, and through the din of unharmonious synths, I could understand why they'd started dancing. Maybe, just maybe, there was something salvageable in what I'd previously deemed as amateur.

"Play another," urged Lynette as the music faded to static.

I shook my head. "That's the only one I have on my phone."

"Fuck, then let's make another. What kind of technology do you need? Like, GarageBand?"

"GarageBand works alright in a pinch, but–"

There were no buts. Ezra fetched his computer, loaded up GarageBand, and Lynette talked endlessly about how we were going to form a lo-fi indie band and take over the underground scene. We only got fifteen seconds into our first hit single– a feat which took nearly two hours to complete– before we got sidetracked, giggling at the application's pre-installed sound effects.

Lynette passed out on the couch soon after, apparently exhausted from texting Millie into the wee hours of the previous morning. Ezra and I stayed up talking about everything except the weekend. It was almost like he was purposely avoiding the topic– not that I minded, considering I wouldn't have anything to say about it except "I appreciated the public blowjob, bro, but you confuse the shit out of me."

Just when I thought the lull in the conversation and the look in his eyes meant something deeper, he threw me for a loop. "All this talk about writing songs has got me thinking," he said, tapping on the side of his beer. "Shit, I gotta find something."

He led the way to his room. It felt warm; foreign, but warm. The only decorations on his walls were two dirty mirrors and a bent-up, signed poster of some band I didn't know. I sat on his bed, gazing around the room as he shuffled through a box hidden under the desk in the corner. Feeling my buzz shift into light drowsiness, I leaned back and noticed a few pieces of paper taped to the ceiling.