Page 17 of Dirty Chorus

“Gramps... I’m twenty-one.”

“Listen, son.”

“I’m not going back to school to get a diploma,” I say with the grimness lingering at the tip of my tongue. This conversation has been brought up three times this week, and I fear he’s forgetting we already discussed this in-depth each time.

“I know what happened with your mom hurt you as a kid. You were so ready, bags packed and everything, happy to move back in with her... but...”

I raise a hand, cutting him short. “Stop, I don’t regret anything.” I stare at my reflection in my cup of tea.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up about getting signed by a label, and then it doesn’t work out. People will respect you running the store if you get your diploma,” he says.

“Yeah...” I tap my fingers around the handle of my mug.

Smokey Vinyl, the little record store, is right below us and the man sitting across from me opened it in the early seventies when vinyl was still rather popular. The store has become almost like a pawnshop for music over the past decade. We buy and sell music in good condition, but no one wants a cassette tape stained with cigarette smoke. Most music junkies stream instead of adding to their collection of scratched-up CDs. When someone comes in with all of their videotapes of old Disney movies, I have to be the bearer of bad news: we won’t take them. Goodwill is just around the corner.

Sales have tanked recently, and we are going to end up like Blockbuster with our windows boarded, and the only memory of us will be the sun-bleached sign hanging above the front door. I have only one other employee working part-time because I can’t afford to hire anyone. Gramps doesn’t realize that because I don’t let him see the monthly invoices. I’ve been chewing my nails at night, knowing if we don’t make sales soon, we’ll have to close it for good.

“You could go to college too,” he mentions.

I lick my lips, and they're dry, sticking together. “I want to be on stage. That’s what feels right.”

“I know you do. You’ve always been good at singing at church.” His hand trembles as he brings the cup back to his lips.

“I know you want to help me, but Wolves in Sheep’s Skin is gaining followers. It’s not some pipe dream. All I have to do is finish this demo. The record label Metal Blade is thinking about picking us up.”

Gramps trembles, taking another sip of his tea. He can barely hold the cup’s weight as it sloshes back and forth. “You should still get your diploma. I’d feel more comfortable if you get it done.”

I fill my lungs with a painful breath as I say, “I’ll think about it.”

His face lights up, and he changes the subject. He starts telling me the same story as last night. He used to work in a steel mill in his early twenties, and when he was walking home, he was robbed at gunpoint. Gramps complimented him on his gun, but mentioned his was bigger. Yeah, the other guy took off.

We chat until the tea is gone, and by that time, it’s getting close to two in the morning, and I can see the tired ache in his eyes. I helped him get cleaned up and changed for bed.

When I finally get a chance to lie down and start my nightly death scrolling, a text message from Trouble pops up.

Trouble: Thanks for tonight

Noah: You deserve better

Trouble: Sometimes I don’t feel like it. Guys always treat me this way.

Noah: Not all guys act like that. You just need to be around different people.

Trouble: Well, I look forward to seeing your band play.

Noah: I’ll see you then. I’m gonna head to bed.

Chapter 12

Charlie

Brody: Can we talk?

Charlie: Why? I have nothing to say.

Brody: I was drunk.

Charlie: Congratulations