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© 2008 - 2009
Paul G. Bens, Jr.
.
1994
TOAN, 27
Bibi was meeting her son at the bank, and Toan was in the back of The Sound Barrier trying to bring a little organization to the one rack of CDs the older lady had finally succumbed to carrying when the bell jingled.
"I'll be right with you," he called over the stacks. When no one answered back, he thought the only customer he'd had in two and a half hours had probably been scared away by all the mess. As he rounded one of the stalagmites, he saw a tall, thin black girl squatting in a corner, quickly flipping through what Toan had come to know as the "oldies" section--although pretty much the whole place could be called that.
Stunningly beautiful, the woman had skin nearly as light as his own and curly black hair cut stylishly close. Certainly overdressed to be crawling around this musty place, she plowed through the stacks with one hand while the other kept hold of an old thirty-three with a beautiful blonde on the cover.
"Can I help you find something?" he asked with a smile on his face.
The girl looked up, took one look at the grin on his face, and held her palm out to him. "Lesbian."
Toan didn't miss a beat, pushed his own hand forward and mocked her defensive stance. "Faggot."
"Really?"
He pushed his hair away from his eyes, slid his hands into his back pockets and nodded. "Got the free toaster for joining up and everything."
"You got a toaster?" She shook her head. "Gay guys get everything."
He laughed, crouched down to her level. "I take it you get hit on a lot."
She turned back to the blonde she was admiring, the perfect red lips and classic coif. "By everybody but women," she said with a sigh. "But, I'm not bitter."
"I'm Richard," Toan said, holding out his hand.
"Tracey." She shook his hand with a firm but feminine grip. "Where's Bibi?"
"Oh, she had an errand. I just popped in to help." Toan looked down at the record Tracey held, a first pressing of Come On-a My House.
"She grew up in my home state," he said, indicating the singer.
"Maysville, Kentucky," Tracey said. "May 23, 1928."
"Thirty-three years, B.G."
"B.G.?"
"Before George."
"You know things Clooney." Tracey crossed her arms, clearly more impressed than she sounded as a sly smirk crossed her lips. "Pretty boy factor?"
She was testing him, so he played along, shrugging it off. "He's scenic. Can't sing worth crap, though."