STORMS // Sam Kiszka

one

Chapter One.

2018

She took her cardigan off, sweating in the heat of summer in Michigan. It was only 17 degrees, yet that was bordering on a heat stroke for Eliza Docherty, as her northern roots proved a struggle against anything classified as warmth. She gazed around the record store that was tinted with a retro glaze, the air in front of her being swarmed by a lemongrass incense that she like to light whenever she was in charge for the day. Her boss, a withering man with a strong Italian accent and who smoked a cigar for every second of the day, had gone out. He trusted Eliza to look after the shop, for it was always very quiet. 

She sat engulfed on Instagram; her chin propped up by her hand. Today it seemed as though the whole city of Flint was abandoned; nobody came into the store, no one even walked past. It was going to be an unhurried, ordinary Thursday. Eliza enjoyed leisurely days like today when no one could disturb her peace, especially since she wasn't the easiest to talk to, always stumbling over her words and making a fool of herself. It was easier for her to just be polite and move on.

She sighed, looking around at the posters and records hanging from the red brick walls then turning her view back to the windows where, still, there didn't seem to be a person in sight. The girl smiled slightly. In moments of tranquility like this, when she knew no one else was around, all Eliza Docherty could do was put on her favourite songs and dance around like an idiot- while sorting records, of course since she was there to work after all. Good music made her feel euphoric, like nothing in the world could ever stop her or hurt her. She wished it could be like that all the time.

She stood up, gleefully entranced by the thought of a dance high and turned the withering entrance sign to 'closed' without giving it a glance or a second thought. Eliza knew this store long enough to know little things like if the sign was the right way around, she wasn't stupid. 

After securing her isolationism for another while, she skipped to the record player. It was rough, brown leather and had gold engravings on it like honeydew spelling 'CROSLEY'. The sacred music-maker opened and Eliza grazed her fingers along the creamy suede interior.  She pulled out Fleetwood Macs 'Rumours' that was nestled under her slightly sticky arm and put it on, letting the first track of Side A spin into a song.

It started, Lindsey Buckingham's familiar voice booming through the speakers at the loudest possible volume singing 'Don't Stop', a most popular and idolised song that everyone knew and loved, including Eliza. She made one last look around the small shop and to the quiet side street where 'DEANS RECORDS' sat, making sure one last time that she was alone. The good kind of alone that made her smirk as she realised that her duties of upping her serotonin would be fulfilled. 

Grabbing a basket of newly ordered records, she danced through the isles while sorting them neatly into their alphabetical place. Her hair coiled through air as she bopped her head side to side in glory of the guitar. Her hips swayed in perfect rhythm to Mick Fleetwood's glorious drumming. In that moment, the music was hers, nobody else's. Eliza Docherty owned the whole city, no, the whole world. Good music could spur confidence into anyone. She sang out the lyrics, "Don't. Stop. Thinkin' about tomorrow, Don't. Stop. It'll soon be here!"

It was when the bell rang, and the door opened that Eliza froze in her tracks. She was almost certain she put the closed sign in the window, or was it the other way around? Fuck. She never thought that in her glorious feat of happiness, she could miss something so obvious. She turned round slowly towards the door and was met by the eyes of two slightly amused new-comers, grins implanted deeply into their faces as Buckingham continued to play through the speakers inconsiderately. A moment went by where all they could do was stare at one another, encapsulated by this unlikely encounter that Eliza certainly did not expect to be happening. The air between them was thick with adrenaline. She dropped her pile of music and rushed over to the record player, turning it down until the song was merely a distant hum. Her back was now turned from the boys. Her bell-bottom jeans were not the only things flared, as her cheeks were as red as a tomato and she internally cursed herself for being so embarrassing. For being nineteen years of age, you'd think she'd know how to be a bit more mature by now.