Wednesday came upon the shop bearing only a shade of the energy and electricity that defined the day before, the afternoon signaling it's arrival with the dull height of the mid-November sun in relative calmness. Sylvia occupied her place at the register, flicking through news magazines and reading off various headlines that piqued her attention.

“Three student protesters arrested!”

“First skateboard organization deemed vandalism!”

“Dog returned from space given key to the city!”

She cried out as her stubby little eyebrows twitched in varying degrees of incredulity, outrage, and surprise. Aster was at first curious in hearing about the ongoing events of this world before she quickly realized they were as mundane as any other and that furthermore she could very likely predict the future, the thought of which left her slightly amused. However she passed on that idea quickly, having seen Sylvia's alarm at a dog in space and not knowing if she could handle her reaction to men on the moon.

Thus, Sylvia's chirping soon blended in with the guffaws and occasional screams of Mr. Floyd as her mind wandered, restlessly pondering the day's pressing flavor of anxiety— that of their inaugural band practice that evening.

Why did I agree to this?! she wondered in panic as she went about her job of collecting sheet music into neat little piles. Playing together unintentionally is one thing I guess, but they're all going to be looking at me for direction. They're going to want me to teach them their parts.

Aster's pumpkin colored eyes darted to the stately, conspicuous grandfather clock that towered by the register. How the fuck are you even supposed to read that? she wondered in horror as Sylvia reclined with a large stretch. The slow creak of the chair echoed throughout the dead shop.

“Ah, it's still only one?” she whined, a yawn escaping as Aster broke into a cold sweat.

Only five hours until practice?! she realized with a horrendous pain in her gullet. She looked to the grand clock again and again, unable to concentrate much on her work as she fixated on watching it's brass hands whittle away at the remaining day.

Approximately some dozen minutes later, Floyd suddenly spoke up, ripping Aster from her worrisome daydream. She turned to find him standing by the door in his petticoat, his cane at his side. Sylvia as well stood beside him, wrapped snug in a white and red cardigan, her short blonde hair fluttering as the November wind snuck in through the door which Floyd held open. Aster's stomach wretched at the implication of them standing halfway out the door.

“Where are you guys going?” she stammered with alarm, not hoping necessarily to receive an answer more than she was hoping she'd just misunderstood something.

“Sylvia and I are going to go pick up lunch for us all,” Floyd declared, to which Aster's heart plummeted. “But we shall return in just a minute, so fret not Miss Aster! It is only around the block,” he added.

“Subs, Aster! We're getting submarine sandwiches!” Sylvia added gleefully before making her exit with Mr. Floyd out into the chilly afternoon.

The door shut and took with it the cold autumnal breeze as Aster came to realize the precarious situation she had just been placed into. With great hesitance she moved to the register and stood silently, frozen in the medusa stare that came from the shop's door and the waiting bell that hung upon it.

“Aw, look how nervous she looks though, Mr. Floyd! Maybe this is too mean,” Sylvia murmured, peering through the shop window at the timid girl who shook behind the register. Leaves of a scattered brown palette blew by in their gust as Floyd pulled his petticoat tight.

“She will only ever get better through experience, Sylvia. It is because we care and aim to see her improve that we are doing this!” he reminded her with a smile as they took their leave down the block. “Besides, today has been exceptionally quiet. She will be fine. Now, let us go get those subs!”

“Substenance!” cried Sylvia.

Almost immediately as the two rounded the block, the shop's bell rang out, the door opening as a man of six-foot something, clad in a leather jacket and torn, dirt-caked blue jeans appeared in the door way.

“Wazzup!” the man called out in a deep, dirty voice, finding the shop empty aside from Aster cowering in her utter terror behind the register. “Who are you?” he asked, walking further into the shop, his heavily greased pompadour glossy in the afternoon light.

Is this a fucking robbery?! Aster cried out in her head, instantly reducing to tears before the leather-adorned thug as he approached the register. Fuck, how do you even act in a robbery? Is he not worried about being executed? Wait, does getting shot hurt here? she worried as her mind whipped through a flurry of worst case scenarios, totally prepared for the fire in her eyes to leave the sea of tears beneath them to fend for themselves.

“You new?” the man spoke again, looking around. “Where'd Floyd and Sylvia head off to? They're not here are they?” he asked, the extent of his height now fully discernible as he stood before the five-foot (and a half inch) Aster.

Aster tripped over her tongue, stuttering non-verbal utterances in rapid succession, her throat retching forth in that all too familiar anxiety-induced promise to vomit. I swear, if I fucking throw up here. He's going to kill me and the only answer Sylvia and Mr. Floyd will have is my vomit-covered body! she thought in a panic, her weighty eyebrows twisting evermore upwards as her eyes let loose a flood of tears down her darkened eyes. “I don't want to die! Please, I don't want to die!!” she began sobbing, her tears wetting the register.

“Whoa, what?” the man stuttered, looking around. “Hey, hey, hey! Why are you crying? It's fine! I can come back later, I was just cur— ”

“Marion! So help me!” suddenly squeaked a little blonde head, Sylvia dropping the submarine sandwiches she held as she ran up to kick the man square in the shin with as much force as she could muster.

Marion screamed as he toppled over, disappearing from the sight of Aster's swollen eyes.

“You big jerk! What were you doing to Aster, huh?!” she scolded, the tiny girl standing over him as he nursed his shin.

“Nothing! I came in looking for you guys and she was just standing there and started crying!” he yelled to her in exasperation, lifting his pant leg to check the bruise.

It was then that Marion looked down the doorway to find the visage of Washington's double cloaked in the silhouette of the late afternoon sun, standing by idly as this all unfolded. “Floyd...? What's with that look?” he asked with concern, his eyes unsteady as Floyd strolled towards the downed greaser with refined gait.

“Marion,” he uttered quietly as he raised his cane, the subtle and tastefully crafted etchings in it's cherry wood clear for all to see as it was held close to the light. “What did you think you were doing?!” he yelled in exasperation as he clubbed Marion, each word punctuated with a strike. “Cherubs' bootlegs?! Were you trying to get us killed?!” he exclaimed, the jolly faced Paul Revere returning to his gentlemanly posture almost as quickly as he had lost it. “You have delivered far more than enough terror to this poor little girl!” he said of Aster, her sobs quickly melting into an irritated frown at his words.

Marion slowly let down his guard, his hands still in a half protective shield as he looked around. “You're all insane, you know that? I came here out of the goodness of my heart trying to warn you guys about those bootlegs and in return that pipsqueak spikes my shin!” he yelled as Sylvia once again wound up her kick, to which Marion begged her for mercy.

“Warn us?!” shouted Floyd, rescuing the subs off of the shop floor. “Yesterday was our busiest day in years! In fact if it hadn't been such a success for the books I would have no mind thrashing you right here!”

Aster had remained still the entire conversation, her eyes fluttering from speaker to speaker, as she tried to deduce for herself just what quarrel was unfolding before her. “You— sell bootlegs, Mr. Floyd?” she suddenly inquired in the middle of the argument.

“Miss Aster!” he exclaimed, his eyes darting side to side. “Not so loud!” he continued, handing her a sub. “Myself and Mr. Marion here have an, um, 'arrangement', so to speak. He's— a distributor. Yes, a distributor who cuts me in on a very good deal!” he proudly answered, no doubt pleased with the quickness in which he crafted his alibi.

“So— he peddles you the bootlegs and you cut him in, that way you make a killing on a product that no other store in town has?” she began once again.

“Are you with the police?” Floyd uttered, Sylvia smacking his arm in response.

“Aster is just super duper smart!” she proclaimed smugly, munching into her submarine. “Maybe she just figured it all out, subconsciously!” she said with a mouthful of lettuce and tomato. The room, even Aster responded with looks of total disgust.

“I wanted to try recording The Cherubs' show,” Marion began again. “We just got this new portable recorder. It weighs a ton, but we were going to try sneaking it in, but— that didn't happen. But still, someone blabbed to someone else and then word on the street was that “Floyd's shop was the place to go to listen to 'em”.”

“And you waited an entire day to tell us that?!” Floyd cried, throwing his arms out.

“I had shows man!” Marion exclaimed in return, finally rising from the floor. “We had a gig the town over!”

“What kind of excuse is that?!” Floyd responded, a germ of an idea catching him mid-outburst. “—Alright, Marion,” he began, his finger running along his rosewood cane. “If you truly wish to apologize— if you truly are sorry, then my one request is that you join these two ladies here on drums tonight. They're going to be the hottest thing in town and they are short a drummer!” he declared triumphantly, cane raised to the fluorescent lights that hung over them.

“What? I've got things to do, I can't.”

“I think you've been right all this time Sylvia,” Floyd interjected, turning to her. “The sale of bootlegs is illicit and is quite damaging to the artist—”

Marion looked at the two of them in exasperation. “Fine, okay? I'll do it! I'll do it! Jesus, you people really are seriously messed up,” he bemoaned as he produced a pocket comb, working it through his greased hair as the afternoon sun bled into the horizon.

Soon six o' clock had arrived, and Sylvia flipped over the 'closed' sign as the door shut and locked behind the last person to arrive— Cecil.

“What is he doing here?” Cecil stated dryly in no particular fanfare to Marion's appearance.

“I explained it to you yesterday Cecil, that stuff yesterday was all Marion's fault. Then he had the nerve to show back up and make Aster cry so I whooped his butt!” Sylvia boasted, jeering her fist in a mock-punching fashion.

“Did you really?” said Cecil, already making his way over to the stately grand piano that sat in the instrument corner of the shop.

Aster stood and watched as the three of them set up, bickering over how awful it'd be practicing in a tiny nook in a little shop, or how the acoustics were going to be terrible.

What if he's right? What if they are all insane? she thought as she watched Sylvia wave a drumstick threateningly at Marion, Cecil grabbing at her arms as Floyd found his rebirth as the muse for The Scream, clamoring in his desperate rescue of the instruments they were knocking into.

It was short-lived, and ever slight. It was known to none of the four before her nor even herself, but for a fleeting second, and for the first time in an achingly long stretch of time, Aster's mouth creased into a tiny smile. She looked at Sylvia, holding up a guitar and already playing hopscotch with her fingers, and at Marion and Cecil, who occupied their places at the drums and piano respectively. “Bass, huh?” She murmured to herself, timidly fetching one from it's display stand.

“Here you go Aster! I got a mic all set up for you,” Sylvia said, bringing a microphone stand before her. Aster plugged her bass in and looked out at the shop, empty aside from Mr. Floyd, who reclined in his leather chair, glass of rum at the ready.

The silent hum of anticipation was all that was necessary to unravel Aster. She knew the three of them were standing behind her, waiting on her order.

Fuck, why is it always a stomach-ache? she thought with a grimace, awkwardly peeking behind herself to see the three at the ready. Sylvia flashed her a white, toothy smile.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! How do I even play my songs?! Aster's mind went blank as she desperately tried to recall the beginning phrase of a song— any song.

I can't remember them... What if I just end up standing here too long— FUCK. It's going to look so weird, her mind assured her in the blitz that was her panic, her palms sliding against the bass strings in the cold sweat that was quickly overtaking her.

Once again, Sylvia's notes rang through the shop, providing a safe haven and anchor that temporarily sheltered Aster's brain from the storm of her self-declared inadequacy. In the way that wind chimes tussle so effortlessly in their melody that no one finds sour or aggravating, so rang Sylvia's guitar, the jangle bringing Aster's fingers to the root notes as she suddenly recalled the song.

“Wow, you really are freaks,” Marion said, marveling at the tune the two of them were playing.

“It's so splendid isn't it?!” cried out Mr. Floyd from across the shop, raising his glass to the electric symphony that hung in the air.

“Okay Brubeck, show us what those nights at The Strawberry Set have taught you,” smirked Marion to Cecil as the former began finding the beat to the song. His drumstick lay perched on the snare, tastefully and subtly tapping away at the drum's silver rim as he kept time with his hi-hat. Cecil jumped in, filling out the arrangement with webs of intricate chords and jazz stylings. Floyd wept as they all came together for the first time.

No one was more stunned than Aster. I know this is all just a simulation so naturally they're good at playing, but holy shit, she thought, watching the three of them find their groove in the song.

“Aster, Aster, you're going to have to slow down and show us how this works,” said Cecil several songs later, as the tempo and complexity had begun to far outpace what Marion was capable of as a rhythmic backbone.

“I play rock and roll, okay? You know? Hitting the snare real hard. Maybe getting a little soft with it when we need to make the girls swoon. I need the snare to land on the beat here,” Marion proclaimed, now drenched in sweat.

“But it doesn't,” declared Aster meekly, yet wholly matter-of-factly. “It's in seven-fourths but it switches to twelve-eights for a meter,” she continued.

“It whats?” Marion dryly exclaimed.

“Did you go to school for this Aster?” inquired Cecil, writing down what he could of the score onto a blank sheet of musical score paper. “The only stuff I see close to this is when we do bebop on jazz nights at The Set,”

“Uhm,” Aster began to stutter, very suddenly no longer assured of herself. “I learned by myself,” she muttered, her hands tracing the rough texture of the thick bass strings as she looked to them for any comfort.

“So, your parents were musically trained, I'm assuming?” he continued in his line of questioning.

“No, my dad was a math professor,” she answered in response.

“What?” he mumbled, genuinely stunned, as he went back to working out the time signatures on piano. He looked back at her, his sly dark eyes narrowing as the machinations inside his mind tried to work out a reasonable explanation.

“I told you guys,” chimed in Sylvia, “She's just super duper smart!” she said, veritably shredding the guitar while she spoke.

“It's not cute to show off like that you know,” Cecil quipped as he returned to marking down his notation.

“How are you so good?” Aster quietly inquired of Sylvia.

“My parents made me take lessons,” she said, spawning little riffs like they came to her as naturally as breathing.

“Lessons,” chuckled Cecil. “She was tutored by Au Vico Moretti. You know, the world-renowned Flamenco guitarist?” Aster did not know however, assuming that he must have drifted into obscurity at some point.

“It's not really that important,” Sylvia responded, setting down her guitar. “What's important is I think we did some really good practice today!” she proclaimed while fetching tea for the four of them.

“Yeah, but Aster you're going to have to give us a moment to learn these parts. This is some wild stuff,” said Cecil as he played around with chord inversions.

“Wait don't be saying that like I've joined anything here. It was tonight only just to help you guys out,” Marion interjected, throwing his leather coat back on as he rose from the drum kit.

“But Marion!” Sylvia said handing him a dainty porcelain cup. “We need a drummer!”

“And? There's plenty around here. I'm sure you'll find one,” he replied, finishing the tea in a singular gulp, setting the cup atop the snare.

To no effect were Sylvia's pleas or the threatening brandishing of Floyd's cane, as Marion left the shop out into the autumn dusk.

“Whatever, he couldn't really keep up anyways,” Sylvia pouted as she took her turn in the leather recliner.

“Yeah, but where are you going to actually find a drummer who wants to play this stuff? It's too complicated for rock-and-rollers and it's too poppy for jazzers,” Cecil said, packing up the notation he had transcribed.

“Wait Cecil, you're not leaving already are you?” Sylvia said as Cecil threw back on his jacket.

“Yeah? I open the store tomorrow Sylvia, remember?” he said making his way to the door.

“But wait, we haven't even picked a band name!!” she squeaked, suddenly rising in tandem to the squeak of the chair's leather.

“That's on you guys. I don't really have time for this either,” he offered in curt response, leaving them with a short wave as the door closed behind him.

“Ahhh, what a drag!” Sylvia let out in exasperation.

“Those ingrates!” Floyd falsettoed, rising on his cane.

“You're right,” Aster said, quietly sneaking into the conversation. “A name is important,” she said, her mind drifting to that most despised one that hung in the collective mind of her pop culture— Bon Bon Tsubomi. How innocently stupid and unassuming those meaningless words were. Yet in their meaninglessness, they were given all the more room to take meaning and weight.

And thus, Floyd, Aster, and Sylvia brainstormed as the dusk fully matured into evening.

“—uh, The Beatles?” offered Aster who had officially given up.

“Eww no, I hate beetles,” replied Sylvia. “What about something cuter like... The Ladybugs!”

“I don't think that will sell well with the guys,” interjected Floyd.

Wait what, why did she reply like she doesn't know who they are? Is she joking? Aster suddenly thought. “Uhm, what about... The Beach Boys?” she again put forth.

“We're nowhere near a beach Aster!” Sylvia replied with a laugh “And two of us are girls!” she said smiling. “You're really in a joking mood tonight, huh?”

What the fuck. But Marion mentioned Brubeck, why is she acting like they don't exist? she thought in a panic as Sylvia and Floyd watched her with their increasingly familiar looks of concern.

“Are you alright, Miss Aster?” Floyd inquired softly. “I think it is about time we all set off for the night,” he declared to the two of them, finally polishing off his glass with a peck to the rim.

Aster didn't answer, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. Her thoughts hung onto the image of the five of them playing together as she stood there, her lips suddenly moving to speak as if those words had always been waiting to be said.

“The Love You Forevers,” she suggested.