“I think they were called the Loves? The Lovers? I don't fucking know man, my friend just told me they were wild,” called out a heavily bearded man from the front of the register as Sylvia raced to the back to fetch Floyd. Aster cowered in fear over in the far reaches of the world music section as she watched a few similar looking men soon join him in the store.

“Mr. Floyd! Mr. Floyd! I think there's a guy here looking for The Love You Forevers!” Sylvia yelled in excitement to the powdered wig jostling behind tall crates of records, who whipped around in a glass-eyed frenzy as a wild look of jubilance split across his face.

“What's that you say?” he uttered in a low voice, tossing aside the vinyl he was at work sorting. “Do not let that man go anywhere, Sylvia, I shall be right there!” he screamed, procuring a powdered brush from seemingly nowhere with which he spruced up his face as he hurried to follow Sylvia in a dash to the front of the store, which in the long span of a minute had seen a further several more people enter, to Aster's utter dismay.

“Hello, hello!” Floyd warmly greeted the man, and the others behind him as he approached the register with a large smile, visibly out of breath. “I hear that you have inquired about a record from the Love You Forevers,” would that be correct?” he asked, making no effort to mask the rising tone his excitement delivered unto his voice.

“Yeah, that was the name! 'The Love You Forever'!” the man shouted in confirmation as the others behind him grumbled in similar response. Aster glanced over at the group gathered in front the register, her body shuddering in echoes of the day Marion had brought his terror upon the shop. She could only think what sweet relief it was not being the one at the helm of the register this time, as she snuck off behind them and up to her loft to get a closer listen.

“Well, although we have nothing by them in stock at this moment, I am happy to announce they have a new record coming out soon, which will be sold exclusively at this shop!” Floyd gleefully proclaimed to the gathering, which Aster observed to be a group of the same sketchy-looking bikers they had played for the night before, as well as prim, reserved suburban housewives, who stood a bit back from the rowdy men.

“Yeah, and when is soon?” one of the men asked in response.

“Well,” Floyd muttered, fiddling with the elegant curls of his shirt-cuffs as his beady eyes drifted over the faces painted hopeful of those beyond the register. “Well— they are cutting the record today in fact!” he suddenly exclaimed, Sylvia and Aster turning to him in unison.

“What?!” they blurted out in contrasting tones.

“Yes, why in fact the shop was closing just now! Would you look at that?” he suddenly announced, his eyes falling to his wristwatch as if eleven forty-two was a time at which shops regularly closed.

“Be sure to tell your children to save up their allowance, or uh, your drinking money,” he called out to the group as he shepherded them out of the store in confusion, turning back to the bewildered few still inside shopping as the chill of the morning street whipped in.

“I'm sorry, would Latin be better?” he quipped upon seeing an older man in the world music section who was occupied with a record of Roman poetry. “Shop is closed, please get out!” he ordered. Faced with the wild man waving his cane they spilled out onto the street in irritation as Sylvia frantically flipped at the rotary back inside, rushing to inform Marion and Cecil of the day's events that were just scheduled.

“What? Today is my one day off, Sylvia!” Marion could be heard whining through the receiver, as Aster hurriedly began retracing the chord progressions to her songs up in the loft as the store audibly fell apart below— Sylvia's anxious peeps on the phone backed by the clash of Floyd knocking into various inventory in his mad dash to shut the store down.

Several fevered minutes passed like this in which Sylvia had handed the phone to Floyd who desperately tried to hash out the details with Johnny Vallerie. In the middle of his discomposed warbling the shop door swung open as Cecil hurriedly rushed in, bundles of roughly scrawled sheet music in hand. Through the open door followed the ruckus of Marion practicing from inside Sylvia's van— his kit still packed up from the night before. The clamor spilled into the street, much to the anger of the neighboring shopkeepers, who pelted him with jeers and looks of serious vexation.

“Floyd you can't do this man, you can't just pull me out of work and tell me we're recording!” Cecil bemoaned as Sylvia darted around the room, packing things up.

“Ah, what do we need?! We're going to be recording with Johnny Vallerie!” she yelled, her teeth chattering as she bolted around, fetching guitar picks and extra strings from the back room. “Today, Cecil! Right now! With the actual Johnny Vallerie!” she repeated, flipping through various guitar strap designs as she posed in front of the mirror.

Floyd nervously clutched the telephone receiver to his chest, silently waving away Cecil as he fled to the other side of the shop. Cecil kept up his pursuit.

“Don't wave me away, Floyd! How are you and Aster both going to keep doing this to me?”

Aster sighed, stretching out wide on her bed, as the cacophony unfolding below downstairs drifted up into the cobwebbed rafters above her. Her hand fell to her side, blindly reaching over to feel the distinct cool of metal and polished wood that framed her paisley Flying V, coiled snug in the old blanket.

“What a fucking shitshow,” she yawned stretching, listening intently to Cecil and Floyd argue as the latter falsettoed in higher and higher pitch, almost immediately deflating as she heard Cecil take the high ground in their squabble.

Her mind drifted to the night before, the pure elation of it still humming fresh in her veins, yet already a pale stand-in for what it had been, as she felt the old loathsome cloak of anxiety wash over her.

This is my world, my simulation, she told herself, eyes set on the dust and cobwebs above her. All I have to do is knock this single out of the park, and we'll have it made, she thought, quickly rising as she heard the tiny creaks of Sylvia creeping up the stairs.

“Hey ya, you ready?” Sylvia asked with hushed excitement, peeking around the corner. Aster, superbly eager as she was, broke out in a cold sweat seeing that the time had come.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, nervously fetching her things and following in tow. She made her way slowly down the stairs, paisley bass in hand as she watched Floyd and Cecil head out bickering ahead of them into the overcast early afternoon.

Sylvia shut and locked the door behind them as they gripped their coats tight, breath ribboning upwards. Winter was making its slow, lethargic crawl to Peppermint Plains, as the festive threading of thanksgivings and the promise of alms began to wind themselves down the cobblestoned square.

Aster looked out at the sight with her frosty cheeks, as Sylvia slid open the door of the van to reveal Marion squashed in the back, sitting on the throne of his drum kit in a very uncomfortable contortion.

“Just get in,” he whined, to which Aster stuffed herself in as well, as the van sputtered off from their whiplash morning.

—

“Whoa look, there it is,” Marion called out as the horizon of Cherryaire came into view, the brutishness of it's largely steel skyscrapers underscored by the dull gray winter sky that hung behind them.

Aster glanced out the window in wonder as their van pulled closer into its outskirts, struck in particular amazement at this city— the capital of Peppermint Plains' state, and how small the skyscrapers and skyline appeared to be for something donning such a title— at least as far as the megalopolises of her time were concerned.

“Man, everything's so big!” Sylvia marveled in speedy contradiction as the little Volkswagen traversed the concrete ribbon of freeways which formed the arteries of Cherryaire's downtown.

An innumerable sea of people and a flurry of horns honking welcomed them as Sylvia pulled into the city proper. Pedestrians swarmed from intersection to intersection, each jaywalker met by the shaking of Sylvia's fist as she tried to navigate the streets in a fit of nerves.

Aster looked out with great curiosity at everything— the steam wafting out from sewer grates, the carcinogenic exhale of the cars which filled Cherryaire's streets and which tinted the air with the color and scent of industry and perpetual motion. No notion of silence visited this place— at any given moment a car horn or rattle of a subway train passing let the visitor know that this place was truly alive. To Aster, such an archaic and dirty looking city held a breathtaking beauty in how rashly it displayed it's vivacity.

Aster watched the pedestrians as they drove on by, noting the way they did not make note of her, or anything really, as they were passed. Most idly walked into traffic without a care as they crossed from one block to another. Sylvia's tiny hands gripped the steering wheel white knuckled as she barely managed to bring the van to a stop as it sputtered into a large parking garage.

“Well, gentleman and ladies, this is it— Cherryaire!” exclaimed Floyd as he stepped out, his cane echoing into the dark, concrete parking garage as it rapped against the ground, the sound of a car horn echoing in the distance.

“Looks like shit,” mumbled Aster, Sylvia giggling in response. And smells like shit, too, she grimaced in thought, making note of the smog which the structure wore in a darkened, uneven stain, and of the trash littered against various walls. Cars never seem like they were anything other than a massive pain in the ass huh? she continued, Floyd's rambling unintelligible to her as he led them out of the garage, and into the massive flow of the city's life which Sylvia so nervously led them through just a minute before.

“Wow, look at how many movies they have playing!” exclaimed Sylvia, lighting up at every little fixture of urban life they passed. “Look, Aster look! They have 'Zorgs from Europa: The Motion Picture'!” she called out starry-eyed as she dropped her hands against the poster, reading off the details of the film.

“Sylvia, you've had me try and read the comic ten times this week—” Aster mumbled, internally dying as she recalled the future she knew would come, and which Sylvia's upbeat sci-fi fantasies had no part in.

“But Aster, they have the cutest little antennae!”

Floyd moved ahead of them with hurry and purpose, the larger than life man draped in his winter's best as he split the sea of people, his eyes darting to his pocket watch as a gathering before him halted his stride.

“What's going on here?” asked Marion as the group caught up, looking upwards to the pulsating red light-bulbs that made up the sign of what was clearly a theater, spelling out the words 'Cherryaire Radio Ltd'.

Aster broke out in cold sweat upon seeing the sign, her mouth going dry as the weight and thought of doing a radio interview pushed her to the point of nearly fainting.

“Hey Sylvia, actually, we could go watch the Zorgs first if you want...” she mumbled, turning back to look at her as Cecil spoke up.

“Aren't The Cherubs doing an interview here today?” he asked, as several in the crowd turned around in glee to what he had just said.

“Yes!” one of the girls exclaimed, holding onto faded, snow stained pictures of some of the Cherubs' members. “They're doing their first radio interview!” she explained smiling. Aster now realized that the signs they were holding were adorned with the faces of the Cherub's members.

Floyd gave no response to Cecil, and instead parted the group of fans, holding the door to the radio station open for the other four. They looked on in confusion as the fans went wild at this potentially through-line to The Cherubs, which forced the rest of them into joining Floyd in the lobby as he explained to a member of security they were there on “official business”.

“This is a lot less glamorous than I'd expected,” mumbled Aster as the group entered the cold, linoleum tiled room, bright fluorescent showers washing down from the particle board ceiling above them. At the far end of the room sat an irritated looking secretary, her tired gaze casting over to the five as she noticed their appearance.

“What business do you have here?” she asked dryly, flipping through the sheets on her desk.

“Yeah, Floyd, why are we here?” Cecil whispered as he looked back out to the faces of the eager mob in the window.

“Just leave it to me, Cecil,” was all he gave in response, adjusting his petticoat.

“Oh, we do not have an appointment ma'am,” Floyd replied cordially, walking up to the window. “I happen to be good friends with The Cherubs' manager—”

“Then you'll have to leave,” she replied. Here gaze did not break from the paperwork below her.

“Well, if you could only just give us a minute—”

“If there's no appointment then I'm not letting you through,” she fired back, bringing a cup of coffee to her lips.

Floyd bit his tongue, at a loss for his usual witty mockery of all reason or decorum, as Sylvia moved up to the front of the desk, her little head barely poking above the aluminum windowsill that protruded outwards.

“We're The Cherubs' official fan club!” she said, not skipping a beat. The secretary glanced up.

“Yeah? You and everyone else out there,” she replied matter-of-factly, looking onward to the faint screams emanating from outside.

“Well, we're the official fan club!” she continued, holding up a slew of tickets which bore the word 'Zorgs' half-hidden by Sylvia's stubby thumb. Aster's brows contorted in a look of complete disbelief.

The secretary glanced at the tickets, wearing an expression of apathy, and sighed. “Fine,” she muttered, waving them down the hall.

“I'm nobody's fan club Sylvia,” Cecil chided as they made their way down the hall, nearing a door where the words “On Air” shone above it's metal frame. The group came to a stop in front of the one-way glass window, watching in on the four members of The Cherubs as they spoke to Cherryaire's one and only 'quick wit with the sure hits', Willie Cooper.

“So tell us more, you four were all finally signed, right? Congratulations,” the mustachioed man spoke, leaning into his microphone as Aster's eyes went wide.

“They got signed?” Cecil exclaimed, the rest of the group looking at each other in surprise as they listened on. Floyd, gripping tightly at his handkerchief, excused himself for a 'breath of fresh air'.

Fuck, if they're signed, then that means there's a good chance they blow up. I saw the crowds at the Strawberry Set, I've seen the Beatles. I know where that leads— Aster thought, watching on with worry at the four done up rockers beyond the window, basking in the glow of Willies's praise as they recorded their glib radio catches.

“Hi everybody, this is March from the Cherubs, and you are listening to 111.1 CARX, the only radio station for the capital city!” he recited with a toothy grin, his pretty-faced bandmate leaning in to speak as well.

“Yeah, this is James and—”

I thought I had more time left, she bemoaned, clutching at her lavender dress, her fingers running the quickly wearing fabric as Cecil and Marion walked off to find Floyd. If they end up getting big then what am I going to look like than just another musician trying to follow in their wake? she agonized, her mind wandering to the banal hawing and dancing of Bon Bon Tsubomi that always plastered itself on her sister's display device, gritting her teeth as she listened to the band speak on.

“Well, we came from the small industrial town of Asparta Shores, and you have to be tough to get on around there, ya know.”

No. Not this time. I'm not going to be relegated to the background here god fucking dammit! she hissed in thought as she suddenly stormed away. Sylvia looked on in concern, breaking away from the radio program to follow after her.

Aster made her way back down the cold, gray palette of the hallway that led into the similarly somber lobby, pushing the door open into the chilly afternoon, the crowd of hopeful fans still beaming with excitement. Down the sidewalk stood Floyd in conversation with a young, well-groomed looking man, his hair greased back in a short cut part, as Marion and Cecil stood by.

“Eugene please, a five minute set, that's all I ask for!” cried Floyd. Eugene rolled his eyes.

“Floyd, no. One— I haven't heard your band play, and two— they've only played two shows. At, remind me again, what venues?” he asked quizzically, looking to each of the five. Aster of course, returned his look into the gutter as she glanced instinctively toward the ground.

“My little brother's birthday party, for one!” Sylvia chirped.

“Oh, well in that case I definitely cannot help you, I am very sorry Floyd. Thank you for your attempt however,” he replied, promptly ejecting himself mid-conversation and cutting through the group of fans into the radio station, whose door shut sharply to the cue of Floyd's dejected gaze resting onto the sidewalk.

“Who was that?” mumbled Aster, rosy red nose now matching her warm cheeks.

“Eugene, manager for The Cherubs. I thought I could get you all an opening show for them, but he would not budge,” he replied solemnly, slinking onward down the street as he waved them on. “Come on, the studio is not much further.”

Sylvia kept pace next to Aster, who was lagging slightly behind the rest of the group. “I feel really bad for Mr. Floyd,” she said, wearing a grim expression which didn't suit her much. The two of them watched as his cane dragged along with the rhythmic tap of it hitting each sidewalk crack. “We really need to knock this out of the park!” she added, pumping her fist as she turned to Aster.

Aster stopped suddenly, turning to meet Sylvia's eyes for the first time.

“This single will out shadow anything The Cherubs have ever done, and hide them behind the sun of what will be our band,” she muttered, her breath as white as the small flakes that started to slowly drop onto the city.

“Now that's the spirit!” Sylvia replied spritefully, clapping her hands together as the two picked up the pace to join the others.