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"You keep sticking your nose in your phone ... it'll kill you, you know?"
It took just one ring of the register for the customer to school his expression out of its brief sneer. "Guess so," he agreed, closer to grimacing. "Could stand to be a little more here-now."
Not the point, but he’d let it slide for a paying customer. The tingle along Shinta's nerves only sharpened. "Yeah... Stay groovy, man."
As a small business owner, Shinta held a completely reasonable and normal level of esteem for his humble establishment. It was surely a feat to keep a vintage shop open, tucked beside the towers of modern mass-produced Shibuya. Cosmic Corner didn't look like much from the outside, but half the fun was a bit of digging. Fanatics? Weirdos? He liked 'em all. Sometimes, though, the mysterious currents of the city carried in new crowds—from abroad, the suburbs, or even the web. Crowds mostly blew. The general public didn't have a clue what they had in front of them, or what their future held. A major bummer, but Shinta felt it was his responsibility as a curator to give them notice.
"Hey, you ever thought of dropping the, uh, whole look?"
"Um. I didn't, like, ask for your opinion."
"Bro, you should really quit your job."
"Dude, what?"
"Hey, kid, you got an antsy look to you. You thinking of moving abroad?"
"Actually, yeah!"
"Yeah? Well, you should really stay local. You never really know the place you grew up in, ya dig?"
"..."
The day really had been unusually busy; the door'd hardly stopped jingling. One wall of the place was stacked high with packaged goods, and apparently half of Tokyo wanted to know what he'd gotten in. They could all find out if they'd keep their pants on and wait for Shinta to take inventory instead of distracting him without serious intent to purchase. His uncool-yet-adorable youngest bro watched him mildly from where he was keeping him company behind the register for the day, plucking away at a vintage 6 string with a mountain detail and, bafflingly, a whammy bar covered in fur. It made for good ambiance, but the furrow in his brow undercut the chill vibes.
"You're pretty forward," Shigemori said. "You're not worried about losing customers?"
"Nah." Shinta counted the cash on-hand. It was a pittance, but at like 200% markup it helped keep him in the green. "Walk-ins grab the cheap stuff and walk out. Collectors though. You can say whatever as long as you got the goods. I like 'em better anyway. Respect. ...Why? You worried?"
"No, not really." Shige sighed and strummed mournfully. "It's just I'd get fired for sure."
"Not ready to quit your day job?"
"Not yet. Still chasing that big break... The Prince covering us would be the dream."
"Well, there's tons of jobs. Thousands even. Don't be afraid to tell someone what's up ‘cause your register job depends on it."
Far as he could tell, Shigemori wouldn't end up dead because of a big mouth or anything of the like.
"Don't worry." Shigemori gave a tiny smile. "I can be assertive when I feel like it."
The shop bell rang, but nothing tickled at Shinta's intuition. The discrepancy made his hair raise more than even a grisly precognition.
"You can look around, but I ain't sellin'," he called, barely looking up from the register. It was a duo, as usual. Kids, as usual. Wearing questionable getups with no soul, as usual.
They puttered around anyway, gravitating towards the good stuff despite their obvious lack of taste. He knew better now, and rejected their choices one by one until they wandered away.
Once upon a time he'd let a pair of ghosts make off with a genuine article: a hand-painted denim jacket that had once graced the back of a musical legend. Their genuine interest and discerning eye put him in an agreeable mood, plus he didn't have a bad feeling about their futures or, blissfully, any feelings about their futures at all.
He'd watched the kid put it on excitedly, twirling around and showing it off to her friend. They thanked him and rushed back out the door.
His smile dropped as they—and the jacket—vanished without a trace. Spooky.
His less-cool-but-trying-really-hard-about-it middle-bro and he were overdue for lunch. The last time Shinta'd swung by Towa Records to meet up with Yoji, he'd had the overriding sense that takoyaki would cause some deadly domino to fall. Today, still, it occupied half his brain. Plus he had a vaguer intuition that someone would regret getting braces. Food. Teeth. Why so dangerous with? Why so dangerous without? Seriously. Heart conditions everywhere, especially with no teeth. Super messed up to think about.
Yoji stared at him flatly from across the table, chewing on his sandwich and some nagging thought. It was like he had his own psychic sense for Shinta's unspoken tangents. "Man, I don't get it," he finally said. "If you hate crowds so much why'd you set up shop right in the middle of Tokyo?"
"Foot traffic. Can't fight the numbers. Otherwise there's no, like, flow. You know? Cash flow." Besides, Cosmic Corner and Towa Records hardly registered on the same middle-of-Tokyo scale.
"No way that's your only option." Yoji shook his head. "If the seven seas can't kill physical media there's no way you couldn't make bank out of grandmas' place."
"I will literally die if I move to Shamane."
"Heh. Picking up the kids' funky lingo, bro?"
"No." Shinta made like a kid-these-days and rolled his eyes, made cooler by his shades. "Literally-literally. Also, like, it's literally good for buyers to know I'm not a net-ghost. Ever heard of a scam?"
"Come on, bro. Ever heard of ebay? It's been all the rage for years. You can build a good rep there too."
Shinta grumbled. Scam-free? Good rep? Provably false.
He went back to his own sandwich, taking a large enough bite that no reasonable person should expect him to speak in the next five minutes. Yoji chewed thoughtfully, gears spinning visibly behind his spectacles. He inhaled sharply when he arrived on one he liked, coughing and wheezing in his enthusiasm.
"Oh yeah! Well, if you're so chill with foot traffic these days you should see Shige's next show. He'd love to have you there."
Shinta grunted while Yoji continued, undeterred by his mouth full of bread and deli.
"I've heard his new stuff. It's fresh, but classic. Not too experimental. I think you'd like it... as much as you could like anything from this decade. Whatcha say?"
Shinta chewed on it. He hoped Shige’s fans didn’t crossover with the free running community. S'pose he couldn't really predict that ‘til he got there. "Hm. Ok." Shinta shrugged, "Any other bright ideas?"
"Nope." Yoji grinned. "Just excited to see you there."
Once upon a time, Shinta'd met a long-time hero.
Mini-him asked for an autograph, and got some life advice in return: live hard. For once Shinta ignored his sixth sense and kept his mouth shut.
Of course he saw the obituary. He was, after all, a huge fan.
Last week had some seriously far-out vibes. Like, all of a sudden Shibuya's cacophony quieted into a dull murmur and stayed put. For the first hour, Shinta'd been relieved at the sense of quiet but had soon grown to dread the cohesive serenity blanketing the neighborhood. One of his regulars shambled by without even peering at the horoscope or crystal of the day. "Nope," he said to himself as he holed up in his back room. He could make it a week without leaving his store, plus an additional 3 days maybe, just on his minifridge and dry provisions.
Thankfully, it took only about two days of hunkering down before someone wandered in who needed to be thrown out for non-creepy but no less urgent reasons. Sailor Moon Crystal Official Merch? Unacceptable. Soulless cash grab. He tossed out two others for their indecision before locking up and staggering out into the muggy night air.
Mosquitoes buzzed around his thoughts. Good. Not that he'd ever think he'd say that, but it didn't feel like Shibuya without the dissonant groan of legion objectively bad decisions.
For once it seemed quiet even through the din.
He wandered through the bustling scramble past Towa Records, and into the Heads district. The air conditioner brushed goosebumps across his hands as the doors swished open and he made way for the escalator. The rate was slow; something prickled at him the higher up he went, though it was probably just the pharmacist. She was a terrifying woman, and the only person he'd met who'd convinced him that dying solely of old age and good decisions was possible.
The feeling intensified as he passed 3F where Shigemori worked, then faded. Uh oh.
He whirled around and fought his way back down the escalator, his heart rate increasing ever further from the struggle against inertia and gravity. His little bro should be on shift now, but he hoped he was wrong.
Shinta spotted the goofy frames first, then his brother's comically raised eyebrows and startled expression. Shinta's heart sunk.
"Shinta?" Shigemori asked, an edge to his voice.
"Don't go to Shinjuku," Shinta said, breathlessly, his palms slamming against Shigemori's checkout counter. A jar of change and stationary rattled in alarm.
"Um. I—"
Shinta cut him off. "Like, it's a totally bad idea to go to Shinjuku."
"But I thought you wanted to come?" Shigemori's face had fallen subtly.
Shinta winced, finally remembering the details of Shigemori's concert, and double checked his intuition... not that it'd stopped screaming at him since hitting 2F. "No way, bro." Shinta shook his head regretfully. "Gnarly vibes. Bad-gnarly vibes. You gotta promise."
Shigemori sighed, fiddling with some keychains that Shinta hadn't realized he'd knocked out of place. "Alright." Shigemori didn't meet his eyes. "I'll talk to the guys." The feeling of dread faded, but didn't vanish. Shinta took it as a good sign.
"Groovy," Shinta said, keeping his voice hip and chill. "Peace out." He turned around and waved backwards. Keep cool. Super cool.
"Don't worry so much!" Shigemori called after him. "Our fans never get too out of hand. They're a good group."
"I'm not worried," Shinta shouted back. The hum of the escalator soothed over him. Why had he thought it a good idea to go out again? Oh right. Food. ...He'd restock on a different shift.
Shinta squinted at the bright screen, retinas burned by the sheer enthusiasm emanating from across the web.
There's this new seller in town. A few of them, actually, moving in from Shinjuku and onto his turf over the past few years. This one only deals in crystals and new tech and maybe fortunes and futures in general, which kept him out of Shinta's competition, barely. Shinta, at least, could tolerate him only as long as neither of their customers could tolerate entering the other shop.
> Salutations! You have a lovely crystal ball on display. Is it for sale? :D
It took him, like, a good few minutes just to type out his response. He'd tried calling before but it just ringed and ringed and ringed until a text pinged its way through. Oh-kay, no biggie. It was just like email but smaller.
> Hello. Yes, the green one is for sale but the purple one is not.
Shinta hesitated, then continued.
> If your giant blue quartz is for sale, I am also open to trade.
> :D A wonderful idea!
An animated bubble popped up with a curious sound and a trio of moving dots. Shinta watched for further details, when another notification pushed its way through in the background. Shinta groaned and marked it as read. Yoji'd taken to supplementing their regular lunches with some major digital communication overload. It just made him want to back off on the lunches, honestly.
Shinta was convinced that Shigemori was ganging up on him too. Usually, Shige came to him. There was nothing interesting in the Heads district, and they were both usually content to hang out behind the register or in the back room. Lately, Shige'd quit his job. Lately, he'd taken to music full-time. Lately, he'd been asking Shinta to concerts again. Totally Yoji's fault, that last bit.
What a bright idea it was to come and wait in line for something-or-other at the height of summer, the sun beating down from overhead. The concrete labyrinth trapped heat, and shot it directly into his voluminous 'do. Seriously, he was sweating from his eyeballs in addition to all the normal places.
"Are you, like, super opposed to a summer wardrobe, man?" Yoji asked, totally laughing at him.
"No one here wants to see my chicken legs or yours," Shinta groused. "And everyone with a lick of sense is inside right now."
"I'm on Shinta's side," Shigemori admitted. "Why are we out here again? There's a perfectly good salad place where we started."
"We—" Yoji gestured around with a blinding smile, "—are bonding. And also getting merch."
The other two looked at Yoji, aghast. "I thought we were lined up for ice cream!" Shigemori cried.
"We're almost there. Ice cream later. It's on me! Promise." Yoji looked genuinely sheepish. "PinCollector411 got hold of some recordings for me. Majorly fresh and funky. I need to even the score."
"Ok, but why are we here?" Shigemori insisted.
"Limit is one pin per person?"
"Yoji!!!!"
For once, Shinta didn't feel up to arguing about which mass-produced pieces of junk were worth standing in line over: none of them. Yoji should know that by now.
Eventually some overworked enthusiasts with plastic smiles and sweaty pits handed them little chips of overdesigned plastic and aluminum. Shinta's was boring and geometric. Shigemori’s looked like a robot unicorn.
Yoji’s was a skull, curling starkly against a black backdrop. It filled Shinta with dread.
"Hey bro," Shinta suggested, "I'll trade you?"
Yoji glanced at him sideways, brows furrowed. "Since when are you into pins?"
"They get the youths in the door," Shinta fibbed.
"Ok, now I know you're full of it." Yoji's eyes narrowed. "Spill."
"You can trade with me?" Shigemori offered. "I don't mind—"
"No," Shinta insisted. "I want the skull-n-bones. It's giving me the heebie jeebies."
"No!" Yoji screeched. He raised the pin far above his head, just out of Shinta's range. "I'm not gonna humor your weird little hunches."
Shinta’s anxiety spiked, recognizing the familiar signs of an Iwata digging his heels in. “Heh.” He nodded. “Guess I can appreciate needin’ to keep a good contact. What if—”
“Ohh I bet you can.” Yoji interrupted, dripping with sarcasm. “But what if I keep it for myself? Become a—“ he double checked the design “—Def March groupie and put it straight on my black leather vest. Won’t leave the house without my funky punk goth getup and my edgy skull pin right on my—“
Shinta’s good sense left his body which moved mostly without his input. He punched Yoji clumsily across the jaw.
Shigemori squeaked and Yoji stumbled back in blind shock. The pin skittered across the ground and Shinta used all of his limited athleticism to dart after it where it fell. He didn't let up until the pin squeezed tightly in his sweaty grip. His chest heaved as he strove to catch his breath.
He stood and turned back to face Yoji, who mirrored his frustration.
"Stop, man!" Yoji held the side of his face and scowled. "Just stop. You've gotta stop doing—all this!"
Shinta saw red. Why care so much about a stupid chunk of metal? "What? Are you gonna jump off a bridge with your pals, too? I said I got a bad feeling. It's too risky, bro."
"It's a pin! Risky? YOU have a pet alligator! Low risk!? You?!"
"Lizzie isn't going to eat me!"
"You just punched me!"
"Like you'd hit me back!"
The other half of Yoji's face reddened, and the unswollen side of his lip curled into a snarl. Oops. Shinta ducked, but Yoji still clipped him—closed fist—on the temple. Shinta threw his hands back to catch himself, hissing as they burned on contact with the pavement. His arms collapsed beneath him; he smacked his head on the curb.
That... yeah, that kinda stung. Bell-ring-y. Kinda trippy.
Shinta sat there in a daze. He had a strict policy of not questioning or regretting any of his actions, and he wouldn't change his ways now. The pin burned, still clutched tightly in his fist.
In his periphery, Yoji hovered like a shadow. Shinta could see his wince... and his fat lip.
"Ugh... bro, you in there? I didn't mean..."
Shinta nodded his head woozily. "Yeah, 'm dynamite."
"Dudes..." Somewhere in the scuffle Shigemori'd slipped away and returned. He handed Yoji a soda and Shinta his water bottle, still cool. It was a relief on his banged up temple, though his body still throbbed with the stress of it.
Shigemori didn't say anything for a long moment and looked carefully interested in the smooth pavement. “You know,” he started, “I never told you about the last gig I played with the Heads guys before we broke up. We made a quick round-trip to Shinjuku. It was a nightmare lugging everything on the trains.”
Shinta felt cold. “…Thought you said you were gonna cancel.”
"I only said I’d bring it up so you’d stop bothering me about it,” he admitted. We played that gig. Our last one.”
Shinta sagged. "... How'd it go?"
Shigemori laughed a little. "It was a good show for being at each others' throats. The Prince still didn't show up. Probably a good thing. ...You should come to the next one."
"Yeah? Got back together?"
"New lineup. New name, too."
"…Right on."
Shinta's thoughts buzzed. They would be racing, but through the heat and general excitement he couldn't focus on one single thought for long enough. How did Shinjuku turn out ok? Why did he get these eerie feelings? When did they come true? Shinta's head pounded.
They all stayed there, slumped over even as the sun crept down and the heat relented. Majorly awkward mood. Yoji made useless little small talks, halting and incohesive, with minimal input from either brother. Eventually he gave up and dismissed himself first.
"No waiting in line next time," Yoji promised before he skedaddled. "Eats on me."
Shigemori followed not much later. "Are you going to make it back ok?" He asked, trying to make solid eye contact.
Shinta sighed and continued avoiding his gaze. "Yeah I'll be alright. Won't keel over or anything if that's your meaning."
"Well, not just that." But Shigemori didn't push, leaving Shinta alone.
The pin still burned in his mind, still biting into the skin of his hand. He couldn't shake the feeling that it would spell doom for whoever held it… but he had felt sure before, too.
"Shinjuku, huh," Shinta mused. He frowned, and crushed the pin beneath the heel of his boot.
A clear Shibuya day carried with it a slight breeze and an encompassing blanket of dread, and Shinta was flipping out. He turned his sign from open to closed, battered down the shutters, and sat behind the register. His favorite stock lined neatly, but with character, in the display case illuminated gently from within.
Something told him that he would die—and soon—because he'd moved to Shibuya. But he wasn't going to leave.
He wondered: when had his fate changed? What decision had he made? Why now?
His gaze wandered. Scattered amongst his shop, filled with scarves and time-softened leather, crystals and kaleidoscopes, and posters and portraits, lay innumerable gems for the finding. His case kept his favorites close, and behind it he hid the ones he couldn’t bear to part with. A record player, with a unique maker’s mark. A collection of corresponding records, most old, but a few new. Newspapers, wrapped for archiving. The weirdest guitar he’d ever seen.
…Had he updated his will to pass along the limited-run transistor telly? He should've fixed it while he had the chance. …Heh. Someone’d dig it out eventually.
As suddenly as the dread arrived, it vanished. The clouds parted and Shinta had done nothing to control the weather all day. His hands shook.
He reached into his case and lifted out a teal and brown rotary, fully operational. It sprang to life when he plugged it into the dusty landline, clicking and spinning happily as it connected to the exchange. The dial tone rang.
"Hey," Shinta said when the other end picked up. "Sup bro?"