Chapter Text
“You called?” Graham slipped into his boss’s office at the courier service he worked for.
“Sit down, Mr. Payser.” The larger man gestured to a folding chair set up before his flimsy desk.
“Hey, what did I tell you, just call me Graham, Allan.” Graham replied nonchalantly.
Allan rubbed his temple with thick fingers, twisting a few loose blond, curly hairs that had escaped his bun in the process, “Fine. Graham. Sit down.”
“There we go. What’s up, boss?” Graham flopped down into the seat, cringing at the hard metal surface.
“Why don’t you tell me ‘what’s up’.” Allan deadpanned, a deep frown creasing his tan face.
Graham didn’t understand what he meant by this, “Huh?”
Allan opened a desk drawer, and set a thick stack of yellow slips down between them, “Why don’t we start with ‘what’s up’ with all these complaints?”
Graham carded through the stack, “Are you sure these are all mine?”
“Oh, absolutely. And there are probably more that got lost before this became a real pattern, and I started keeping track.” Allan’s frown took on a more wicked twist, lips curling up into a forced grin, “A pattern that has severely damaged the reputation of this company.”
“No kidding. So, uh, what does this have to do with me again?”
Allan swatted at the table, “Are you serious? Is that a serious question you just asked? Please tell me it was rhetorical.”
“…Was your question just there rhetorical?”
“No, Graham, it was not. I genuinely want to know, are you being serious right now, asking me if this stack of complaints about…” Allan picked up the top few slips, reading off each in turn “Throwing a package through a window, delivering a severely crunched box, nearly running over another pedestrian, and oh look another broken window. Are you asking me if this meeting is about you?”
Graham nodded, understanding now, “Ahhh, ok, yeah. I can see where I might have something to do with this. I’ll tell you though, that pedestrian got in my way, not the other way around, so that’s on them not me.”
Allan chuckled dryly, “Is that so? I’ll toss this one away then.” He thew the slip over his shoulder. “What about the windows?”
“They looked open when I ran past, so those were my bad.”
“Your bad? That forgives it then, job well done Graham.”
“Aw, thank you Allan!” Graham beamed.
Allan slapped the slips down, sending some more flying, “No! It is NOT a job well done! This is horrendous! Mr. Payser, as of today you are fired!”
“Whoa, whoa, let’s back track a little bit here! You didn’t even ask me about the crushed box!” Graham held up his hands defensively.
Allan just smiled, “I don’t care anymore, you’re no longer an employee here. Go pack your things and leave. Anything you break on your way out will be deducted from your final paycheck.”
“Wait, Allan. Come on, Allan, pal, buddy. You know I’m the fastest courier you’ve got, you need me to meet those end of quarter deadlines, right? Remember the records? Come on, you’ve got to remember the records.”
“Speed is one thing, and efficiency is another. Speed you have in spades, certainly. But, efficiency is the important thing, and part of efficiency is quality, which you seem to have no regard for. Now then, I really should get back to work to ensure those deadlines are met, don’t you think? Good day to you, get out of my office.”
Graham stood up, but hesitated to turn towards the door, even as Allan turned to his rolodex.
“So, this is it. Years of being a stellar employee down the drain.”
Allan didn’t look up from his phone as he dialed a number, “You only worked here four months, and in that time you managed to receive more complaints than any employee in the entire history of this company. Consider yourself lucky that I don’t take you to court for damages… Hello, Mr. Cyger? Fantastic! I’m glad to have caught you. Yes this is…”
Allan started speaking to whoever was on the other side of the line, and Graham took this as his cue to leave. Exiting the office, he nearly bumped into Cathal, Allan’s son, in the hall.
“Watch where you’re going, kid!”
“Wait, Graham, this is for you.” Cathal handed a box to Graham.
“Oh, a gift?”
“Uh, Dad told you, right?” Cathal stared up at Graham, face entirely devoid of emotion. The kid, or young adult really, had started about the same time as Graham, given a cushy office clerk position due to family ties. It was obvious to Graham that he’d not make it in a real job, using most of his time to slack around and watch movies on the lobby VCR.
“Yeah, so what is this? A severance package?”
“Not really. It’s the stuff from your office. He asked me to pack it up while you were in the meeting. So, uh, I grabbed everything that wasn’t company property and put it in there for you. Save you the trip. I think he really wants you off the premises.”
“Oh. Thanks?”
“Sure.” Cathal shrugged and continued down the hall, greasy ponytail bobbing behind him.
“No goodbye? Whatever.” Graham mumbled to himself. It’s not like they’d ever given each other the time of day, why start now.
He nearly made it to the lobby without being stopped, but of course someone had to chime in, “Oi, where are you headed with that banker’s box? I know a walk of shame when I see one.”
“Goodbye, Benjamin.” Graham huffed. If he disliked Cathal, he hated Benjamin. Man thought he was better than everyone else just because he was from ‘across the pond’ and apparently used to be some kind of James Bond spy-type, and a professional boxer. No one believed the stories of course, how a professional athlete and spy wound up at a courier company was beyond them, unless he was disgraced. The only person who actually bought into it was-
“Oh, dearie, is it true that you’re leaving us?” Belle, an older woman and one of the few friendly faces in this office, stuck her head into the hall from the reception desk. Her hands were occupied with her knitting needles, and what looked like half a sock dangled down from them.
“Yeah, moving on up as they say.” Graham tried to grin and bear this with some dignity. Maybe no one else knew he was fired and just figured he was quitting.
“Allan gave him the sack.” Ben added flatly. If Graham’s hands had not been occupied with the box, he had half a mind to deck the man. Not like he had anything left to lose.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, hun. You’re a good guy, you’ll find something else soon, I’m sure.”
“Hope so, unfortunately these good looks don’t pay the rent.” Graham joked, but it was unfortunately true. That last paycheck would buy him a month or two at best, but after that he was flat broke, not a penny to his name in savings.
“Well, good luck sweetie. If you ever need a reference, you know how to reach me.” Belle offered.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Graham turned to Ben, “At least some people in this office know how to give a man well-wishes.”
Ben rolled his eyes, or what could be seen of his eyes under a thick blanket of golden hair. He looked like a bleached Beatles reject.
“Oh, be nice to each other!” Belle chided.
“I’ll be on my way, then.” Graham strode towards the glass doors leading into the parking lot.
He gazed wistfully at the cars before stepping up to the bike rack, using a cord to attach the box to the back of his bike before unlocking it.
As he stepped up onto the bike, he let out a long sigh before hitting the road back towards his apartment. The ride was short, but not short enough as his thoughts drifted. This job had been one in a long string of failures, and the options were starting to get quite thin. Maybe he should try busking again, at least that was somewhat fun and let him indulge in his real passion.
He considered calling his friend Dave up, they’d never been close since Graham dropped out of university, but Dave managed a night club and maybe he’d let Graham play a few sets there. Yeah, that could work.
Graham ran up the steps to his walk up, dragging his bike behind him as he fumbled with his keys, practically kicking the door down to get to his phone. Flipping through his phone book and spinning the rotary dial, he slid in Dave’s number and waited as the line rang, and rang, and rang.
Hey there babe! You’re reached the master of melody, Daaaave Bru-bot! Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but I’ll get back to you quicker than you can say doo-wop! Leave a message with all the deets, k?
It went to his answering machine and Graham dictated his message as the line beeped, “Hey Dave, it’s Graham, from university. I was wondering if I could stop by the club and audition for a set, not looking to be a headliner or anything but I’ve been practicing and think I would be a good fit. Give me a call back, my number is 545-6656. Thanks man!”
Ok, so that was settled. In the meantime, he’d need to grab a newspaper and look for any other openings, but this was a good start.
Graham hung up the phone and turned to face his apartment. Calling the furniture shabby was an understatement, everything third- or fourth- hand from thrift shops and even the curb, but it was better than a completely empty room. He’d pushed everything up against walls to create a large open space in the middle, or as large as the 600 square foot apartment would let him make. Not sure of what else he could do, it wasn’t quite lunch time yet after all, he picked his guitar off its stand and slung the worn leather strap over his shoulder.
The instrument had seen better days, the purple paint chipped off around the edges and band stickers peeling off, but it still made a sound and that’s what was important. Graham was able to coax music out of it, carefully fingering the frets and strumming along. He ran through a few warmups before jumping into something more substantial, warming up his vocal chords.
He knew he could hold his own on the instrument, but it was his singing that needed work. Unfortunately, no one wanted to pay to just hear a guitar solo, so he’d tried to find songs that complimented his register. Much to his chagrin, those were few and far between and he hated to limit himself.
Once upon a time, he’d had a band mate who'd been a perfect match. Misty had the voice of an angel and could rock out on the drums, playing them like she was the manifestation of thunder itself. But creative differences quickly led to her departure after just one performance and last Graham had heard, some label scout had ‘discovered’ her at a dive bar and a major album was on its way.
Setting up an old cassette recorder, Graham hit play and performed for the mechanical audience of one. Once finished with three song samples, he sat on the threadbare orange couch and played it back, careful to avoid the broken spring on the left side.
The first song was fine, it was an option. The second one was a little rough, he cringed as his voice cracked during a high note, mark that one as a no-go. Finally, he played the third. It was a ballad, not really his usual style, but even he had to admit it sounded pretty good.
"Leave it to Elton John to give me a song I can work with." He huffed, humbly accepting that he'd be belting out freaking Amoreena.
He tried to top it over the next few hours, only taking a short break to scarf down some pasta salad, but ultimately Graham was left with the obvious dilemma that despite it being slow, that was going to have to be his audition track, something to really get his foot in the door and make sure everyone was listening.
If he had a band mate, a proper lead singer, this wouldn’t be an issue, but he’d just have to make do for now.
As if on cue, the phone rang. It had to be Dave! Graham jumped up to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey-o! Long time no chat, babe!”
“Hey, Dave, I’m so happy to hear from you! Did you get my message.”
“Oh yeah, and I like what you’re laying down. We actually had an act walk out on us today, so I was just about to open auditions. You know how obnoxious that can be, musicians can be such divas and all that jazz! So, trust me when I say I was just as happy to get that message as you are to hear from me, probably more. Before I open the floodgates to the public, I’d love to hear what you’ve got to offer. Say, are you free late tonight? Like, super late.”
“My schedule is wide open, just tell me when.” Graham tried to not sound too desperate, but he needed this opportunity and was willing to stay up for three days straight if he had to.
“Club closes at 2 AM, so roll on by around then and I’ll be waiting to be amazed.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you.”
“Anytime, keep in touch alright?”
“Sure, yeah. See you at 2.”
“Be there or be square!”
Graham hung up the line and pumped his fist, “Yes!”
This could not have been more perfect! He paced around the apartment, hardly able to contain his excitement.
“Alright, 2 AM, not ideal, but we’ve pulled all-nighters before. No biggie. Hm. Should probably get there early, scope out the competition.”
Graham next found himself in the bedroom, digging through his wardrobe which was unfortunately mostly comprised of old work uniforms and work out clothes. Not exactly the kind of stuff suitable for a rock concert.
Something way in the back caught his eye, and he tugged on the pink sleeve. Ugh, it was that horrible plaid suit from his cousin’s wedding last summer. He’d borrowed it for the event from another family member and never gotten around to giving it back. They’d probably long forgotten about it, Graham had gotten the sense that they’d been happy to let it go, so he had no qualms in modifying it.
“I can make this work,” He muttered to himself as he unfolded the matching pants. The pattern really was atrocious, a checkered wine striped with fuchsia, but standing out on stage was exactly what he needed. Swapping the button-up shirt beneath it out with a faded black KISS tee, he thought it might just do the trick. To complete the look, he rolled the sleeves up his forearms, yeah this could be pretty cool.
Rushing into the bathroom, he appraised himself in the mirror and plugged in a flat iron. He tugged an elastic out of his hair and let it fall to his shoulders, running a brush through it before getting to work with the iron and a comb. First, he straightened out the back, then teased up the front section, using a combination of heat and hairspray to create some gravity defying bangs, using a headband to prop up the pieces. Then, he worked on the back, adding some volume to the long strands to frame his face.
Next came makeup, if he was going to commit to a more glamourous look, he'd have to go all out. He laid the eyeliner on thick, even drawing a line from the bottom of each eye to his jaw.
Smiling at himself in the mirror, he felt confident. There was no way he could fail, not while looking this good.
The club was a solid half-hour away on bike, so Graham figured he’d best head out now to get there early since it was already late into the evening. He left for his big break, pedaling along with his guitar strapped to his back.
His stomach grumbled as he passed a burger joint, it was past dinner time, but he didn’t have any cash on him so he’d just have to ignore the hunger until he got home. Stars, the grill smelled good, but he forced himself to keep going. He didn’t turn into the taco stand, or sushi restaurant. He was past half way there, no point in turning around, besides maybe Dave would give him some free food at the club after it closed. What else would they do with leftovers, throw them away?
He sustained himself with that thought, but became so distracted that he didn’t realize he was veering into traffic. A loud honk snapped Graham back to attention, and he swerved to avoid a bus. His bicycle tire hit the curb and came to a complete stop, sending him flying past the sidewalk and into an alley.
His hands and knees hit the ground first, but that didn’t hurt nearly as much as the sound of his guitar hitting the pavement with a deafening crack.
Ignoring the stinging in his palms, Graham rushed over on all fours to where his instrument skidded to a halt, face down on asphalt.
“No, no, no no no this is not happening!” Graham whispered as he flipped the guitar over. The paint was a mess, and the strings were filthy, the smallest one completely snapped, “Please, no.”
His lip quivered, and he sat on his heels, not even acknowledging the tears in the knees of his pants from the fall. All he could do was try not to cry as he dusted off his guitar.
“Maybe… I can still play like this?” Graham tried to pluck a few chords, but the broken string was obviously missing. The sound was hollow and metallic, the rest of the strings badly damaged.
However, there was some kind of echo in the alley, and it was beautiful, like a low hum.
That couldn’t possibly be coming from the busted guitar, right?
Graham played the chords again, and the echo sang back, a dark and steady baritone.
“Who’s doing that?” Graham called out. There was no reply, so he played a riff. This got him a response, so he stood up and took a step into the alley, “Say something!”
He waited, but there was no more sound. At least, not until a loud crash reverberated into the alley. Snapping his head towards the sound, Graham caught the final seconds of a car running his bike over. He left his guitar on the ground and rushed out into the street.
“Are you kidding me!” He shouted, running after the vehicle for a few paces. He quickly gave up as the car disappeared down the road as if nothing happened. Back tracking, he assessed the damage with a frown. If he’d thought the guitar was busted, his bike was dead, the wheels bent out of shape and the frame mangled.
Turning to the sky, he flashed a middle finger in the air, “Screw you!” He screamed.
The alley returned the sentiment with a drone, a long held note with vibrato.
Graham figured he now had two options. He could pretend none of this happened, walk to Dave’s, and hope that there would be a spare guitar for him to use, or he could investigate the musical echo. “Why not, let’s go down the spooky alley and look for the source of the singing. I’m coming in there so look out!” He shouted into the dark space.
He abandoned his guitar in the alley as he ventured inside, following the siren’s song that called out to him.