Chapter Text
He’s being denied a fizzy drink.
Petey’s fingers hover over the aluminum tab of the soda can, brushing it like he’s making a decision that might get him fired or canonized. His hand freezing mid-reach, he’s suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way the leather of his jacket clings to his arm, hot and sticky like a second skin; the scratchy itch of fur beneath it – the maddening sensation of noticing how his tongue just sits useless in his mouth.
Shit, he hates when he gets like this. Over-aware. Stuck in his body.
It’s his favorite drink, too. The one he usually chugs between takes during normal, non-musical productions. And what’s worse, it’s practically begging to be sipped and savored, to have its one purpose in life fulfilled. The heat’s also so damn tough here, the fizz already being lukewarm even though it hasn’t been out of the cooler for even an hour yet. Surely his t-shirt is soaked by now, orange and hints of black mixing with damp white to cling to his body like sweat-soaked gauze.
Why the studio decided this was the city to film the movie in, Petey will never understand. He won’t be surprised if he comes to find out it’s scorching every day of the year except for Christmas, where the miraculous happens and it snows – like the city is trying to impress someone. The lucky folks that don’t live here, probably . Even if that is a sight to behold, Petey's never going to be in this city willingly to see this happen. If the heat is hellfire, then the cold will peel skin off bone like ice razors.
Just another pointless town he’s filming in that doesn’t house anything special within it.
After all, they look the same anyways: fading storefronts, corner bodegas with fading signage, streets that will never be painted gold with people who hold no accounts of nerve to shake up their entire life for the sake of a dream – Petey wonders if anyone in this whole city even has a dream, or if they’re just mindless drones. He can’t stand it, no drive, no edge. No revolt.
He’s seen more of the country during this film than he has even cared to – not that he really sees it, actually. Petey works, sleeps, and hauls his son around when the kid gets bored or wants a souvenir for the ever-growing shelf of places they never stay long enough to matter.
Trinkets, Petey thinks. His version of apologizing for moving the two of them around so much because of his job. Because truly, he does feel guilty that he can’t give his son a childhood with a normal house in a normal neighborhood – where he doesn’t become a drifter from city to city.
Li’l Petey’s gaining culture, exposure. The world’s become so colorful and groovy, so there’s got to be some goodness wedged in that tight space of constantly being on the move. He makes a mental note to ask his son what’s been his favorite place to visit – a notion to help the kid see that living in different places offers unique experiences on their own, ones he’ll never get if Petey leaves him there at the house in the city that acts as their home base.
Especially with his father there, if Petey even has to call him that.
His throat catches, a dry scrape. A warning.
Right, the fizz – he can’t have it, but he wants it. He just craves something soothing to drink, something he enjoys while they’re currently between scenes with the crew setting up for the next musical number, the one he remembers reading in the script where the scene is set in some kind of auto repair garage. If they don’t want him taking advantage of certain refreshments, then they shouldn’t put them out in the first place.
Cruelty, honestly. If they don’t want him tempted, they can’t just stock the table with cans that whisper his name like old lovers.
Maybe the fizzy cans are meant for the crew; sure, that makes sense, but Petey’s already cracked his can open – the fizz foaming like it’s thrilled to be free, like it wants to ruin his throat just a little more.
Nevermind that he’s already out of his element here by even doing a musical, but singing to track is something that seems to demand everything he’s got with his vocal cords. Maybe it’s normal and he’s the freaky one here – an obvious fish out of water because of the beverage he chooses to slurp in hopes to reset his vocal cords.
The process is something Petey is entirely genuine about learning, having only been exposed to the composers that add the backing soundtrack in post for his movies – always liking to be a part of the entire process, even if he’s no longer needed, having wrapped up his final scene weeks prior. Anyone can say he has an attitude, but no one can say he doesn’t enjoy what he does – what being an actor has let him see and experience.
Maybe that’s why he accepted this role in the first place; even if he doesn’t jive with the directors or even the cast all that great, or ends up having the most ear-piercing alto voice, he still gets to experience what a musical set is like, how these sorts of productions are crafted.
Like singing to track on set.
It can be something leads in musicals do naturally while the ensemble pre-records their bits and lip-syncs to the tracks – he just doesn’t know. After all, musicals and straight films aren’t the same thing, but at least Petey can ace the pure acting scenes – his other work speaks for him in that regard, and he imagines that’s the main reason he got offered this role. While singing isn’t his strongest forte, his acting is incredible, and the director felt – maybe even knew – that Petey needed to be one of the leads, despite his inexperience with singing and dancing his heart out.
So maybe being denied is too strong a sentiment, but the looks he’s getting – mainly from the cast – don’t exactly match the apparent crime he’s committing. Especially since he’s just jonesing for some fizz again, not even harassing the crew like he’s witnessed on the sets of his past films despite his own temper flaring sometimes.
Petey might be working for these blokes, but he’s not giving up his free will. So he ignores the stares and walks away from the refreshments with his fizzy can in hand – warm, no longer refreshing – and heads back towards the set to watch the crew prepare for the next scene, his leather jacket sticking with every step like punishment.
Thankfully the auto shop is cooler, shaded – having been rented out by the studio for the making of the film. The owner had been more than happy to close down for the day when he heard that Petey is tied to the project, seeming to have been hanging onto a false promise that he’d be mentioned to the cat by name for his generosity – as though he’ll be put on some pedestal where Petey will write him a personal thank you letter.
Keep dreaming, Petey never interacts with his fans. Mostly for the safety of his son, the other percentage is because he doesn’t feel like exhausting his social battery for those kinds of interactions. He saves those small bursts of communication for the autograph signings, where greetings are quick and to the point – a simple hello, how much he’s adored, and then the next fan ushers in. Rinse and repeat until it’s been droned into his head like a broken record stuck in a loop.
Petey ducks his head under a boom mic that passes by, almost bending down entirely because of his height. If there’s one thing about this job he can find a negative in, it has to be the constant acrobatics he performs behind the scenes to avoid the equipment – the expensive equipment. His body has remained nimble enough to rival that of a contortionist, but he still doesn’t like twisting and turning his body each time he has to get by something that’ll knock him in the head if he doesn’t do so.
He’s pretty sure his ribs are made of elastic, or will be if they haven’t morphed by now.
A beat up old ford convertible from the forties is rolled onto the set off to Petey’s side, and he watches as the crew pushes it onto the set, another set of the crew moving all of the wires from the floor so the wheels don’t get caught on them and cause some multi-billion disaster that will exterminate the production all together. His eyebrows raise in interest, because it’s a real car – a completely put together real car.
How the scene is described in the scene, Petey assumed that the car was going to be some mock version of the original model – some concoction that was made in the prop shop, even just half the car that – with some magic from the camera shots – will make the car look like it was the full thing to begin with on the big screen. This is how it usually goes on his other sets at least, Petey supposes that musicals are just different like that.
What is the budget for this flick again?
He’s pretty sure he’s never been told this information, but with the renting of the auto workshop and now the fully fledged convertible being rolled onto the set, Petey can’t help but think it’s pretty big – of course, this is most likely the case because the director wants him to star in this project as well. And Petey’s time and aura is no cheap thing to buy.
Whether that is egotistical or not, there’s a reason so many people know his face, a concrete reason why all of his movies are so successful — he’s not only a good actor, he’s an incredible one. It was only natural that directors from all over the world would want to work with Petey – if they can afford him, that is.
And if the script he’s sent – the elevator pitch he’s given – catches his attention to begin with. If he doesn’t feel inspired by what the film is trying to set out to do, then he wants nothing to do with it. This applies, also, for the kids movies he’s been asked to star in. When it comes to that genre, there’s another criteria the script has to pass: whether it captivates his son or not.
Li’l Petey likes being involved in his work however he can, so Petey saw this as a good way to make his son feel included in the reason as to why the two of them can’t settle down in a permanent house. And anyway, Petey feels as though he’s doing the scriptwriters a favor with this method, because if his son gets bored by just being read the script, then there might need some editing to the script as a whole – whether that be the story or the characters, Petey doesn’t know since that isn't his wheelhouse in this industry.
Initially, Petey wasn’t going to take this role for the musical, not above the idea but knowing he was not a singer or a performer of any kind. He’s written off these kinds of movies from the beginning of his career – sticking firmly in his stance that it’s the one genre he’ll never do.
But then Li’l Petey found the script at the bottom of the pile on the coffee table on one of his days off, and the kitten would not let it go. He isn’t sure if he read the script when it was sent to him in the mail, but seeing the way his son’s eyes sparkled at just the fact that it was musical was enough for Petey to take a second glance at the script.
And Petey fell in love with the plot, the character he would be playing.
So here he stands, watching as the crew continues rolling the car into place for the scene.
Finally, he takes his long-awaited sip of fizz, and the carbonation coats his throat as it travels down to his stomach. He doesn’t know what the cast is so worried about, now his throat doesn’t feel like a rusty door handle that’s been tied to an abandoned house for centuries. Now he can sing properly, problem solved. The cast really needs to be thanking him, he just prevented them from having to do a second take here.
Once the car has been put in place and the wires get put back to where they belong, the ensemble for this musical number starts filing onto the set. Petey takes one final swig of his soda and puts the can down on the nearest surface and heads onto the soundstage, fixing the collar to his leather jacket on the way there.
A pointless act in the long run maybe, but Petey knows the character he’s portraying, and there’s no way he’d let the collar of his leather jacket even be crooked, let alone turned inside out. So he fixes it even if he ends up in his t-shirt by the end of the scene. A miniscule action to some others most likely, but when Petey plays a character, he embodies who’s a chess piece in this game – and that includes how his character will wear his costumes.
Not exactly method acting, but more so a want to keep it genuinely authentic as much as he can – one of the reasons why he’s become so famous, so popular. He isn’t just playing a part in a movie for pay, he’s bringing to life the character from the script – living out his life for the duration of filming.
The character is born when Petey gets casted, and dies once he’s filmed his last scene and the director yells cut.
Petey bounces on his feet, having made it over to where his blocking begins for the scene: right in front of the old ford, at the hood. He rolls his neck and blows out his cheeks in a raspberry to the air – getting his body loose for the dance number that follows. Around him, the ensemble gets to their places and the actor playing his best friend and second in command hops into the seat of the old car.
He’s ready; the director hollers action.
“What do you drive, huh?” Petey says, looking towards his right over at one of the ensemble members who is dressed as a mechanic. The first mechanic furrows their eyebrows in scoffness and defends himself that he can drive.
“Yeah?” Petey raises his eyebrows, his left hand bent and resting on his hip as he turns his gaze to one of the other guys in the ensemble. “How ‘bout you?”
The second mechanic blinks and looks up at Petey, face growing confused and maybe even a little nervous as he asks if Petey is referring to him, to which he nods with a reaffirming, “yeah.”
Petey’s challenged by the second mechanic as he asks what if he does, which implies he‘s trying to impose a challenge of some kind – a test of who has the right to claim ownership status of being the most knowledgeable about cars and how drive them, whether an old beat up convertible has a chance at ever becoming something worthy of being out on the streets. Petey looks over at the third mechanic and raises an eyebrow, which immediately sends him into a stuttering spree as he tries to explain himself before Petey interrupts him with, “that’s what I thought.”
“Now come on guys, look,” he continues, slamming his hands down right on top of the hood of the car, “this car could be a major piece of machinery, do you know that? Now look at this.” Petey gets his fingers under the hood of the car and lifts it up so that he and the ensemble can see the inner workings toward the engine.
The lifting of the hood catches the actor playing his best friend’s attention and he perks up, his wrists now draping over the top of the windshield, watching Petey excitedly to see if he has any ideas on how to fix up the old carburetor
Petey’s eyes examine the front of the car, his hands raised. “Now this car could be systematic,” there’s a burst of music as he steps back, hands pulling down his leather jacket from his shoulders so that it hangs off both of his elbows, looking at the ensemble determined. “Hydromatic,” another burst of music, and Petey slips off his jacket until it’s hanging just from his right arm alone, the fire in his eyes intensifying. “Ultramatic,” Petey pulls his jacket off his right arm and whips it, slinging it into the air without a care that sends it flying behind him.
“Why it could be greased lightning.”
The hood of the car is slammed back shut and Petey turns on his heels and runs over to the counter that’s on the set and jumps up on top of it as one of the other actors echoes greased lightning, Petey starting to move his body with the dance moves he learned for this number. The music is a constant sound now, and he begins singing, the ensemble watching him from where they stand by the old car.
His acting best friend joins in for a line of boosting ego before Petey picks back up the lead of the song, jumping onto another counter that’s beside the one he’s currently on. He shakes his hips, arms bent and moving at his sides. The lyrics to the song contain fixing up a car, and how they're going to execute the plan to do it. A love of cars, that’s part of who his character is, part of what he’s passionate about.
That, and he’s also supporting his second in command – wanting to fix up this ride to impress the girls.
His best friend adds in another solo lyric before Petey takes the reins once more, his hips still shaking from side to side as his arms go above his head and wave, his hands in fists. He brings his arms down to frame his sides and pulls them in as Petey thrusts his hips once before jumping off the counter and down onto the floor. The ensemble moves with him, going around the car while Petey scales the hood, making sure he doesn’t slip and fall as he steps up on it and makes it to the back of the car seats.
Petey’s given room so that he towers over the rest of the cast even as he bends down, his right foot balancing on the edge of the back of the seat while his left foot plants itself down on the seat altogether. He chooses not to stare out at the cameras that are filming him – knowing that it’ll take him out of the moment, out of character.
It’s pretty easy to tell when Petey’s not acting – his face has this default mode that he always slips into behind set. Not exactly relaxed, but nonchalant. Even if he’s so passionate about the production he’s in, no one ever catches him jumping up and down because he’s stoked to be here. Petey will admit that the first few gigs he landed, he might’ve done that – but that is just because he never thought he was going to make it in this industry.
But now, he’s gained everything that stardom has to offer. Snagging roles come easily to him – sometimes they throw themselves right into his lap like stone foxes, begging to have him play the leading man.
Petey’s sure he has a pile of scripts back at home base waiting for him on the coffee table once he’s finished shooting this movie.
His mind plays the choreography in his head, and Petey moves his right hand in front of him first and then pumping it up and then to the right, copying these movements right after with his left arm. They’re great moves, Petey can’t deny that – and he’s glad the number starts off mellow for the first half, that way he can catch his breath before the entire number explodes for the next scene.
Clapping his hands together, the space on the trunk of the car below him opens up and Petey jumps down onto it, the vehicle shaking a little but he remains undeterred, the ensemble around him doing their moves with the light hip thrusts. He claps again before putting his arms in the air and shaking his torso, never breaking character.
This is the first song he learned for the movie – partly because it was one of his favorites, the other reason is because Li’l Petey learned that a car was in the scene, and according to him: cars are pretty groovy.
Groovy is not a word his character would use, or a word that he would use in his own vocabulary. Truth be told, the sorry saps that use this word are just a bunch of jive turkeys.
Petey jumps down from the trunk of the car and lands on his feet, never winded as he bends his arms up and looks from left to right as he hops, claps, and then turns mid-jump towards the car. He has to make this as seamless as possible for the editing. He can’t risk looking down to make sure that the prop is there — that’ll ruin the shot and make the entire cast in this scene start over.
So for the first time ever, Petey puts in a hint of blind faith along with a prayer and holds onto the back bumper of the old ford and swings himself down onto the mechanic’s dolly that was set there for him prior to the start of the scene — most likely after the car had been rolled in, Petey might’ve just missed it, having been too engulfed in the flavor of his fizzy drink.
The dolly is hard on his back, but the move is effortless, and everything is going according to how they rehearsed — until Petey’s voice chokes on the line that’s supposed to be the transition between scenes for the musical number, his concentration scratching the record in his brain before the track he’s singing to comes to a halt.
The magic dies so quickly that Petey can’t pinpoint the signs that bring him back to reality — out of character and back to himself, back to simply just an actor.
Everyone is brought out of their trance as the director calls for a cut, some complaints and groans echoing from the crew and even from some of the ensemble that are playing the other members of his gang. The actor playing his best friend grabs his hand and hayls him up from the dolly.
Petey offers a simple thanks of courtesy before he’s walking towards the other side of the set to get his leather jacket back and put it on to have for the start of the scene — for his character’s dramatic flair.
Though to be fair, the dramatics are always his own, never just the characters’ that he plays. Another point in what helps him choose what roles he wants to take. If Petey can’t see himself in the character — even just a little bit because he has played a softer character before — then it’s a hard pass from him.
He finds the leather jacket hanging off one of the shelves of the auto shop and reaches up with no problem to grab it, knowing the conversation he’s about to have with the director about the scene: how it was his fault.
Petey’s not sure what happened to his voice on that last line, why he choked instead of hitting the note he was supposed to. Slipping his arms back through the sleeves of the jacket, Petey turns around only to be met with looks from the cast as if he’s coming off as a chuckle head — like they know this was going to happen sooner or later.
What exactly this is, Petey doesn’t know. Acting is a freaky thing to try and navigate, and truth be told he doesn’t have everything figured out, despite his fame saying otherwise.
The only thing he ever knows for certain is when he’s at fault for messing up a scene.
So as the director approaches him, Petey simply puts up a hand and nods. “I got it, it’s my fault. I’ll get it right this time. Before we reshoot, though, I need to check up on my kid.” He says before breezing past the director, the mess up was handled and under the rug even though it hadn’t even been discussed.
Petey will figure out the reason for his voice choking later.
He hopes that Li’l Petey enjoyed the scene before the hiccup, especially since the kitten has been asking to accompany him to the studio for a long time now. His son is a sneaky one, always trying to hide away in places Petey won’t find him so that he can see the sets his papa talks so much about every day whenever he comes back from the shoot for the day.
Eventually it got to a point where Petey was losing sight of him some mornings, and that really freaked him out. So one day he sat the kitten down and struck up a deal with him: every movie he was in, he’d carve out one day where he’d take Li’l Petey to the set with him – if the scene is kid friendly, of course.
Because of the variety of the genres he acts in, there are some movies Petey doesn’t let his son watch – mainly because of the cussing, but there have been other factors every now and then. Needless to say, his son’s involved a lot more in the films that cater to his age range of kids. And that’s one of the things Petey will never waver on – no matter how many times his father tells him that it’s keeping Li’l Petey from developing on time with the rest of the children.
What a load of bullshit.
Li’l Petey’s criteria for the scene he observes in the movie is one bullet-point, and it’s a very simple one: he wants to shadow his papa on a day where he’s singing and dancing. He’s seen him play out straight scenes before – even with just his voice – and the kitten wants to see something different, a type of acting he’s never seen his papa do before.
The list is what Petey has to spit fire from, pull out ideas and see if they stick on the dartboard at home. There were a lot of musical numbers for him to choose from for this film, but he knew that his son has a certain affinity for motor vehicles, and when Petey got to the scene he’s currently filming while highlighting his lines one day, the solution to his son’s checklist fell right into his lap.
Despite the set for this scene being pretty big to navigate, Petey remembers where he left Li’l Petey to sit – having gotten him a great spot on the set that allows him to view everything that happens on that car. His son saw everything, not just the moment his voice cracked.
His dancing, the line delivery – Li’l Petey witnessed it all, and he can only hope his son was impressed.
With his jacket back on, it’s once again sticking to the fur on his arms, desperate for the air it had for only a brief amount of time. Petey hopes the second half of the musical number requires just the t-shirt – not the combo which includes the leather jacket.
The garage doors of the auto workshop are cracked open to the outside, and beyond the blinding sunlight and the acrid smell of tar baking on asphalt, the city thrums – loud, messy, alive in a way that grates Petey’s nerves. Perfect, just what he needs when he’s already got a headache digging into the base of his skull – maybe the lukewarm fizzy drink wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Li’l Petey has been parked somewhere close by during the shoot, tucked into one of the director’s foldout chairs with a cheap little paperback from the airport – something to read if he got bored watching Petey act. A safe enough distraction. He checked before he had headed over to the refreshment table earlier.
He rounds the corner behind the lighting rigs, dodging a coiled extension cord, expecting to see the that familiar tuft of orange fur bent over a book, swinging his feet in time to some song only he can hear playing on his AM/FM portable radio – something Petey had bought for him before the kitten started traveling with him. Petey never really understood the hype around music, as much as the process of it going into a movie intrigued him.
But the chair is empty.
The book is there, spine up and abandoned on the seat like an afterthought. The paper rustles under the lazy blow of a nearby fan. The portable radio lays next to the book, the wires to the headset the size of his son’s head dangling off the side of the chair.
No kid.
Petey freezes. Blinks once, twice.
Maybe he just wandered to the snack table – fat chance, Li’l Petey can’t even reach the top of the table, and he knows not to bother anyone who’s working on set, which is pretty much everyone. Maybe he went to find the bathroom, Petey can’t remember if he told him where it is or not. Or perhaps he’s talking to one of the makeup girls again, chattering about whatever song he’s currently obsessed with like he always does.
But Petey’s chest is already tightening, a terrible instinct gnawing at him. He doesn’t even want to consider the possibility that his dad might have swung by and got him – oh shit.
Li’l Petey wouldn’t just leave without telling him.
Petey grabs the portable radio and shoves past a few crew members without apology, scanning faces, scanning the edges of the set – behind the wardrobe racks, near the prop station, around the clumps of bored extras sitting around drinking coffee since they aren’t in this current scene that’s trying to be filmed. No flash of orange. No sweater vest with a bow tie. No squeaky voice trying to tell someone that he’s going to be a movie director someday that way he can boss his papa around.
He’s gone.
Panic blooms like a poisonous flower, quick and viscous in Petey’s gut.
Petey doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going – he doesn’t have the time – but people do notice as he rushes out of the auto shop, slipping under one of the open garage doors. Everyone on this set knows that he has a kid, and knows that he’d brought him to the shoot today, so any erratic behavior that isn’t in his normalcy of life is explained by that.
When it comes to his son, Petey doesn’t tolerate any impatience, and for this reason he doesn't even bother asking if anyone’s seen Li’l Petey.
That kid’s an explorer – they’ve never been to this city.
The auto shop the studio rented isn’t closed off. Too many doors left open, too much crew coming and going with deliveries, set pieces, rented equipment – like the old car they’re using for the scene, someone local had offered their car, probably some freaky fan. No one’s really paying attention, watching for a kid who thinks he’s invincible like the superheroes in those comics he reads.
Some comic about a group of superheroes fighting evil with one letter of the alphabet in front of Men as their team name, Petey can’t exactly remember.
Bolting out from the garage bay into the street, the heat slaps Petey full in the face, the city immediately roaring around him – honking horns, squealing tires, a street vendor yelling about whatever the crap he’s trying to sell as he attempts to make a living. Nothing like his home base.
A thousand places to disappear.
His eyes dart over to the sidewalk. Crowds thicken and part, bodies in motion, faces blending together, none of them his kid.
“Li’l Petey!” He shouts, voice cracking from the dryness of his throat. Just a few sips from lukewarm soda will only give him so much, and Petey has already used the wetness when he was singing earlier. He barely cares, though. “Li’l Petey, come back!”
No answer.
Nothing but the unfamiliar city swallowing him whole.
Petey’s breathing fast now, desperate, cursing every stupid decision that led him to think he didn’t have to check up on the five-year-old every ten minutes. He should know better, be a better parent.
If he can help it, Petey is not going to become like his father – and he begins making this difference by bolting out onto the sidewalk to find his son.
The city around him is alive in a way that makes his skin itch.
It doesn’t occur to him until someone mentions him by name and a crowd of strangers crane their necks over to see if it’s really him – the famous movie star. Petey’s face is totally out in the open, without protection from the sun and coverage from the cameras. He bends his head down and keeps himself low and hunched as he begins pushing through the crowds he encounters. He tugs up the collar to his leather jacket before one hand falls to his side, clenching into a fist that still holds Li’l Petey’s portable radio.
The last thing he needs right now are more fans recognizing him and slowing him down with screaming, photos, and autographs – the usual. He doesn’t have the patience, fake smiles, or the time. Not when Li’l Petey is out here somewhere, too small in a too big city – one he doesn’t know his way around like he does with the city back at their home base.
His shoes meet the hot concrete as he scans every face he passes, glad to have the protection over the pads on the soles of his feet, knowing that they’d be burned otherwise.. Some people passing by glance at him, curious – Petey knows he must look crazy, frantic, wandering the street like he’s lost his mind – but no one says anything except for small whispers to try and confirm if he is who they think he is. Petey doesn’t give them enough time to examine the details of his face.
“Li’l Petey,” he mutters again, voice rough and dry. His throat burns – wondering where the fizzy can from earlier is now that it’s needed. Fear digs its claws into the back of Petey’s mind, whispering all the worst possibilities. He shoves it down, focusing instead on the facts: Li’l Petey loves shiny things, he loves getting into trouble. He loves music.
That narrows it down – slightly.
This isn’t the polished, picturesque kind of city they print in tourist pamphlets – no, this place is raw, messy, tangled in its own wires. Storefronts are crammed together like teeth, their neon signs flickering in broad daylight, buzzing with a tired kind of energy. Half the letters are burnt out, but nobody bothered to fix them – an obvious notion that no one in this city cares about appearances. But they don’t need to fix the signs. People know where to go by memory, not by obvious directions.
Rusty cars cough and rattle their way down pothole-ridden streets, leaving trails of black smoke in their wake. Horns blare – not impatiently, but constantly, like an endless, disjointed symphony. A man selling pretzels from a pushcart hollers at no one in particular. Groups of teenagers loiter on corners, their hair big and wild, denim jackets covered in patches and pins flashing under the punishing sun. Bell-bottoms swish with every heavy step over gum-stained sidewalks.
Petey ducks into an alleyway when he hears a gaggle of girls shouting excitedly a block away, probably about something stupid, but he isn’t taking any chances – they might’ve seen him. He leans against the brick wall, breathing hard. He can’t risk losing part of his costume so he doesn’t yank it off despite the sun shining down on him like a spotlight. If he doesn’t find Li’l Petey soon, he is going to lose it. He already was.
He pulls out the battered portable radio Li’l Petey had left behind on set – clutched in the seat with the book, forgotten in his excitement or distraction or whatever impulse had made him run off. Petey turns it over in his hands. Cheap plastic, stickers of comic book heroes peeling at the corners. He runs his thumb over the scuff marks, the little bite taken out of the antenna where Li’l Petey had chewed it once when he was nervous.
Petey is surprised it still worked after that.
He hadn’t even thought to bring it along for a clue until now – having just grabbed it out of habit with anything that the kitten leaves lying around so it doesn’t end up getting lost. Funny how Petey didn’t have the same mentality for the book that rests back in the foldout chair on set.
Cursing under his breath, Petey grips it tightly and stumbles back out into the sunlight without checking to see if that group of girls were gone. He weaves through the endless river of people, his chest tightening tighter and tighter with every block he passes with no sign of that messy orange mop of fur.
Then – the same screams from earlier.
Petey’s fur bristles despite the heat, and he turns around just in time to see the group of chicks from earlier running down the sidewalk at full speed, waving their arms wildly and screaming his name. Immediately, his heart spikes and his body flips the switch to autopilot – booking it down the road without a second thought. This time, he doesn’t apologize to the pedestrians he runs around and into, certain he’s getting nasty looks sent towards his back, but Petey doesn’t waste time in turning around and shooting a bird at them.
He doesn’t know where he’s going – where he can go – but he can’t stay here. His search for Li’l Petey is becoming derailed because he can’t possibly look in places, nooks and crannies, running like this. The city around him bleeds into one thing, signs becoming incoherent and faces all looking the same.
The leather jacket tightens around the corners of his arms – near his shoulders and the creases of his elbows. Every building he passes looks way too crowded, and the swarm of girls are ot only catching up, they’re multiplying. They must’ve spilled the beans on his identity, there really isn’t any other explanation for it.
Nope, that building won’t do – or that one, or that one. This is getting hopeless, is there any place in this city that’s abandoned, or at least vacant enough?
Then – out of the corner of his eye – a record shop.
Small, squeezed between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the kind of place that still sells dusty vinyls and cassette tapes even though everyone is moving on to eight-tracks and shiny new machines. A battered display in the window catches Petey’s attention through the chaos – shelves lined with portable radios.
Same model.
Same cheap plastic.
Same bright red color as the one Li’l Petey loved so much.
He doesn't have time to think about what that means, Petey needs to hide and the record store looks like no one has cleaned or renovated it in years. It’s perfect. Timing his strides, he makes sure he doesn't go so far and fast that he has to skid on his heels and possibly cause himself to get burn marks on the back of his heels. The screams get louder, frantic – desperate.
His head is ringing, but Petey manages to take control of his arms and reaches out with his free hand and swings the door open so hard that the hinges might’ve ripped off, the bell up above his head clanging as though it has been personally attacked and offended. The hot concrete fades into a cool wood that hugs his feet like a mother hugging her child for safety. It’s the only thing Petey takes in as he’s booking through the store, trying to find the right shelf that will conceal him properly – height and all.
But he’s desperate right now, so Petey chooses the next aisle he runs by, twisting his legs and hugging the outer rim of the aisle as he dives down onto the floor, Li’l Petey’s portable radio flying out of his hand and tumbling down onto the floor, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s bumped into something – or someone.
He can hear the stampede coming, their steps heavy enough to make rocks bounce and dance on the concrete outside. Petey’s breathing staggers, trying to catch it as if the girls can hear it through the barricade of the record store. It’s not a far out assumption – he doesn’t know what those ears can pick up, the gossip they’ve heard and passed on long before Petey even arrived in this city.
Petey stands up and presses himself tighter against the shelving, heart hammering. He can’t deal with fans right now. Not when Li’l Petey was still missing.
The horde makes it to the front of the record shop, and Petey stills when he hears the slap of their hands on the glass windows outside. He can feel their eyes tearing through the glass and the shelf he’s hiding behind, boring deep into his soul to where he feels exposed. Maybe he needs to move to a different aisle – one with taller shelves because the ones that are shielding him are starting to decrease, they are shrinking right?
Petey starts moving his body, hoping to sneak away to another aisle without being seen or looking crazy. He edges sideways, hoping this will put him in the blindspot of the horde outside, when he collides – hard – into someone else just entering the aisle.
The guy stumbles back with a grunt, nearly dropping the stack of records he is carrying. Scruffy, shirt tucked in but still loose near his beltline, his fur all over the place as though he’d just rolled out of bed. He shoots Petey a look that is somewhere between startled and vaguely annoyed.
Petey falls back on his ass from the collision but also from the fear that he’d just run into someone that must know him – after all, the guy’s looking directly at him, staring at his face. He sees his features, every detail on his body that makes Petey recognizable to the public eye. If only he’d brought a hat to cover up his face, but he was in such a hurry to try and find his son he hadn’t thought to bring some sense of a disguise.
“Shh,” Petey hisses, finger to his lips, slowly lifting his head to peer over the shelf before he immediately ducks back down into a crouch. “Don’t rat me out.”
The guy blinks at him, unimpressed. He rolls his eyes.
And suddenly, something instills inside of Petey – protection over his reputation, perhaps. He’s not quite sure but the anger is starting to boil somewhere deep inside because who the hell does this guy think he is, rolling his eyes at Petey like that?
“I’m serious,” Petey says, almost a growl hidden beneath his words. “You better not rat me out, jive turkey.”
All he’s met with is a raised eyebrow and a huff, obviously becoming ticked off by Petey’s sudden rudeness – but all the cat feels at this revelation is pride. He loves getting under people’s skin, especially those certain types of fans that just won’t leave him alone – like this fool holding the stack of records.
They stare each other down in a battle to see who has the upper ground here: some simple record store employee who doesn’t even matter, or a famous actor whose net worth and monthly income is leagues above this youngblood’s weekly paycheck. Staring down this fool, Petey takes notice of something – there’s nothing there in his eyes. Not awe, not excitement. Just mild irritation, like he’d bumped into some random jerk in the supermarket.
Petey almost lets out an unpleasant sound of a sigh, not vibing with the slow realization that he has to explain more of his actions to this guy. “I’m trying to keep a low profile,” he says, voice soft and hiding. He takes a glance back at the front again. “It’s kind of important.”
The guy shakes his head and rolls his eyes again – what is this, his signature move or something? – completely unbothered as he sighs through his teeth, lips moving as the sigh morphs into a raspberry to the air. He’s clearly not giving out any sympathy points here, and it grates Petey’s gears to no end. He’s not asking for much, just for his location to stay a secret.
And anyway, this guy should consider himself blessed to be standing in the presence of him – honored, even, that Petey has let him stay this close to him for this long. The least he can do is help a cat out. Hell, he’d even give him an autograph for the trouble – Petey’s trouble, at least. There’s no way this is affecting the jive turkey nearly as bad.
Petey narrows his eyes. “Look, just – stay groovy, alright? I’m just handling something.” He nearly barfs after he says the G word, a bad taste suddenly lingering on his tongue.
There’s a hum from above him, and then the essence of a small smirk – a proud one, as if the guy knows that he’s won the war, as if he likes the agony that punches him in the jaw whenever he says that word. Petey finds that it might be one of the worst things in the world – absolutely despising it. The guy shifts the records under his arm and turns, clearly about to leave.
Against his better judgement and who he is as a person, Petey reaches out and catches his sleeve lightly. “Seriously. Don’t rat me out. You better not do it.”
Eyebrows furrowing, the employee almost looks like he’s about to scoff at the request, trying to decode what gives this cat the audacity to boss him around like that. The stealing of authority seemed to ruffle both of their feathers, control over the situation being something the two of them each desired equally – though Petey will only and always admit that he has the better reasoning for why the situation should rather be in his hands rather than this stranger’s.
Reason number one: the bloke is currently stuffing his hands full of records – he can’t possibly hold anything else, so Petey should be the one to do it.
Petey doesn’t even see it, but there is still no spark of recognition, no idea that he is talking to someone whose face is plastered across billboards and theatre marquees in half the country. Instead, the guy just gives a heavy sigh like he’s had enough weirdness for one day. He shakes off Petey’s hand from his shirt sleeve and slides off to another aisle without a backwards glance.
The cat sits there after the guy leaves, the girls from outside starting to thin out. Petey can hear it in the way the bangs on the windows begin to dissipate and become few in number – they’re giving up, only seeing the guy from outside the record shop and realizing that it’s not worth their time. Petey can’t blame them for that, the dude is a total space cadet, a regular jive turkey. Ain’t nothing interesting about him at all.
Petey holds his breath to keep his heart from pounding on his ribcage, making noise that’ll alert the stampede again. So he waits until their voices fade away, which takes shorter than he believes, but it feels like years. Slowly, Petey peeks his face over the top of the shelf before he stands upright and lets out a deep breath of relief – the horde’s gone, now he can relax. And get back to finding his son. He wants nothing more than to get out of this store, but as an extra precaution in case there’s still a straggler out there waiting for him – so he stays put in the record shop for now.
When Petey steps out of the aisle and back into the main area of the record shop, he finally takes in his surroundings now that he’s not being frantic with a crazed look in his eye.
The heavy doors to the front help to muffle the outside roar to a distant hum, like the ocean heard through a thick wall. Inside, the air is cooler, heavy with the scent of old cardboard sleeves, vinyl, and the faintest trace of incense burning somewhere out of sight. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, buzzing faintly, casting everything in a soft yellow glow – like an old photograph starting to fade at the edges.
Crates of records are stacked shoulder-high, forming narrow, winding aisles of music that have yet to be put out for display and purchase. Rows of vibrant album covers flash by: psychedelic swirls, funk bands frozen mid-dance, rock gods snarling into microphones. Every now and then the floor underneath Petey’s feet creaked – a soft, tired groan of worn wood and a thousand footsteps before his.
A small radio sits on the counter, tuned low to a crackling soul station, the singer’s voice scratchy but warm as it drifts through the cluttered space. Posters line the walls, curling at the corners – promises of concerts already long past, rebellious slogans that even Petey might get behind if he wanted spray painted in neon colors.
Petey’s not much of a music guy, if he’s being honest – not like his son and the rest of the world seemed to be. It was like he was tuned into a different station than everyone else. Maybe some people tune into his, but they never do seem to stay for long, seem to be devoted like he is. He supposes that music is important, but it’s nothing compared to the magic of film – that’s something Petey knows he’ll never waver his opinion on.
It is a place stitched together with love and grime, tucked away from the manic heartbeat of the city outside. A place where time slows down, where Petey can almost believe that nothing urgent can ever happen.
Almost.
A toilet flushes somewhere off in the distance of the store, and Petey’s ears twitch and move, picking up the sound. He looks around the shop, trying to find the source as the sound of rushing water follows the flush and then a giggle – a familiar giggle, but Petey’s too focused on trying to find the sounds of the water to spend too much time on it.
His eyes don’t land on the door inside the record shop until it opens.
“I’m back, Mister Greg, and I made sure to wash my hands like you said,” Li’l Petey says as he walks out of the bathroom drying his little hands with a paper towel.
The guy from earlier – Greg, apparently – pokes his furry head out from another aisle and smiles over towards his son, nodding his head and giving him a thumbs up. Petey stands there frozen, not immediately running and embracing the kitten like he probably should be doing.
There were about a million possibilities and places Li’l Petey could have been – rotting in a ditch, kidnapped, left somewhere to fend for himself, or the worst of all: with his own father. He’s been focusing so hard on the negative scenarios that it never occurred to Petey that his son may have been being cared for by a nice stranger while they waited for Petey to eventually find him.
Maybe – Petey’s not exactly sure where he stands with Greg right now.
“Papa!” Li’l Petey gasps, his eyes widening when he sees Petey in the middle of the record shop, seeming to finally have taken in the rest of his surroundings – now there were three people in here instead of two. He abandons the paper towels in his hands and tosses them aside before he’s zipping through the middle of the record shop, beelining towards his papa.
Petey reacts quickly, crouching down on his heels and opening out his arms as the kitten runs straight into his chest. He wraps him up into a tight bear hug and picks him up, standing straight back on his feet. He doesn’t feel the tears of relief in his eyes until one slides down each cheek. He starts muttering curse words under his breath and claims that he’s so relieved that he’s safe, not caring if Li’l Petey hears it – visiting multiple sets of the movies Petey’s done, he knew the kitten was going to be exposed to the vulgar language.
If Li’l Petey hadn’t already been exposed to it by his grandpa already, that is.
“Of course I’m okay, papa,” Li’l Petey says, smiling as if he doesn’t know the emotional turmoil he just put his papa through – and he doesn’t. “Mister Greg made sure I was safe.”
Following his son’s finger that’s pointing somewhere, Petey’s gaze lands on Greg who is still holding the stack of records from earlier, but it has decreased some. He guesses that the guy had decided against purchasing some of the records and vinyls he had – a good choice, Petey knows. Spending money on music is a waste. The real value and worthwhileness is when it’s spent on a ticket to the cinema.
But Petey takes this opportunity to finally get a complete look at this supposed good guy his son claims to have helped him – not just an upwards view from the floor where he towers over the cat.
Greg’s wearing a striped shirt that looks as vintage as the record shop does – how fitting, must be a lover of the classics no doubt. It frames his body as though it was made for him, as though they are soulmates who have finally found each other in another lifetime. The color’s a bit faded, but Petey will admit that it is a rather nice shade of lilac – somehow matching the tone of the flair bell-bottom jeans he’s wearing. His sneakers rival the ones Petey’s wearing for his costume – where his are simple black shoes that show his ankles and the socks that he’s wearing, Greg’s were a comfortable navy blue converse.
Greg blinks and scrunches up his nose, eyebrows furrowing together, probably wondering why he’s being stared at and examined like some kind of freaky anomaly. He bends down and sets the remaining records in his hands on the ground and walks over to where Li’l Petey had thrown the damp paper towels so that he could pick them up and throw the bundle away – likely to keep this shop clean and welcoming to anyone else who walked through the doors.
Petey doubts that anyone else will ever come into this place.
“I’m sure he did,” Petey says, bringing himself back to the present moment. “But you can’t run off the set like that, kiddo. You didn’t even tell me you left.”
Li’l Petey nods. “I know that.”
His ear twitches, not even sure how to respond to that, because his son’s never done something like this while they were on set – always seeming so happy and content, always there to welcome Petey over with a clap and holler, always his biggest fan. He’s going to have to sit this kid down later and have a proper talk with him – when they’re back at their hotel, without prying eyes boring into the back of his skull.
Petey takes a deep breath, not the time and place to let out a spout of anger – especially in public, even though he doesn’t give a damn about the third body in the record shop. “Just… don’t ever do this again,” he says, soft. Not unkindly, but with a growl of real fear lingering in his chest. “You got me running through this grease-slick town like I’m in a noir film. With fans around, in this heat. ”
Li’l Petey nods, whispering something apologetic but Petey is too relieved to harp on it. With the kitten now holding his portable radio while in his papa’s arm, Petey uses his free hand and grabs the handle to the front door, pulling it halfway open until he hears a bark come from somewhere behind him and then feels Li’l Petey pulling at the sleeve to his leather jacket. Petey, looks down, utterly confused because he needs to get back to the set – the entire cast and crew is probably livid with him right now.
“We have to pay, papa,” Li’l Petey says, “we forgot.”
“We have to do what now?”
There is no combined team effort when it comes to money and paying for things. Always coming out of Petey’s pocket, while he does have a great surmount of money, he usually doesn’t spend any of it on a whim – especially on things he isn’t even interested in, like music. So he’s quite confused as to what his son is talking about. And he gives Li’l Petey this confusion through furrowed eyebrows and the crinkle of his eyes paired with a slight shake of his head, completely lost in this conversation. Li’l Petey hums something that means he expected his papa to know what he is referring to – since he’s been lectured on this very topic time and time again. He points again, this time turning his head so he can see where he wants his papa to focus as well.
To get to the point where they can finally leave, Petey complies with a sigh and turns his entire body around to see what the kid wants his attention drawn to this time.
Greg is leaning half over the counter by the waist, waving a record in his hand. His fur is still basically a bedhead, his shirt still perfectly vintage, but his expression is firm – not the least bit cowed.
He shakes the record towards the two of them and raises his eyebrows questioningly, as if that’ll be enough for Petey to understand what the hell he’s trying to say. The album cover is some bright colored cartoon of the band the album belongs to, something Petey doesn’t even believe his kid would even enjoy.
Li’l Petey brightens immediately, tugging at Petey’s leather jacket again. “Papa, can we–?”
Petey sighs through his nose, already calculating how quickly he can get out of this damn shop. He turns on his heels and walks back up the narrow aisles towards the counter, every step exuding reluctant celebrity grace. Petey leans one elbow lazily on the edge of the counter and gives Greg a practiced, casual smirk – the kind that usually smooths everything over. His chin is angled just enough for the light to catch the sharper edge of his features. A practiced move.
Greg stands back up straight and just stares at Petey over the counter, his eyes crinkling and head tilting as he tries to figure out what this dude’s trying to get at – what angle he’s trying to play. His eyes are scanning him up and down, and they’re such a sickening green that the first thing he compares them to is something that is less than desirable. Maybe a little rude, but this dude’s being an absolute prick.
He’s just trying to do business here, Greg is so over this attempt at flirting already – if that’s what it even is, it could just be a bruised ego. Now that would be fun to poke at.
Petey’s smirk deepens, almost satisfyingly so, as if this is the kind of reaction he expects – the kind of reaction he wants. “Too stunned to speak?”
Greg has to keep himself from gagging at both the question and the tone that’s used – how his voice sounds so smooth that it’d make anyone swoon, the voice of a well-known cad. Gross, skin crawling. But there’s an opportunity here, a chance to tear down this dude’s entire fragile personality. He looks around before finding a notepad and a pencil, reaching over and grabbing it. He takes less than a minute to write down what he wants to say. Putting the pencil down, he flips the notepad around.
I can’t speak.
And in an instant, the wind in Petey’s sails are no longer there, his face dropping his smugness to replace it with something akin to horror – absolute utter devastation that his tactic that most likely worked on everyone else has no effect on the guy trying to make him pay for the record his kid had been eyeing ever since he wandered into the shop.
Greg puts the pencil and notepad back down off to the side of the counter before he grabs the edge of the record and slides it back over near the register and taps the spot under the sticker with the price on it, obviously wanting to just get straight to the point. Pick out, purchase, leave. That’s how it should go – how it normally goes.
“Figures,” Petey says, his embarrassing devastation being replaced with masked coolness, something Greg doesn’t buy but plays into anyways – maybe it’ll get him out of the shop faster. Though he’d feel bad for the kid if that meant he didn’t get the record he wanted. “It’s too bad you can’t communicate any other way. Oh well, guess that means I have to bear the burden of the golden quips on my own in this dreary city.”
Greg raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on his hip, tapping the top of the record with the fingers on his other hand slowly. Well now he’s just going to mess with him even more – act dumb, act stupid. Be somebody he won’t remember when he leaves the city. Because he doesn’t look like a local at all.
If he’s trying to fool anyone, it sure isn’t working on him.
It’s not even the clothes that the cat’s wearing – although, admittedly, it did make the dude look like a greaser, if anything. Leather jacket, white t-shirt, black jeans, clean socks, and black shoes that framed the ankles perfectly – the only thing that’s missing is the rest of his gang.
Greg usually doesn’t get tourists down here either, so there’s that as well. The locals stumble their way in here most days, this place only getting remotely crowded and a sense of traction when a record or a vinyl for a new album has come out – people around here know that he gets the shipments of the new stuff here the fastest.
This is why Greg’s okay whenever he has slow days like this.
When the only customers he gets are a lost kid who gets entranced by the clever art of the records he has for sale and an erratic cat who rushes into the front door and hides behind one of the shelves, insisting that he’s someone important.
Greg can’t explain the strange phenomenon of the group of girls that were at the front of his store, drooling all over the windows – he’ll need to clean that later – but whatever the reason was, it didn’t require this dude to be so secretive, so sensitive to being seen. He doesn’t even want to get involved anymore than he already is.
“No matter,” Petey says with a careless shrug of his shoulders, “we’ll take the record, I suppose. Thanks.”
He goes to grab the record so that he and Li’l Petey can leave, but Greg’s reflexes are quicker and he pulls the record towards him over the counter, shaking his head. He keeps his one hand on the corner and lifts his other one, rubbing three of his fingers together.
Petey scoffs, eyes crinkling as if he just got personally offended – or shot in the heart. Pay. What with his own money?
He can flip this around, turn this back in his favor. Petey clears his throat and is smiling confidently again. “Look,” he says, voice low and smooth as if he was dealing some illegal alcohol. “You know who I am, let’s just call this even.”
Greg stares at him, deadpan. He doesn’t know what this jive turkey is doing, or what he is attempting to do. It’s not flirting, Greg knows that much, but it’s still some kind of persuasion, one the cat hopes will work on him and he’ll swoon with grace, give into the cat’s every wish and whim like some genie. It’s annoying, yet still mildly amusing with how off the hook these attempts were failing – he wants to laugh, but that’ll just delay this dude’s departure even more.
His kid’s cute, though. He’ll admit that.
Greg simply shakes his head.
The smirk falters a little, ego bruised. Petey straightens a little, but waves off the dismission and laughs. Right, like that would ever happen – someone not knowing who he is. He might hate getting chased down the street by fans, but he’d still like to be known. Known is good, hunted – not so much.
If this space cadet didn’t know who he was, then there is seriously a lack of culture there. Tragedy, even. Petey runs a hand through the fur on his head and makes a sound like a strangled sigh.
Greg slaps the record lightly against the counter, expression unchanging as he simply taps the sticker with the price on it again.
For a moment, Petey just blinks at him. He glances around the store like someone is playing a joke on him – like a manager is going to pop out and apologize for the misunderstanding, recognize him, roll out the red carpet. But no one does. It’s just him, Li’l Petey, and this asshole.
Maybe he can play dumb.
“Your gestures are kind of vague, man,” Petey says.
Greg’s eyebrow twitches. He sets the record down with a decisive thud and, without a word, begins signing with his hands — fast, sharp movements. Petey stares at him, uncomprehending.
If this guy wants a different form of communication, then by hell is Greg going to give it to him. He doesn’t know if Li’l Petey knows sign language, but he doesn’t stop the flow of his thoughts. While they were thoughts with vulgar language here and there, Greg still kept it professional and condensed for that small percentage of the kid knowing what he was saying.
This is still someone’s parent — this kitten’s — and Greg isn’t going to lose his decorum because of a difficult customer. He’s had plenty of those that give him experience with how to deal with the next one. He can handle this no problem, and this guy will be no different.
He’s gotta give him credit on his persistence though — no matter how annoying it is.
Greg’s just gotta have to prove that his willpower is even stronger than his.
Li’l Petey tugs on Petey’s jacket sleeve. “Papa, what is he doing with his hands?”
Petey’s mouth opens to answer his son’s question, but then closes it with a soft pop sound. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with his hands. He can’t answer the question. He shoots Greg a suspicious look.
Greg gives him the flattest, most insufferable smile Petey has ever seen and, with great theatrical flair from someone working in music, simply shrugs as if the realization that Petey is just a nobody here in this record shop — not some kind of star that Greg is bowing at his feet for, crying because he gets to be in the same room as this guy. He turns the record around to show the price sticker and taps it twice.
Petey grits his teeth.
With a deep, world-weary groan that sounds like he is lifting a ten-ton weight instead of a wallet, Petey pulls out some bills, slaps them down on the counter, and grabs the record with exaggerated reluctance. He tucks it under his arm, muttering as he turns back towards the door. Greg just gives him a little mock salute with two fingers, already turning to organize a messy stack of albums without a second glance.
Li’l Petey is following after his papa until he gasps, remembering something. He comes to a sudden halt, now placed right in the middle of the record shop between both Petey and Greg. He watches his papa get closer to the door before he turns to his right and looks back over at Greg who is still working on organizing the pile of albums.
“Wait papa,” he says, and Petey stops, body tightening. He takes a deep breath so he doesn’t let out a spout of anger at his son. He’s not mad, just eager to get back to the set – he’s been away too long, kept the cast and crew waiting so long they’re probably at their breaking point right now. When he does finally get back to the set, Petey can’t mess up the shot again, it’ll be the tipping point, which makes everything come crashing down.
After taking a couple deep breaths to keep himself calm, Petey turns around, his hand already on the front door that’s half-way open, half-way leading to his freedom. “What is it, kiddo?”
“You still need to say thank you,” Li’l Petey says, pointing over to the counter while he’s looking at his papa. “Mister Greg looked after me while you were away and kept me safe, you need to say thank you.”
Petey blinks, staring at his son before glancing over at the counter. Greg doesn’t seem to be listening to their conversation, probably used to tuning out conversations that are had in the shop while he’s busy organizing or restocking records or vinyls. Either that or his eardrums have been blown out from the level of music he probably listens to at home – the low volume here is probably to soothe those poor ears that he willingly mutilates.
He really doesn’t want to do this; saying sorry is something he’s never had to do outside of forgetting a line and stopping the shoot. But that’s to be expected with being an actor – part of the job that comes with the industry he’s in. Apologizing to a random record shop worker is so out of his wheelhouse, something he honestly needs to rehearse before he even does it. But then again, Petey’s not going to be in this city again once filming has wrapped up. He’ll go back to home base and that’ll be the end of that – the only semblance that this little store existed will be the record he’d bought for Li’l Petey.
And unfortunately, that means Petey has to apologize today – right now.
“Stay there,” Petey says, “I won’t be long.”
Taking his hand off the front door, Petey lets it close behind him as he starts walking back over towards the counter, navigating through the narrow aisles for what he hopes is the last time ever. Greg is still behind the counter, but has moved to another pile of albums, the finished one stacked in alphabetical order – most likely to create ease when putting them on the shelves. The radio volume is adjusted and Greg swings his head softly to the beat, as though the music is keeping him company while he works.
Petey doesn’t understand this at all, but then again he isn’t here to understand this guy – he’s here to apologize. Reluctantly. He feels as gracefully as a barn door swinging on a windy day.
He clears his throat, but Greg doesn’t look up.
Petey clears it louder, wondering if this dude really is deaf, because he's not sure if his voice can get any louder. Or maybe he’s just simply ignoring him — having dealt with him enough for the day, for his lifetime even. And that’s the only thing Petey can’t fault him for, honestly. He’d be out of here if his kid wasn’t expecting him to apologize.
Greg takes out some of the records from their sleeves and examines both sides, checking to see if there are any scratches or dents, damages that’ll make him have to order a new set so no one buys the damaged versions — which, in turn, can lead to a lawsuit. He goes through four disks before he pulls out one where a side was scratched. His eyes crinkled, checking the other side before setting off on the back counter and continuing to examine the other disks in the stack. The record keeps playing on.
Fine. Petey will stoop down to this guy’s level.
“Hey,” he starts, and Greg blinks, his head tilting up before looking over at Petey. Oh, okay. So he was ignoring him — wonderful. This might have just made his apology even less genuine than it would’ve been.
“Um, listen,” Petey says, fixing the sleeve to his leather jacket, almost checking to make sure it hasn’t ripped instead of looking Greg in the eye. “I don’t know if you heard, but my son told me to come back and say,” he coughs, leaning into his arm so it’s muffled, “thanks.”
Greg raises an eyebrow, hands still holding the records.
Petey’s eyes narrow, not going to say it again. He paid his dues, now it was Greg’s turn to show gratitude towards his thanks, his generosity of expressing such emotion when it comes to the safety of his kid. He almost scowls. “Don’t make a big thing about it, okay?”
Simply shrugging, Greg sets down the record sleeves he’s been holding and leans over the edge of the counter by the waist casually, arms crossed. He signs something — short and simple even though he knows Petey doesn’t understand him, just trying to ruffle his feathers again because it’s fun.
Petey’s eyes crinkle, the whole situation making his fur itch. Greg hasn’t said anything, and it makes him feel as though he still owes the guy something — but he doesn’t. Petey loathes being the one in debt, even socially. It sticks to him like gum on a hot sidewalk.
Trying to smooth things over — maybe just out of social obligation now — Petey jerks a thumb over his own shoulder towards the street outside the record shop. “Listen. I owe you for looking after my kid — and I hate owing people things. How about I treat you to lunch tomorrow?”
Greg blinks, eyes crinkled and eyebrows raised again. He crosses his arms over his chest, not seeming to be convinced. He’s studying Petey, his eyes flicking over the front part of his body — the half that he can see. Maybe he’s studying if the cat’s lying, or if he’s trying to work out if this is some kind of scam, one that’ll leave him broke.
He bends up one of his arms while the other stays down over his chest and rubs his fingers together again.
Petey watches the movement before he’s scoffing. “It is not hypocritical for me not to want to pay for the record but willingly offer to buy you lunch. That’s out of common courtesy, something you really need to have.”
Greg blinks and gives him a look as his arms cross back over his chest again. It’s super hypocritical, actually. He’s just trying to do his job here — and anyone who wants to buy a record or vinyl here has to pay for it. Greg’s not unreasonable, unlike how this guy seems to think he is. Some fake big shot that’s full of himself.
He leans his head over to check the records he’d put down earlier, both of them letting the silence in the air make a home here — expecting the other to say something, even if realistically, only one of them can accomplish this.
Greg thinks about reminding Petey this in some way to keep messing with him, but decides against it because he does need to check the rest of these records — secretly wishing it was closing time and he could boot him out of here. But that still goes against some of his morals.
So the silence stays. Until it doesn’t.
“Meet me, um… is there a park here?” Petey asks.
Greg blinks, nodding.
“Okay, meet me at the park around one. You’ll have to pick the joint because I have no idea where the hell I’m even going in this city.” Petey says, about the first real and truthful thing he’s said to this guy ever since he crashed in here looking for a hiding spot.
Greg shrugged his shoulders but nodded, giving the cat a simple thumbs up.
“Alright then,” Petey says, taking a deep breath as he clears his throat again. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that, Petey turns around, grabbing Li’l Petey’s hand on his way towards the front door before he pulls it open and then takes both him and his son to the record shop for good, walking down the sidewalk until the two of them completely disappear from the window of the building.
Greg watches the two of them leave, waving to the kitten and then waiting until they disappear from the shop windows before he goes back to work. He took another look at the disk that he needs to replace, looking at the record sleeve for that information — an easy reorder, they always are. Greg sets the broken record aside and gathers the rest of the records from both the second and first piles before heading towards an aisle, no longer having any surprise guests loitering in the aisles — the last place he expected to find someone hiding like that.
If he’s being honest with himself, Greg’s not sure why he even agreed to this lunch tomorrow. He slides into one of the aisles and begins shelving the records he holds in his arms.
Maybe it was out of social obligation — he’d been offered to be treated for lunch after looking after the kitten even though he didn’t even have to. So in a way, he’s owed this gesture for the kind deed he did – but Greg never takes advantage of something like this, ever. He loves helping people in need. He’s not attached to this city quite as much as the other locals here, but he loves this record shop because he gets to work with music.
Greg adjusts one of the records as it slips to the left, fixing it so that it stands straight on the shelf again.
It can’t be something as simple as that. Especially since the cat is incredibly rude, self-centered even. Having the mindset that he doesn’t need to pay for things really got under Greg’s skin, just the moral principle of saying something like that – as if there’s a silver spoon up his nose. He’s completely insufferable, a pain in the ass, as though he has a mirror hanging in front of his face at all times.
And, Greg realizes, is someone he doesn’t even know the name of. He’ll have to ask him that tomorrow.
And yet, there’s something intriguing about him. He looked absolutely lost as soon as he burst through the front doors, as if he didn’t know what to look at or even how to navigate the aisles of this shop. Greg will admit that even his son had better direction in the store than he did, having found the bathroom pretty quickly when all Greg gave him for directions was a point of his finger since he was busy at the time slotting in records on a shelf.
So he’s not familiar with music, that should’ve been quite obvious from the beginning – and if not, then it should’ve hit Greg once he started bargaining to get the record for free instead of paying for it. He didn’t see the value in owning a record, a piece of someone’s soul put into words with instruments behind it – absolutely incredible.
A real challenge, but a welcome one at that.
Maybe that’s why Greg accepted the lunch offer – not just because this guy intrigued him, attitude and all despite how frustrating he is, but because of the challenge he’s presented Greg with, something to test his skills and music know-how on. There’s something beautiful about music, something movies can’t quite capture, but that’s a thought for another time. He’s got work to do for tomorrow, and as he’s shuffling away the records into the shelves, he examines each one to see which one is the best when introducing someone to the beauty that is music.
This cat thinks the only worthwhile media form is the visual of moving pictures, of sitting down in a cinema and watching images flash before his eyes.
Well come tomorrow, Greg’s going to show him what real culture sounds like.