Is it actually that everybody in indie record stores is high? wonders Marie. Or is it an attitude they cultivate? Dropped eyes, slow moves, effortless cruelty to the less-enlightened: no, it can’t just be drugs, she thinks while Costello and Bacharach clatter on the counter. Stoners tend to be nicer.
“Need to fix the vinyl,” says Curly in monotone, swiping a laser. “Rilo Kiley.”
“That’s the actual band, right?” asks Moe.
“Yeah,” says Shep, barely not yawning. “It shouldn’t have a comma in it. Just so you know.”
Score one for the long-hair, thinks Marie, trying hard to hide a smile.