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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.