## Armchair Video - Fall 1994 The front door rattled shut as a young woman rushed in, quickly sliding behind the checkout island. She knelt and stashed her backpack and hoodie in the cabinet under the workstation. "Hey, you must be Lara." The voice came from the video re-shelving area at the back of the island. "I’m Jason, the assistant manager on the back half of the week.” “Oh, hey,” Lara said, smoothing the wrinkles from her shirt and straightening up. “Sorry I’m a little late, traffic’s bad.” “You should probably go punch in. I’ll adjust your timecard later” Jason said. “Oh s-shoot. Yeah, let me run and do that.” Lara flushed, turned, and walked toward the back room. Walking back to the front, Lara saw Jason shouldering a tower of returned tapes. Jason walked toward her island, asking, “Is this your first Friday night shift?” "Yeah. When Mindy hired me, she said I had to work at least one Friday or Sa-Saturday," Lara said. Her face flushed with shame at the stutter. “We’re a solid crew. Shannon, Mick, and I have this shift down. We’re out of here at midnight, like clockwork,” Jason said, heading toward the New Release wall. “Welcome to Armchair Video,” Lara said, her thin smile a mask. She felt the familiar dread settle in, bracing herself for the barrage of questions. The trailer audio boomed from the ceiling speakers. A bombastic voice—half game show host, half drill sergeant—barked over the on-screen chaos: “The most anticipated release of 1994, Jurassic Park. Rent it today!” Fifty TVs lined the back wall, framed in flickering red and blue neon, their lights strobing with T-Rex jaws and raptor attacks—a full sensory assault. _These trailers are exhausting. I can’t believe I have to listen to them all night. Not even a week in and I already want out. Dealing with customers is the worst. But at least they’re giving me a shot. Everyone’s been decent so far._ Spotting a teenager heading her way, she called out, "Hello, I can help you over here." "Did you find what you were looking for?" "Yeah, I think so," the kid said, placing three videos on the counter. "Been waiting for these to come back for a while." Lara grabbed the videos and placed them on the counter. "Got your membership card? Or a phone number to look up the account?" "It’s my mom’s account. She said she'd pay the late fees next time." He slid over a battered, delaminating card. Lara took it and angled it under the scanner. "Thanks, here's your card back. So it looks like there are three dollars in late fees. Just let your mom know they’ll have to be paid before your next rental." Lara said, popping open the first clamshell, checking the tape inside. "Let's see what you grabbed." "_Bubble Gum Crisis I_ and _II_. And—_Vampire Hunter D_," she read. "Looks like the first tape isn't rewound," she said, her voice flat. "I'll just toss it in the rewinder for you." She pointed to the clunky machine behind her. "Ok, yeah, cool, thanks. It takes forever to do at home," he said. She turned and put the tape in the rewinder, then looked back at him. "Are these Japanese cartoons? I’ve never watched one." “They’re anime. Not cartoons,” Mick interjected from the video return station next to her. “Oh, s-sorry I didn't know there was a difference,” Lara said, wearing more flush than smile. She returned to her till and scanned the videos, her voice dropping into an automatic patter. "These are all 5-day rentals, so they'll be due by 8 p.m. on Wednesday. Four fifty is your total." "Out of five." “Hey Mick, I’m out of quarters,” Lara said over her shoulder. “I’ll sell you some from my till,” Mick said, heading to the register next to her. He stacked four quarters onto the counter next to Lara. “After you’re done, grab a ten from your till and hit Jason up for a roll,” he said. “I'll manage the line until you get back.” *** "How’re you getting home?" Jason asked, shrugging into his coat. "I usually take the 72. It drops me a couple blocks from my place," Lara said, pulling on her Stussy hoodie. Jason frowned. "At midnight? That thing comes what—once an hour after ten?" "Yeah, something like that." He glanced out the glass doors. Rain slicked the parking lot, soaking up the yellow-orange haze of the overhead streetlamp. "It's cold. Wet. And this neighborhood’s gotten hella sketchy. Some jackass tried to steal the drop box last month." "I'm used to sketchy," Lara said, forcing a smile. "I grew up in Sacramento. Not exactly Beverly Hills. I’ll be fine." Jason hesitated, then called over his shoulder, “Hey Mick! Where you at?” Mick’s voice rose from three aisles over. “Anime section. What’s up?” “You think we can give Lara a ride home?” “Yeah, no problemo. I’m almost done—got two more videos to shelve. Oh, and can you check out a movie for me?” Jason rolled his eyes. “Hurry up. System’s already shut down—we’re waiting on you.” “Got it. All done, boss,” Mick said, popping up and stretching as he walked toward the front. “Where do you live, Lara?” “Just off Argay. Near 122nd.” “Oh. That’s kinda sketchy. We’re not gonna get robbed out there, are we?” “Don’t be a dick, dude,” Jason said, shooting him a look. "What? That’s like right near the Wooden Chicken. People get shot over there all the time," Mick retorted. "Guys, it’s fine. I can take the bus," Lara interjected, suddenly self-conscious. "Ha, fuck that. I’m just messing with you," Mick said. "It’s cool. Plus, if I get home any later, my mom’ll have kittens." "Jesus, Mick. You’re a dick—but I like your mom. She brings us cookies and shit," Jason laughed. Shannon waved as he headed out. "Later, weirdos. Don’t die." Mick held up _Angel's Egg._ "I’m taking this movie." "You watch the wierdest movies." Jason said. "Make sure you bring it back—I’m not checking it out on your account. I heard how long you kept the last one." Mick headed for the door. "Let me go fire up the truck—it hates the cold." Jason turned back to Lara. "You’re not taking the bus tonight. Mick’s truck’s a tight squeeze, but it beats the hell out of a wet-ass bus stop. He’s taking me home too. I got a Dewey back in July, so I’m off the road." "Okay. Thanks," Lara said. "I’m gonna step out for a quick smoke while you guys wrap up." "I’ll finish closing and meet you at the truck," Jason said. *** Mick sat hunched behind the wheel of his 1975 Toyota pickup—faded Lake Blue, three hubcaps, the bed scarred from years of abuse. With two sandbags slumped in back like dead monk seals. He turned the key. The engine sputtered, choked, then caught with a reluctant growl. He jabbed the heater knob to stop the cold air blast, cracked the wing window to clear the windshield fog, then grabbed a rag from the bench seat and started wiping the glass. Through the smudged haze, he saw Lara crossing the lot. He leaned over and popped the lock. She opened the door and poked her head in. “Jason said he’ll be here in a sec.” Mick nodded. “Truck needs a couple minutes to warm up. Got a smoke to spare?” Lara pulled a crushed pack of Newports from her hoodie and shook one loose. “You even old enough to smoke?” “Technically? No. But all my friends are eighteen, and I will be in—” he checked an imaginary watch, “—nine months.” Lara smirked, handing him the cigarette. “Relax. I’m just screwing with you.” Mick lit up just as Jason emerged from the store, locking the glass doors behind him. Jason lit his own smoke as he crossed the lot. “Alright, alright. Let’s get moving.” They piled in, Lara taking the middle, wedged between Mick and Jason on the sheepskin-covered bench. *** As Mick pulled out onto Fremont and upshifted, his elbow nudged Lara’s knee. “Okay, fair warning,” he said, glancing over. “The gearshift’s a little loose, and you’re in the middle. So if I bump your leg, that’s why. Not being a creep.” Jason snorted. “Jesus, man. Just say it’s a tight fit, she's not gonna sue you.” Lara laughed. “Appreciate the heads-up, Mick. But you should’ve really warned me about the seat springs. These things feel like they’re trying to guess my safe word.” Mick cracked up. “You’re not wrong. This truck’s built entirely of tetanus and bad decisions.” “Hang on—heads—” Mick braked too late and bounced them through a pothole-riddled intersection. Lara and Jason both lifted off the seat a couple inches. “Up. Bouncy intersection,” Mick added, a second too late. “These lap belts are a joke,” Jason muttered, rubbing the top of his head. “At least you have one,” Mick said. “Sorry, Lara. Bus might’ve been safer.” Mick opened the glove box and flipped on the hidden pullout stereo. _I got a bowling ball in my stomach_ _I got a desert in my mouth_ Drifted through the paper-thin door speakers, hollow and raw. They rode in silence for the rest of the song. The truck slipping through Portland’s damp streets under a haze of shadow and sodium-orange light. The engine growled low, tires humming over wet asphalt as the east side unfolded around them. After a long pause, Lara spoke—soft, almost to herself. “Mick… I don’t think you understand what that song says to me. Tori Amos… there’s power in her lyrics. It hurts my soul.” Mick cleared his throat. “So… 122nd and Argay, right?” “Yeah,” Lara said, her gaze hollow as she stared through the windshield—seeing less of the road and more of her own thoughts. “Just past the K-Mart. Two blocks or so.” Jason pointed. “Holy shit—that’s the Wooden Chicken?” Mick chuckled. “Told you. My buddy from school lives out here. Before this job, we were always getting into dumb shit.” “Right here,” Lara said suddenly. “Right as in… right turn? Or left into that complex?” Mick asked, pumping the brakes. “Sorry—turn right at that sign. Piedmont Palisades. It's a bumpy driveway.” “Piedmont Palisades,” Jason repeated. “Who the hell names these places?” “Thanks, guys. Just drop me at visitor parking. I’ll walk from there. The guy I’m seeing gets paranoid—kind of possessive—and I really don’t want to deal with him tonight.” Lara's voice was careful, tinged with shame. “No problemo,” Mick said, easing into an empty spot. Jason hopped out, and Lara shimmied out from the middle seat. “I’m not working again ‘til Sunday. Either of you on then?” “Nope. Sunday’s the _‘Lord’s’_ day at my house,” Mick said, his voice flat and bitter, the air quotes practically audible. “I’m off ‘til Tuesday,” Jason said. “Catch you next week.” *** “Can we swap out the tape? Is this Tori Amos your mom’s?” Jason said, jabbing the eject button. “Nah, I actually like that album. I’ve got STP, Alice in Chains… maybe Green Day, oh there's a mix tape in there too.” Mick replied as he merged onto the dark, eastside street. “Mixtape it is.” Jason slid the tape in, and the speakers crackled to life. The music barely rose above the tire hum from the wet road. “Look, man,” Jason said, flicking his Zippo to life. “You’ve got a thing for Lara. I can see it.” Mick took the offered Marlboro, brow furrowed. “No. I don’t.” “You do. You just don’t know it yet. Same thing happened with Brandy—you got all polite, helpful, like she was made of glass. But Brandy was harmless. She was, what—maybe a year older than you?” Jason exhaled smoke out the cracked window. “Lara’s different. She’s not someone you want to get close to. Hell, she probably doesn’t _let_ people get close. Cute, yeah—but she’s got baggage. And sounds like she’s already got a boyfriend you don’t want to mess with. Next time, ask about the tattoo on her arm. It’s shitty—stick and poke—but look closer at her forearm. She’s a cutter.” Mick exhaled smoke. “I don’t even know what that is.” Jason stared ahead. “Ask around at school next week. If nobody tells you, I'll explain on our next shift.” *** ## Blackout Playlist: Mazzy Star - "Into Dust" Lara slides the key into the deadbolt, careful not to jiggle it. Each tumbler clicks softly. No lights on inside—good. She hopes Trey’s asleep. Or out. Either is better than awake. Slowly, she turns the key. Eases the bolt open. Twists the knob and nudges the door inward. The smell hits first—fetid weed, sharp and sour, like a dead skunk. Then Nag Champa and cloves—sweet, spicy, textbook hippie cover-up, way too cheerful for the rest of the stink. She steps onto the kitchen tile, avoiding the squeaky board just inside the threshold. Her eyes adjust: dishes stacked in the sink, Carl’s Jr. wrappers wadded on the table, the same half-unpacked moving boxes sagging along the wall. The streetlight carved bars of yellow across the linoleum, her shadow caged within them—trapped like a prisoner in her own life. She turned, eased the door shut, let the latch catch, and locked it. Shoes off. She leaned against the fridge for balance and set the damp shoes on top of the boxes. Empty living room. She exhaled, tension finally beginning to loosen. Hoodie off, tossed over a kitchen chair. Shirt unbuttoned as she moved down the hallway. The bedroom’s dark. No Trey. She sighed—relief and exhaustion tangled together. She tossed her shirt on laundry pile. She pulled an oversized tee from the closet, stripped off her pants, and slid the shirt over her head. Then she stepped into the bathroom, hands braced on the sink. Her reflection stared back: hollow eyes rimmed in gray, bleached hair frazzled and poking out at odd angles from her cowlick. She opened the mirrored cabinet. Prescription bottle—orange plastic, rattle and click. A small mound of Ativan spilled into her palm. She set aside two pills and returned the rest, snapping the lid shut. Back in the kitchen, she grabbed a pint glass, poured in half a glass of vodka, and topped it off with the flat, half-drunk Sprite from the to-go cup on the table. She popped the pills and chased them down in one quick gulp. In the living room, she loaded the CD from the purple album into the boombox. Random. Play. The disc spun. The opening riff bled from the speakers, hollow as her pulse. She lowered herself onto the cigarette-burned loveseat and sank—slow and silent—like slipping beneath a black ocean. Her nearly empty glass landed on the coffee table with a dull clink. She exhaled again, as if even the air had finally given up on her too.