#karl.

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The shop after-hours was one of Gannon’s favorite places to be. Empty, labyrinthine aisles of hand-picked albums awaited his perusal under dim, yellow light. Incense burned in several corners of the room: ethereal staircases spiraling up toward the ceiling — and an old Technics 1200 spun his favorite b-sides & 45′s as he cataloged.

It was a rare night that wasn’t spent in the sound booth downstairs in The Basement or at another venue, lost in a wall of sound. It was where he was most comfortable anymore — low light to obscure reality, no need to speak, the ability to disappear into the droning, transcendental waves of vast, expansive soundscapes for a spell. Everything else just fell away.

Tonight was different; the vet found himself looking forward to meeting up with an old friend. Karl had been touring the country for what seemed like eons, but he’d finally come home. As busy and successful as he’d become, he’d still made time in his schedule to catch up, have a beer. Gannon was, uncharacteristically and for lack of a better word, stoked. 

When he heard the front door rattle with a knock, he looked up from the stacks of black metal he’d been meaning to stock.