Cameron's Cult Classics
This store is appropriately wall to wall films. There are very few empty spaces on the brick walls, the majority taken up by posters and wall racks. There are even racks of movies in the aisles, although it's not incredibly crowded. There's ample leg room for multiple patrons. Most of the films aren't everyone's cup of tea. They veer very far from mainstream, with large sections devoted to surrealist works, horror, and foreign films. There's only one rack that has the more familiar new releases, and a sign hangs above it reading Vanilla Releases. Near the entrance sits the counter, giving the clerk a bird's eye view of the entire store. Behind the desk is a door that leads into a smaller room which houses all of the actual copies of videos and DVDs. Towards the back of the store is a short corridor bathed in red light. Above the entrance to it hangs a sign that says in bold red lettering: Den of Sin. A smaller sign beneath it indicates that no one under the age of eighteen is allowed beyond that point.
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The early evening has brought little relief from the stifling heat of a Texas summer. Temperatures of over 100 degrees at midday has only dropped to the high 80s. The sun is a bright, orange ball slipping below the horizon as Desiree parks her car outside of Cameron's Cult Classics, a store she's never visited before today. Max, her intrepid agent, has suggested she go there and offer herself up for an afternoon of drooling Capt. Sunshine fans. She is, after all, a veteran of the canceled show, and she needs a little income with her arm being broken.
The level of her enthusiasm for such a project — especially when it came from her agent, not the store owner — is much lower than the temperature outside. With a sigh, she opens the door and enters. Her first glance tells Desiree this is one strange business, but far be it from her to pass judgment. Hopefully, the owner is in and she can get this over with.
~~@~~
Max is all kinds of busy and proactive lately. Steve is still wearing sunglasses when he shows up at the agent's behest, even though the light is dim enough at dusk that they're not strictly necessary. He parks around the corner and walks in just a minute or so after Desiree's appearance. "Oh, hey," he says, sounding mildly surprised. "You dispatched here, too?"
~~@~~
Desiree isn't really surprised to see Steve. Max is anything if not convincing, and she figured if this gig idea had something to do with "Villina," then Capt. Sunshine couldn't be far behind. "Oh, yeah. Whenever he can't find something else for me to do, he falls back on my brief flirtation with fame." She rolls her eyes heaven-ward, shaking her head. "So, no idea if the owner's even here," she says to Steve. "The kid behind the counter doesn't look quite old enough to own a business, let alone remember Capt. Sunshine and his Arch Villianess." She chuckles. "Well, shall we beard the teenager in his den and find out who owns this collection Trivial Pursuit questions?" She takes a step toward the counter, smiling as the kid turns toward her.
~~@~~
Steve takes off his sunglasses and puts them in a shirt pocket, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Man," he says. "I just got back, too. I don't know if I want them to say 'yes' or 'no.'" He stuffs one hand in his pocket while holding onto the cane with the other. "I'll leave it to you," he says. "After all, don't they say you catch more flies with honey?"
~~@~~
Young Tommy McQueen doesn't often see customers like this woman, so it's no surprise he gapes at her when she approaches. "Y-yes, M'am, how can I help you." He unconsciously wipes a sweaty hand on his jeans, standing up from the stool where he usually perches, the teenager attempts a pleasant smile, but it just doesn't work. He's not the pleasant smiling type. When she asks if the owner is in, he just shakes his head. "Nah, he's gone. You gotta message you wanna leave him?" He can't help being an awkward, greasy-haired eighteen year old with roaming eyes. Not when faced with a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Which clicks. "Hey, didn't you do Sports Illustrated's last swimsuit edition?" Ah, the poor man's PLAYBOY.
~~@~~
Steve looks dubiously at the teen boy. Was he ever that awkward? Not according to him, anyway. "Hey, Des," he says, "Maybe you ought to just sell autographed copies of your resume, since it sounds like people have pretty much memorized the pictures."
~~@~~
There's a smile on Desiree's face. The "honey" comment gets her to chuckling as she approaches the youth behind the counter. His question makes her take a deep breath, slowly exhaling for patience. "No, that was Helen Katz. We look similar." Her voice is pleasant enough, but a little on the cool side. She glances at Steve, shaking her head at him. "You're one to talk," she says, turning back to the young man. Reading his name tag, she smiles. "Tommy, is it? Yes. Tommy, is the owner in?" Ah, such a sweet, Texas accent. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
~~@~~
It takes Tommy a few minutes to realize he's staring at the small "vee" of red silk showing at the top of Desiree's suit. Just that hint of cleavage, and the rest of her. He can't see below her waist, but he'd bet she had gorgeous legs, too. "Uh…" Caught off guard at the silence which follows her question, Tommy doesn't know what to do or say. "Uh, I can … I guess I can take yer number, an' have him give you a call?" To which he attempts to find the post-it notes and a pen. "Here ya go. I'll put it on his computer so he'll see it first thing." The grimy post-its are shoved toward her, along with a pen.
~~@~~
Steve gives a tilted smile instead of a witty comeback. "Nobody's memorized /my/ pictures," he says. "Except maybe the folks back home. But they don't want autographs, let me tell you." He turns to inspect a shelf of 'staff picks.' "Do you like signing autographs?" he asks. One assumes he's talking to Desiree.
~~@~~
"I guess we're lucky it's not one of those comic book stores," Steve answers. "But, yeah, let's go get a drink or something. I had to be good the whole time I was away, you know." He lifts his brows to communicate how difficult that was. "I had to be on set every morning at like seven."
~~@~~
"There's the jazz club not too far from here. You have your car, so you can follow me," Desiree says. "They serve decent drinks, in case you've never been there. Music's good, too." She's making her way toward the door, giving the kid a smile as she pushes out of the store. Outside, she turns to wait for Steve, the heat not quite as bad as earlier. "Man, that place is weird," she says, voice pitched so Steve can hear but no one else. "And that kid kept staring at my chest! I felt positively naked." She gives a shiver. "Creepy." As she heads to her car, she looks at her old friend. "I heard you were off to some exotic location filming something. You can spill the gorey details over a drink."
~~@~~
"I think I know the one," Steve says. When they get back out to the street, he smiles lopsidedly. "Come on, he's like eighteen and you're the prettiest girl who's probably ever been in there. Can't be the first time you've had your chest stared at, right?" Apparently he at least has some sympathy for awkward eighteen year olds. "I mean, not that it's cool or whatever," he thinks to add. "Maybe he'll learn some social skills sometime." He digs his keys out of his pocket. "Yeah, I'll meet you there."
To Be Continued…?
