It is 8am. Shutters caked with generations of graffiti are relieved from holding the front line. Hobson undoes the lock at the bottom and lifts the gritty veil from the storefront. He does this slowly as his back does not reach peak elasticity until at least noon. Hobson is young but years of eating like an unsupervised tween have left him in less than desirable shape. Pulling out a large ring of keys he singles out the one he needs from the chaff and opens the door to begin the day. Hobson is not the religious sort but considers ritual paramount. Each morning was exactly like the last.

Step one: Tunes.

There’s something about the needle’s hiss as it hits a record. The voice given to the gap between touchdown and the start of an album that speaks every language. For a flash the world is wrapped in eager anticipation for the event to begin. If the record in question is one that’s been desperately expected, the gap could appear to stretch indefinite before quenching aural thirst. Hobson reveled in its majesty.

Step two: Fix up the joint.

While he didn’t own the store, Hobson cared for it like it were his pride and joy. As the music played he would tenderly rearrange all of the records that were mussed up by looky-loos and serious connoisseurs alike, restoring them to their properly merchandised glory. His rounds rarely included any gruesome custodial duties but he would occasionally play exterminator to clear out silverfish lurking in the nooks and crannies. The store attracted all manner of vintage memorabilia, so there were plenty of wares to bring the pests in and keep them coming.

Step three: Coffee:

The break room was nothing to write home about with the exception of the coffee. Anton, the owner, was a man who appreciated a humble aesthetic, usually opting for whatever best reconciled value and efficacy. Coffee however was the singular luxury he demanded. La Colombe’s Kenyan Blend was Anton’s sole conceit and though the finer details of the flavor were lost on Hobson he thought it smelled nice. He pours his joe into a chipped KISS mug and makes his way to the front where a gaggle of would be customers await opening. He stares at them and takes a sip. The clock reads 8:56, four extra minutes won’t kill them.