I worked at the record shop for four and a half months before I bailed. I would’ve liked to do it for longer, I liked the actual work, but I hated the boss too much. It was a difficult decision, though, because I spent half the week working in one branch where he patronised me and smelled bad and my colleagues froze me out; and the other half working in another branch where my colleagues and I bonded over our shared hatred of him, and we had a good laugh and they kept my sanity intact. The cons just about outweighed the pros, though, and I thought fuck it, and left.
I went out for dinner with friends to celebrate after I worked my last day – 22 of us, I remember, because there were no chairs left downstairs in the Nile Valley. And then there were more drinks and then a gig at the backpackers’ hostel, French emo or something, and then I kissed #109, who was in a band with an ex-flatmate of mine.
We saw each other for a couple of weeks. I don’t remember too much; I remember that I got my first tattoo during that time, and worried about whether it was healing right (it was). And I remember him saying one morning, “This is one of the really annoying things about me: I’m always giving people massages”, which is one of the best annoying things anyone could ever do.
I’d already warned him about the Two-Week Panic, though, and it was like clockwork: two weeks in, I figured we’d better stop what we were doing. Luckily he seemed to feel the same way. I heard not long after that that he’d been a little freaked out at how many people I knew, but I’m not sure exactly where to file that, what kind of a problem it actually translates to. Not sure.
Anyway, we lost touch, but there were never any dramas. I think I maybe heard he got married and moved to Fife and has a stepson, but I may have totally made this up or something.