of a 1960s row of phone booths crowded floor space - which more like crowded out customers, who were there to buy phones, tablets and related things. Max found what he needed, got in line, and couldn't wait to be done, and get out. That music, was anything but 1960s; as a boy ye had heard some of that era's music. What was blaring from the speakers wasn't exactly the Beach Boys, or the Hollies, or the Lettermen.
He popped another antacid into his mouth. Stomach was acting up again. He'd considered calling for an appointment, but when? Besides, he really didn't want any parts of that - the new-ageyish lectures - unless absolutely necessary...goodnight, they acted like if you didn't take this, that, and the other sort of vita/meds, you were everybit as neglectful, as health-irresponsible, as cigarette smokers.
Max's dad still sucked on those stupid things. Max's concerns for his parents, however, went way beyond nicotine clouding the air. Needless to say, the last few visits home didn't go so well; neither of his parents "wanted to hear it."
Max stuffed the little plastic bag in his jacket pocket as he left the store. The crowd was still gathered outside the Screen-Scene. While Max wasn't exactly up on world events - not with a business to run, not with the staffing drama (or lack of) - the certain talking head on the screen was nick-named, "RisingStar." Several of the women were all a gush - though what he'd been hearing was Star had no desire for even a one-nighter, let alone anything even a day or so longer. The overly airbrushed dude looked ... well creepy.
"Puh, more like fallen star!" Max, careful to keep a poker-face, kept that thought to himself, and circumspectly headed for his van.
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