Blast Out

Chapter 2

chapter two

MORGAN

“Are you ready for this?” Francesca Peters and I stand behind the checkout counters in Brodies Superstore, one of the biggest grocery stores in Belize.

It’s the first day of summer, the start of the season when families take off for the cayes, for Central Mexico or for the States.

Unlike those lucky champs, I’m stuck behind a counter wearing a puke-colored green smock and forcing a smile for customers who think I exist to serve them.

I’ve been working as a cashier for a year now and sometimes, I go back and check my contract… just to make sure I didn’t sign away my humanity.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I say as Francesca ties the back of her apron.

We share resolute nods and then shove the huge doors separating the employee break room from the larger store.

It’s early evening and my friend and I are just about to take over from the other cashiers. I usually work a later shift, but on Mondays I have an eight o’clock class at the University of Belize.

“I’m thinking about extending my hours,” Francesca blurts as we pass the deli section.

“What? You can’t be serious.”

Francesca and I are always complaining about the meager pay and the snooty treatment from the customers. I can’t imagine that she’s actually contemplating spending more time in this place.

“I need the money,” she says, shoving a lock of curly brown hair behind her ear.

Both Francesca and I are working to pay off our university bills. Francesca grew up in a child care center.

When Francesca turned eighteen, she was politely kicked out of the only home she’d ever known and instructed to go into the world and be a functioning adult.

Our paths didn’t cross until a year ago when I wanted to strike out on my own and rent an apartment.

My circumstances are far less harrowing than my friend’s. Both my parents are really neat people and I grew up with the kind of love and support all children should enjoy.

But I’ve always had an independent streak. I like to make up my own rules and in Belize, that won’t fly with most parents, especially when you’re living under their roof.

With blessings from my Mom and Dad, I answered Francesca’s ad for a roommate and the rest is history.

“Why didn’t you tell me? My parents can help us out if we ask. If you want a loan, I—”

“No!” Francesca smiles weakly. “You’ve rubbed off on me. I want to do this on my own.”

“Did something come up that you’re not telling me about?”

The hours that we push right now are sufficient enough to cover our monthly obligations to UB but not much else.

I get a little change from my “Patrone” account thanks to my Youtube channel but that’s only enough to cover the bills.

“Don’t worry about it.” She grins wider and the sparkle in her pretty eyes returns. “We’ll be late for our shift. Come on.” We separate at the check-out. Our conversation bothers me as I woodenly scan items, collect money, and return change.

Roy, the little teenage bag boy, picks up on my mood and remains silent. I like working with him. He’s a good kid.

I’m thinking about a way to help Francesca out when I hear a deep voice.

“So, this is your world.”

I scoff. The accent in his voice was distinctly British, but I don’t flirt with customers. Ignoring his words, I check the items across the scanner.

Sunscreen.

Tea bags.

Tub of ice cream.

A case of iced tea.

Another pack of tea bags.

Powerless against my own curiosity, I glance up and am taken aback when I note that the man is very… Asian.

Despite my love of adventure, I’ve never been too far from Belize. The farthest my family and I have ever travelled is Mexico and even then, I haven’t been as exposed to the world as I’d like.

The minute I heard his voice and his accent, I’d pictured someone with gray hair and blue eyes dressed in a long black coat… like a twenty-first century version of Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, Asian people live in Britain. I feel chastised by my own ignorance.

The man is watching me strangely. It’s not a leer. I almost feel like he’s testing me. It’s kind of creepy.

“Morgan Frasier?”

“Who wants to know?”

You can’t be too careful. My online videos have a decent viewing. A few creeps have left messages on my channel so I’m always leery of strangers.

The British guy digs into the pocket of his pants and withdraws a card.

“I’m Francis Gibson, the manager of Dust and Ashes. Have you heard of it?”

Have I heard of it? I love their sound! The group originated from right here in Belize.

Even though I don’t know the band members personally, I’m always proud when my nation gets a bit of positive attention.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve heard of them.” I finish with his last box of tea and quote his total. He sticks his credit card into my hand along with the business card.

“I’ve been trying to contact you for a while now. The group is interested in adding a member to their band.”

My jaw drops. I’ve received tons of messages from a Gibson guy over the last few weeks, but I’ve ignored all of them.

I love sharing my life with my feeble number of fans, but I’m all too aware that a lot of bored, mischievous people are on the internet. I hadn’t taken Mr. Gibson’s messages too seriously.

“Dude, are you kidding me?”

The Creole woman in the long blue dress standing behind Mr. Gibson clears her throat loudly. She balances a head of lettuce and a head of cabbage in her hands, so I can understand her impatience.

“No. I am not kidding,” Gibson says in that crisp accent. “Before we come to an agreement, the band would like to meet with you.

Please call me at your earliest convenience so that we can arrange a meeting.”

“O-okay.”

“If this is your world, Morgan Frasier,” Gibson eyes me, “then I have no doubt that Dust and Ashes is exactly what you need.”

He takes his leave, not stopping or looking back as the automatic doors swallow him whole and spit him back out into the parking lot.

“You know that guy?” Roy asks, having heard the whole conversation. The Creole lady slams her vegetables onto the conveyor belt. I mechanically deal with her items as I relive the conversation with Francis Gibson.

“Hey,” Roy snaps his fingers to get my attention.

“Huh. What?”

“You know him?” Roy hooks his thumb in the direction of the front doors.

“Ah, no.”

The Creole lady ‘humphs’ as she gathers her groceries and stalks out of the store. I ignore her.

“Do you think he was legit?” “I don’t know.”

I bid the next customer ‘good evening’ and check his purchases in. I don’t know what to think.

“Boy!” Roy shakes his head as his brown eyes twinkle. “If he’s not like some crazy, psycho-stalker guy trying to lure you to your bloody death, then I’d be pretty excited.”

“You just ruined it for me, Roy,” I say as I slide a box of chocolates across the scanner.

“That’s the worst case scenario. What do you think will happen if you find out he’s the real deal?”

Excitement stirs in my middle. There’s a huge chance that Gibson is some kind of weirdo, but in my heart of hearts I’m really, really hoping that he’s legit.

MY HOURS GO FASTER than usual. Francesca and I wait outside of the store for a bus and flag down the first one that’s heading in our direction.

“You okay?” I nudge my friend as we snag a seat. Francesca has been quiet the whole ride.

Before moving in with her, I’d have bothered her soul until she gave in and told me what was wrong.

I soon learned that annoying Francesca only causes her to clam up more so when she doesn’t respond, I let her be.

My mind runs tracks around Francis Gibson and his proposal. I can’t even imagine how much this will change my life in very, very good ways.

I’ll be paid to play my guitar! Paid! To be fair, I’m also being paid by my fans on Patrone to keep on making videos.

But this is different.

I’ll get to travel the world and hang out with some very talented musicians. This opportunity is more than I’d ever allowed myself to imagine. Quite frankly, I still cannot believe that it’s actually happening. “Hey,” Francesca shakes my shoulder, “this is your stop.”

“Thanks.”

She doesn’t know about the Gibson exchange and since she seems to be in a funk, I’m not going to tell her either. This news deserves to be celebrated. “I’ll see you at home.”

She nods at me as I clutch my black backpack and sidle down the aisle to the front door.

“Good night, dahling.” The thick bus driver smiles at me.

I can’t get a read on that guy. I’m never sure if he’s just being nice or if he’s hitting on me. Either way, I acknowledge his greeting and hop off the bus.

The huge vehicle moves off in a cloud of smoke and I look both ways before crossing the street into our national university.

The Belize City branch of UB is an ‘old soul’ like a cranky character in a novel that the hero can’t help but love.

The buildings are ancient but that only adds a certain charm, a salute to years gone by. When it rains, we clear out of the middle of the room because the roof leaks… a lot.

Yet the grounds are well-kept and the rain breathes life into the gardens as well as the classrooms. Behind the school, the land is basically a wild jungle waiting to be discovered by bio-scientists.

I grip my backpack closer as I walk to my first class. All around me, young people, many in the uniform of some corporation or other, stroll too.

I don’t speak to anyone. Most of my friends attend the university in the morning and I haven’t made many during the night sessions.

Not that it bothers me. I have a goal and I’m far too stubborn to let anything distract me.

I’m an English major and I’m studying to be a teacher. I love kids. When I was little I would line up my teddy bears and my little brothers and pretend that they were my students.

My older sister, Lanie, used to laugh at me. She said teachers were boring and that they were poor, but I didn’t care. Besides the bass, teaching has been my passion for a long time.

I slip quietly into my seat and check my watch. I’m anxious for this class to begin and be over.

I finger the business card in my jeans pocket. If Gibson isn’t pulling my leg, my whole world is going to change real soon.

And I, for one, cannot wait.