Octavia Melody Rejects A Burrito
As the sun set on downtown Canterville, the streets quickly shedding the standard rush hour traffic, a noticeable cool began to envelop the woefully plantless area, which was much welcomed compared to the stifling heat during the middle of the day. On one of the city’s old main drags, where small old buildings housing small businesses stood in defiance of the larger office towers just a few blocks northeast, several local restaurants readied themselves for what they hoped would be a decent dinner crowd. Canterville was not a city whose centre completely died at 5pm. Some people had of late chosen to live downtown, while others hung around after work to partake of one of the myriad eateries or coffee shops. Still others came in to take advantage of a new burgeoning nightclub scene.
Octavia Melody stamped down the sidewalk at a brisk clip. She had agreed to meet up with her old friend and classmate Vinyl Scratch before they would both head over to the Purple Moon Nightclub, where Vinyl had been given the opportunity to be the fill-in DJ for a couple of hours. Unfortunately, Octavia was in a foul mood. Just a few minutes earlier, she had been minding her own business, when a trio of salary-men, already drunk, began to accost her. One rubbed her smooth brownish-grey arm, another ran his fingers through her hip-length black hair, and the third attempted to fondle one of the large breasts she kept concealed beneath her pink dress and white undershirt. All of them ended up getting their teeth knocked out as Octavia liked to wear heavy shoes for just such an occasion.
Still, she felt she owed it to Vinyl to try to be pleasant. As she approached Vinyl’s chosen meeting place, Big Beulah’s Burrito Barn, she groaned. Such a place felt far below the standards of a girl trying her hardest to realize her dream of becoming a member of the Canterville City Orchestra.
Much to her immediate chagrin, the restaurant was packed. Octavia carefully weaved her way through the crowd until she found the queue. It seemed to be moving at a rather brisk pace as the Barn appeared well-staffed this particular evening.
Why did Vinyl invite me to this place that might be charitably called a dump? Or, perhaps, a hole-in-the-wall. If that description is true, then all the people here are simply mice skittering around hoping for a morsel.
Everyone here seems like they’re in such a hurry. Is there no value in slowing down? At least the people behind the counter are quick. The less I have to see them the better.
Hang on. That blue-skinned girl on the line looks like one of the transfer students who instigated our school’s Battle of the Bands. She was the one who did not fit in, if I recall. Perhaps it’s for the best that she has time away from the other two. She looks happy. Too happy. Almost on the level of that pink girl I cannot stand. As to the battle, I did rather well, if I do say so myself, though in the end I only made it to the semifinals. I hope the Orchestra won’t hold that against me when I try out.
Come to think of it, I treated several of my fellow students badly during that particular episode. Maybe that’s why Vinyl invited me out here, to show she holds no grudge.
Do I still hold any grudges? I said awful things to Sunset Shimmer and have yet to apologize to her. But then again, prior to the Fall Formal she did snap my bow over her knee because… I have no idea. She was trouble and I said it, so why did my actually saying it make her cry? Perhaps I should speak to her in the future.
Oh, I had best text Vinyl and let her know I’m here. Knowing her, she’s either late or engrossed in whatever music flavour of the month she found via those noise-cancelling headphones she always wears.
Always by text. Even I have never heard Vinyl speak. I honestly don’t know if she can. So the girl who says I’m her closest friend is mute. And yet, never have I had difficulty communicating with her. Simple gestures, nods, and of course texts and notes.
A strange relationship, to be certain. However, I’m not sure I would have it any other way.
Burritos, hmph. Such a simple food. And yet, maybe fitting. Vinyl’s pasty skin stands out not unlike the basic flour tortilla. I suppose then I would be wheat? Within her, within me, are a multitude of intermingling flavours and colours that can only be communicated via exposing ourselves in a unique way: her through her DJ’ing, me through my playing.
In Vinyl’s case, there’s probably also any number of sauces flowing through as well, some perhaps too spicy for human consumption, along with chili peppers. If I venture too close, will I burn myself? Flipping the analogy around, am I worth trying? Even though I love the classics and pour every ounce of myself into my work, so many kids say I’m boring, stuck-up. Am I just a stale wheat burrito?
Speaking of which, should I try the wheat burrito? On its face it seems healthier, but would it actually taste decent? What are the other varieties? Flour, Herb & Garlic, Jalapeño Cheddar, and Tomato …although they appear to be out of that one. Shall I be adventurous?
No.
What meat? This blue girl asks me. Does she not recognize me? Perhaps she doesn’t care. Hmm… They say too much meat is bad for your health, but I’m not willing yet to give it up entirely. Chicken it is. All of the fixings. Wait, no. No chili peppers. So, most of the fixings. Easy on the cheese; I am not a mouse, girl. Also, though it leads to leering, I want to maintain my figure. All the great women of strings to whose heights I aspire seem to have similar frames.
I wonder if Vinyl, with her much more petite frame, is ever jealous of the more endowed girls. Doubtful. She seems so comfortable in her own skin. It’s amazing to watch her confidence, to be perfectly honest.
Yes, yes, pay the girl… uh, Sonata… and take this tacky plastic tray with foil-wrapped meal to find Vinyl. I believe I saw her near the front window. God, I have to weave through all these people. At least no one here looks to be a handy-man in more ways than one.
Enough about that. Vinyl, what sort of concoction would you create using this menu? Perhaps eschew the burrito completely and go for a quesadilla or even a taco salad? I suppose I shall find out once I’m through weaving around these tables. Not unlike an arpeggio lilting over the rest of the orchestra holding a chord.
Perhaps Vinyl and I could attempt a collaboration. How would a cello sound when run through her DJ machine? Why is it with my best friend I can only come up with questions rather than answers? Does she have any questions about me? I’d certainly be willing to tell her almost anything she wants.
…Who is that tart sitting across from her?
Octavia noticed a girl occupying the chair immediately opposite. The girl bore more than a superficial resemblance to her: Slightly smaller bust and wider hips, but the same eye shape and waist-length hair, except this girl’s hair was blue and her skin a pale yellow. Her clothes were also not at all Octavia’s style, preferring acid-washed jeans and an oversized jacket concealing a T-shirt to Octavia’s carefully chosen and coordinated white and pink dress with matching little bowtie.
More importantly, Octavia knew the identity of this girl all too well. She frowned as she loudly cleared her throat, whereupon both girls turned to look at her.
“Vinyl?” Octavia asked with an accusatory tone. “What’s going on here?”
Vinyl Scratch did not immediately respond, continuing to lightly bob her head to whatever music was playing. The girl who looked like a palette swap of Octavia gained an incredulous look as she began to speak in a thick ‘East-of-the-Tracks’ accent.
“Oy! If it ain’t Orktavia. De fack ya doin’ ‘ere, blud?”
Octavia sighed. “Fiddlesticks, I’ll never get used to that lowbrow accent of yours. Anyway, I—”
“You wot, mate?” Fiddlesticks interrupted. “Dis ‘ere’s the language of real people, not a li’l bloody sod ‘ooz pretendin’ ta be posh to furver ‘er own career!”
“That can wait, Fiddlesticks. What I want to know is why you’re here with Vinyl,” said Octavia, approaching the table to the point she was nearly looking down on her adversary.
Fiddlesticks shrugged. “Wot can I say, blud? I come in ‘ere for somefink ta eat and then this bird waves me over. Can’t say no, cannoi?”
Octavia turned to Vinyl Scratch, who still did not respond, and deftly removed her headphones, snapping Vinyl into the moment. Looking up, she moved her head from one girl to the other and back again several times before finally tilting in utter confusion.
“Vinyl,” Octavia said with an irritated sigh. “If you would take off those rose-coloured glasses once in your life, you’d know that that,” she extended her right arm to point at Fiddlesticks, her index finger so close it nearly touched the girl’s nose, “is not me!”
Vinyl Scratch tilted her head the other direction as she tapped her index finger to her temple, jaw open slightly.
“Take off. Your glasses,” Octavia commanded.
Vinyl did so. After several rounds of blinking, once her eyes had adjusted to the light, they widened in surprise.
“Ey wot?” Fiddlesticks interjected. “I fought ‘er eyes’d be red behoin’ ‘em glasses, dinnoi. Not fakkin’ pink.”
“They’re magenta,” corrected Octavia, with Vinyl Scratch nodding in agreement.
“And now that you can actually see, Vinyl, do you understand the mess you’ve caused here?”
Vinyl Scratch sighed and placed her chin atop her fist.
“Figures,” said Octavia. “Vinyl, this girl is Fiddlesticks, my cousin. She comes from East Canterville, the wrong side of the tracks. Did you really have no idea she wasn’t me? Even with those noise-blocking headphones on, you can’t be that oblivious. Her accent alone should have been a dead giveaway.”
Vinyl shrugged and shook her head as they were approached by Sonata, whose black attire including apron, hat, and long braid, plus the nametag, gave away her status as one of the Barn’s employees.
“Hi!” Sonata said with her usual cheer. “Can I get you all anything?”
“No,” snipped Octavia as she whirled around to face Sonata. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” said Sonata, sporting a wry smirk, “Are the two of you on a date?”
Octavia immediately blushed and quietly sputtered out a string of nonsense syllables. Vinyl did not react except to blink twice and then slowly scan the room with her eyes. Fiddlesticks, however, had more to say.
“Wot? Ya fink I’m onna date? Izzat wot this bloody looks like? I swear on me bruvver’s grave I ain’t no fakkin’ pouf. I mean, ‘et’s not da nurtural order a’ fings, innit? But ‘oo knows ‘bout my fakkin’ posh cousin ‘ere? Orktavia finx she’s better ‘an me wif ‘er cheller an’ dreams a’ playin’ in da fakkin’ orkestra. But I play the fakkin’ violin, I ain’t ‘alf bad, but no one gives a bloody sod ‘bout us girls from da uvver side of da trax. Fakkin’ shame innit?”
Sonata blinked at Fiddlesticks in confusion. “Huh?”
Octavia sighed. “She’s projecting and invoking a persecution complex again. Fiddlesticks, you’re sitting in my seat. Please, leave.”
“Fine!” Fiddlesticks snipped as she stood up from the table. “I know when I’m not wanted, fucking cunts. You lot can stay ‘ere an’ ‘ave your fakkin’ scissor par’y or whatever freaks like you do! Besides, I gotta date wif a proper boy tonight, dinnoi?”
As she stomped towards the door, Octavia called out to her, “Fiddlesticks, try to not get yourself knocked up. You are a fine violinist and, even with your attitude, I’d hate to see you throw your talent away. Also, I would not mind playing alongside you again someday.”
Fiddlesticks shook her head. “Orktavia, blud. You may be a posh fakkin cunt, but I guess even a climber like you looks out fer ‘er own, eh? Whatever. I’ll be back, and we’ll ‘ave a real play-off nex’ time.”
With the light tingling of the door’s bell, she was gone. Octavia assumed her seat and began to unwrap her burrito. Then she quickly put it down. “Ugh. It’s cold,” she groused. “Can’t eat this. Guess I’ll have to take it home and warm it up, after your set. I… suppose you could join me, Vinyl.”
She rewrapped her food and pushed it away, making eye contact with Vinyl, whereupon she immediately blushed. Vinyl Scratch, for her part, smiled warmly. Turning to her left, Octavia noticed Sonata sporting an even broader knowing grin. “Mm-hmm…” was all Sonata would say.
Octavia rapidly turned her head from Vinyl to Sonata and back again, her blush deepening by the second, forcing her to utter, “What?”
Author's Note
Please Read Me.
