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Frank's Sports Shop
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Frank's Sports Shop
A man named Frank is just trying to run a small sport's shop in a world overrun by music.
Scott Edward Clark Walker
Scott Walker was born in Orem, Utah in 1988. He moved several times before settling down in Corvallis, Oregon where there are lots of trees. Scott has been an avid reader since the first grade. In the sixth grade his literature teacher taught him how to write a sentence. He has been writing excellent sentences ever since. Scott plans to attend Brigham Young University in the fall of 2007. Frank's Sports Shop is Scott’s first attempt at a published work.
Frank's Sports Shop
Scott Edward Clark Walker
Frank walked by a cello shop playing Beethoven’s fifth. “Haven’t heard that one before…” Frank thought sarcastically. Beethoven was required to graduate during Frank’s College career. Frank knew everything about the fifth symphony.
Passing a violin shop Frank pulled into work. Frank worked at a sports shop. He opened it up in the hope that new studies showing that sports would reduce the obesity in children and adults would turn around the sports industry. Pachebell’s Canon played on the speakers. A customer came up to complain about playing the London orchestra’s version of the piece in an American shop. He left in a huff.
The fact of the matter was that Frank’s Sports Supplies wasn’t doing so hot. He worked long hours and still showed red. In the summer he made enough to balance the budget, but the debt from starting the business wasn’t getting any smaller. The bank sent warnings and now threats that they would close his shop if he didn’t pay the interest on his loans. He couldn’t put another mortgage on his house because Frank lived in an apartment.
Frank drove home slowly and got cut off by a biker with a violin slung onto his back. He pulled into his shabby apartment complex. He sighed as he passed his fellow renter’s apartments. Fred played the xylophone professionally and frankly, he sucked. Francis‘s version of cello sounds like a squawking chicken.
The next day a customer walked into the shop and asked what a sport looked like. With so many bizarre instrument shops around, Frank got this question a lot.
“Sport is a music genre. These things on the walls are all instruments unique to sport,” Frank lied through his teeth.
“NO WAY!” The man exclaimed, “Look at all these bizarre… things! What about all of these clothes?”
“In sport music, the clothes you wear are almost as important as the music. Sometimes people just dress up in these padded suits and hit each other as hard as they can.”
The man stared around the store with an awed look on his face.
“I’ll take some of everything.” The man announced, “The guys are going to love this place.”
Frank bagged up a football, a tennis racquet, a bowling ball, swim goggles, a snowboard, and a full suit of under armor. The guy wanted more and went around the shop pointing at things for Frank to get down. Frank sold all kinds of random junk he could not get rid of, including 50 golf balls and a treadmill. The bizarre instrument enthusiast rang up at $1,600.88, Frank’s biggest sale ever. The man pulled out his card without hesitation and asked Frank to help him get the treadmill in the van.
The rest of the day went pretty much the same as it always did. Customers came in, looked around, and complained about the music playing. They complained about the symphony playing, Mendelssohn, or the lack of any decent contemporary pieces. These customers always left angry and he never saw them again. Maybe, Frank thought, he should take a course in classical variations, but he turned down the idea on principal. Running a sports shop should not require musical talent.
The drive home went by exactly the same as any other day. An old man crossed the street while Frank waited patiently during a green light. It turned red as the old man turned back and laughed at Frank. The same biker from yesterday cut him off as he turned on to his street. The guy didn’t make any sign that he noticed.
Frank passed Franco’s room on the way up and realized the cesspool in which he lived. Franco sold contraband Bach music on the black market. He wrote bad compositions in Baroque style and sold them as lost works of Bach to the gullible dregs of society. Franco walked out of the door in Trump jeans. Frank glimpsed a plasma screen and Boss speakers in the room.
“Hey Frank, how’s business?”
“Oh fine, I made a big sale today.”
“Oh… Nice. Me too. You may have noticed the Boss? Loud as they come.”
“I did notice. They look great.”
“What was it you sold again? Some kind of thug band supplier, right?”
“Something like that. I’ll see you around.”
Franco turned the corner and Frank walked up the stairs. Frank sighed one huge all-encompassing sigh. He went straight to bed and slept on his rainbow xylophone sheets.
Boom chicka ping ping ping ritalik Boom chicka ping ping ping ritalik Robowow…
Weird music. Frank was pretty hard line about his taste in music. Stick to the classics. Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Handel… These men wrote awesome music, so why spoil it with new stuff? Frank tuned his radio to a different station.
Bedo Bop to bop chi loca loca rip ching rip ching rip ching aloca rocka ping ping ping
Pulling the plug on his alarm hurriedly he went down to breakfast. In relative calm he placed bread in the toaster and pushed it down twice. Toasters never could toast a piece of bread. He pulled out a pan and fried himself an egg over easy with a little sausage on the side. Inserting it into his toast, he walked out to his car.
If Frank paid attention to anything other than his homemade sausage egg mcmuffin, he would have noticed something different that day, but he didn‘t. He drove to the back entrance of his shop, went in, grabbed the newspaper, made his coffee and turned to open the doors. Outside a violent mob beat against the wall of his shop. He looked at them with curiosity, then wonder, then shock. He looked out the back door with some kind of vain hope that someone could help him. People noticed him and began to scream threats and insults at him. A chant of, “Open the door, open the door, OPEN THE DOOR!” rang out. Finally, Frank decided he’d better open the door.
Frank looked around at his little shop bewildered. Nothing. Nothing left. Well, not nothing. For some reason he still had every single pair of running shoes… and his cash register overflowed with cash. Scratching his head, Frank stumbled over to a pay phone. He called his supplier and ordered a completely new inventory. The man took down the order and asked, “are you sure sir?”
“Yes, there has been a change in my business.”
“You could say that again.”
“I think I will… There has been a change in my business. How much will it cost extra to have that be at the store by tomorrow.”
“I said HOW MUCH!”
“Well… we haven…”
“HOW MUCH MONEY!”
“Well, I suppose we could do it, but it would add 35% to the cost of your order. If you don’t mind me saying sir…”
Frank shuffled away from the pay phone into his small battered car. The car radio stuttered on.
Vllllrp Abeedoobop ratcho keloop chi chi chi rock powow schrewtch bnowow tyum Vllllrp abeedoobop ratcho keloop chi chi chi rock powow schrewtch bnowow tyum
He turned off the radio. The street, usually ridden with terrible traffic, was totally devoid of any movement. Turning down Bach Avenue Frank jolted his car to a stop.
A golf ball.
He looked up.
A shin guard.
A teenage mutant ninja turtle fishing pole.
Frank followed a path of items from his shop away from his parked car. He wandered bewilderedly into Central Park. Gradually Frank noticed music. It grew louder as Frank got closer to the Central stage. Finally, Frank noticed the melody.
Ump cha rocka tloop yup yup yup rikchrupcha rikchrupcha rikchrupcha ump cha rocka tloop yup yup yup
Opening the door to the enormous stage that this entire town was built around, Frank winced.
TROW TROW AROW POW KOW POW AROW POW KOW POW TROW aRING aRING aRING PING PING PING RIKCHRUPCHA RIKCHRUPCHA YA PA RA YA PA RA
Frank slammed the door. He shook his head and closed his eyes. Opening his eyes wide, he went over again what he had seen. A greyed man in a football helmet hitting a golf club against a soccer ball. A woman slamming a snowboard against the wall in swim goggles. An older gentleman in sports sunglasses, a soccer jersey, and track spikes rhythmically bouncing golf balls against a treadmill. A slightly overweight teenager swinging around a fishing pole with the hook attached to the net of a Lacrosse stick. The crowd moshed in front of the center stage. Concert lights flashed across the crowd.
Frank took one step after the other towards his car and away from that. That. He got in and noticed he had left the keys in the ignition. He sighed, turned on the car
Blip ping pin
and immediately turned off the radio.
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© 2007 Scott Edward Clark Walker
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