Venice Beach is peculiar place. It's no more than 4 miles squared, but the crashing waves and skyscrapers in the distance portray the illusion of a big city. She always dreamed of breaching the borders of her small beach town. Her bare feet, flush against the warm ground, always made her feel free.

It was a familiar feeling. Squishy sand beneath her toes. She often gambled with herself to see if she could withstand the pressure of the ocean water above her delicate feet and precious anklet, given to her by her mother before she passed. The chain is adorned by various charms. Double ballet slippers. The treble clef. An opal stone. All of her most prized possessions.

Yet the comforting sensation of the warm sea encourages her evolution. She's 18 now. A new high school graduate. Off to Sarah Lawrence in four months thanks to the influences of her father. Everything is spelled out for her. So why does he she feel so unfulfilled?

Black ink leaks on the parchment in front of her. Poetry. Moments. Memories. She longs to visit so many locations, yet she can't find the time or funds. Instead, she lives her life vicariously through the bands she's reviewed, the albums she's listened to and the records she's played.

She sits back, at the end of every night, lifting the needle of the record player on the vinyl, hoping it's placed on the right spot. No nonsense. Minimal static. Straight to the melody she's been dying to listen to all day.

"Our shift starts in 5," Andrew reminds her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. The white noise of the waves always distracted her from reality. It was one of her favorite sounds, second only to Bowie's voice.

Andrew is her best, albeit only, friend. By her side since they were in diapers, Andrew's love for her had grown beyond platonic, and while she may have an inkling of his romantic feelings, she always chose to remain ignorant to them. She knew it would hurt her friend if she ever explained his feelings were unrequited.

"That'll be two dollars and ninety cents." She observes as the toddler in front of the counter splatters his ice cream-covered hands on the display window while his mom rummages through her purse for exact change. Working at a beachfront ice cream shop in the summer is a quick and painless method of killing one's sense of spirit. She often thought about this while making silent vows to herself to never have kids.

"We get a tip?" Andrew asks as the mom and sticky child finally exit.

"Of course not. Unless you count that," she dryly jokes, pointing to the melted mess of ice cream on the glass. "Fourth kid to do that today and not a single apology. How much longer until we're done?"

"You just asked me that 10 minutes ago. Why the rush?"

"Didn't sleep much last night. Was up late writing. Mind if I head out a little early? It's dead here anyways." Before Andrew can finish his reluctant nod, she's already out the door.

Freedom to her is the feeling of ocean air blowing through her hair as she makes the 15-minute bike ride from work to the local record store. Owned and ran by her father, Jimmy, the store is like a second home to her. She grew up there, flipping through albums before she even knew how to string a full sentence together.

Some of her favorite memories took place here. Watching her mom dance ballet up and down the aisles while her dad argued with locals about the best Beatles album. It was here she first fell in love with music. Where she found her first crush, Jim Morrison. She was both lost and found here, in the best way humanly possible.

"Hey, Jimmy!"

"That's 'dad' to you, young lady."

"What do you have for me today?"

Now at 35 years old, Jimmy still retains hints of the attractive hippie he used to be. His hair, in desperate need of a trim, perfectly complements his full mustache. She always loved his comparison to George Harrison and Glenn Frey. It was he who first showed her the joys of intense guitar riffs and soothing bass playing. Most days, they feel as though all they have in the world is each other, and as desperate as she is to leave her boring life behind, the thought of living a life without her father nearly scares her into staying put and he into making her go to a local college.

"Street-Legal, Bob Dylan. Live and Dangerous, Thin Lizzy. Very nice." She runs her fingers across the albums' cellophane. "Thanks, dad."

With an appreciative smile and small hug across the counter, she shoves the albums into her book bag when a black and yellow flyer catches her attention amongst of mass colorful leaflets.

THE ORPHANS
LIVE AT THE TRIP
8572 SUNSET BLVD
Friday, June 23, 1978

Even in print, the guy depicted on the small piece of paper is captivating. Eyes shut tight with passion and neck veins bulging with vigor, a mass of water spraying up from his mouth. Her eyes and brain struggle to comprehend what she's looking at. All she knows is she must see the snapshot in live action. However, while she looks at the blotted ink, she can practically see his aggressive movements on the printed paper. Two-toned. Matte. Animated even while stationary.

She grabs the entire stack off the counter and shoves it in her bag while her dad's back is turned. This is her secret. A hidden gem from her father and the public. More than anything, she wants to live this moment exclusively. No one but her and the musicians.

The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans.

The name loops in her head like a skipping record. Something about the flyer is hard to shake. It's like looking at pictures of Disneyland when you're a kid. Fun to look at. Better to experience. Little does she know, while she's occupied devising a plan to sneak out and see the show, the object of her innocent affection is already loaded at 3 PM and sizing up his pick of groupies congregating outside his motel room.

"Please, come with me, Andrew. I don't feel comfortable going by myself. It's down the street from your house anyways." She lays back on her bed, phone pressed between her shoulder and cheek, and pops a cigarette into her mouth. She rarely put a flame to them though. If and when she did, she never inhaled. The sensation of the rag fibers stuck to the moisture of her lips was enough. It made her feel like Nico or Debbie Harry. Trendy and sophisticated, with a subtle hint of rebellion.

"You never want to go to shows with me. Why now?"

"I don't know. Dad never let me? Wasn't aware I needed to give you a full report on why. I'll go by myself if it's really that - "

"No, it's fine. I'll go."

"Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! Okay, I'm gonna hang up before you can change your mind. You're the best!"

The intense excitement in her voice leaves a small fracture in Andrew's heart. He knows why she wants to go. He saw the flyer plastered on a brick wall by the ice cream shop. But, he's never been one to deny her. That slight whine in her voice was a weakness of his and it would soon become a weakness to others too.

Over the next few hours, she spends her time plotting. Makeup has never been her thing, unless you count her candy apple-flavored chapstick obsession, so she forgoes doing up her face. She chooses a more mature outfit to ensure her admission into the 21-and-over bar. A black halter top and her mom's favorite pair of bell bottoms. They don't fit her quite as snug as they once did her mom.

Knowing it's getting close to when she needs to leave, she frantically gets under the covers of her bed, fully clothed and hair done.

"Bed already? You're always up late. You feelin' alright?" Jimmy holds the back of his hand to her forehead. "You're not running a fever, but I can cancel guys' night if you need me to."

"No!" She replies, all too eager. Her dad knows in the back of his head his daughter is up to something. She's an endearingly terrible liar. She never did anything remotely defiant and in a weird way, he likes the fact she's finally doing something for herself. She's always been a responsible girl. Maybe even a little too responsible.

"You call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay, dad."

"Have fun tonight."

"I'm probably just going to sleep. Won't be much fun."

Footsteps drift off to the front door when she hears it slam shut. Only minutes pass when she throws her sheet and quilt into the air. She tugs on her split ends one last time before heading out herself.

The town looks so different once the sun sets. Orange sunlight turns into cold blues and charcoal grays. The hot air turns into cool breezes. She never ventures out into this environment. It was all so new to her. She parks her bike blocks away from the venue in an effort to assume her role as a cool and collected woman on a mission. She gets into the bar with ease. The security guard at the front knows she's too young, but it doesn't keep him from ogling her slim frame and letting her in.

"Hey! Over here!" Andrew waves his arms in the air, beckoning his best friend. The show was seconds away from starting and he already had a great spot at the front. As she pushes her way through the crowd, she's reminded of why she's avoided this scenery in the past. But, nothing would keep her from this experience tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention." The MC steps to the front of the stage as the lights dim completely. "All the way, from across the across the pond, we bring you... THE ORPHANS!"

The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans. The Orphans.

There it is again. The skipping record.

"The world is full of try-hard musicians, but rock and roll is innate," a deep British accent echoes through the darkness. A light halo outlines a tall figure at the center of the stage. The strangers around her suddenly disappear. Her heart skips a beat as the man from the yellow and black flyer is suddenly illuminated. "And I was born to show the world what real music is... ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!"