June 26, 1976

I WOKE UP IN THE MORNING FROM the light that was shining through the gap between the curtains and straight to my face. I turned around to face the cerulean blue wall of my bedroom instead as I swore the huge windows were the worst idea ever.

I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the tiny alarm clock, trying to check the time without really opening my eyes. 10:34. Bitch.

I threw it on the other end of the bed as I rubbed my eyes with the back of my wrist, finally moving to a sitting position. My anxiety to be late for my interview (even though I knew it was at 2 in the afternoon) made me wake up at 01:30 and then again around 5. I didn't feel like I had a great sleep, or even good to be honest. Even though I took the covers off myself and put my slippers on.

I walked straight to the bathroom to take a quick shower. Spending too much time under the flow of the warm water would mean I would get sleepy again and that was honestly the last thing I wanted.

When I finished washing my hair, I used the towel I usually dried my face with to clean off the steam of the mirror and take a better look at myself. My dark brown hair was getting way too long for my liking. I took a wet strand and inspected it carefuly, frowning at the split ends, which were not so noticable when the hair was soaked, but knowing about them made me furious. I needed to fix that some time soon.

I looked up again and met my brown eyes in the mirror. I was way too proud to say that I wasn't pretty. I knew I was better looking than some people, but not something really impressive, not the type of girl you would write a poem or a somg about.

I dried my hair and braided it to try to curl it a little. The problem was, that there wasn't a single wave on it and there were days (take this one for example) when it was driving me insane. My mother had the hugest, curliest mane that I belived even Robert Plant would envy. I however, had obviously had the bad luck in that matter.

I had a big breakfast with the thought that I wouldn't be home before diner and that I would hopefully be out to celebrate my new job with friends, brushed my teeth and packed my bag, putting the fruit of four years hard and hated work in the face of my degree in bank accounting and all the other papers in a small leather bag I had bought long ago.

Now, the clothes. That part I found the hardest. I didn't believe I shoud wear something too formal, but perhaps most of my other clothes that were mostly jeans and colorful T-Shirts wouldn't be the greatest idea. I smiled when I saw the shelf with the collection of band shirts I owned. Buying one from every concert I attended was probably why my budget was so tight these days but it was my dad's golden rule, perhaps the greatest traditions we had.

After all I chose a pair of black trousers that were covering my legs down to my mid-anckles and a white longsleeved shirt. I took the brown velvet jacket I had taken from my mom's wardrobe some years ago, while my family still lived here in New York. I fixed my make-up and put my now slightly wavy hair down my shoulders, grabbed my bag and went out.

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The interview was taking place in a studio in Manhattan and it took me less time than I thought to travel from my apartment in Brooklyn than I thought. So here I was, standing in front of the building's large doors and wondering what the hell was I supposed to do during the remaining forty minutes. After all, I decided to walk the streets around the studio, making circles like the fucking idiot I was. I entered a few shops, but couldn't really look around, being afraid to actually turn up late after arriving too early in the first place.

Thirty minutes later I opened the door that lead to the event that meant wheather or not I would get my friends happy drunk tonight. I wasn't really nervous before, but now I could feel the familiar feeling in my gut and the whole atmosphere changed. I suddenly started wondering if I had really chosen the right outfit, how my hair looked and why the hell had I slept until ten, when I could get rid of all the blackheads on my nose instead. I tried to calm myself down, taking a breath and letting it out. I got up the stairs and easily found the room that I was supposed to get in. There were a few more minutes, so instead of knocking on the door, I turned around and noticed the three chairs across the halway. One of them was taken by a man. I headed towards him, smiled politely and took the place next to him. He just looked at me up and down, judging my appearance, and perhaps he figuring out I was waiting for the same room he was too, he turned his look away.

The grumpy man was about his mid to late forties, his hair was graying and his eyebrows were way too hairy to be good for the eyes. He was sitting straight, his bag was laying in his lap and he looked straight ahead with a insolent look on his face like he owned the place. He seemed so strict and harsh, as though he was expecting to meet the band he was actually applying to work for and immediately scold them like the rest of the older people I had heard talk about the hottest band in the world.

Suddenly, the door opened and a short man came out. He was younger than my friendly chair-neighbour and looked pretty laid back, from what I could tell from only one look.

"Mr Bohnegan?" The man next to me nodded. "Ms Astra?" the one on the door turned around, his eyes stopped on me. I answered with a 'yes' and the man smiled warmly, extending his hand and inviting us both inside.

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This was supposed to be a longer chapter, but I eventually separated it in two parts. I hope you like it :)

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