…Well, here I am.

I wasn't originally super enthusiastic about turning up here, but I thought I'd give it a shot – from what I looked up online, Fine Tune seemed like a good little repair shop. Reviews seemed pleased. Pulsewidth's deal still seems really sketchy to me, but honestly I feel like I have nothing left to lose...

…Er, well, maybe not *nothing*.

I'm stopped by another AISR as I go to open the door.

You goin' in there?

They look straight at me as they ask... Or, at least, I think they do. I can't see their eyes. Or most of their face, really – they have the hood of their wildly out of season winter coat pulled over their head.

Uh, yeeeeaaah…?

Good luck with that. The dude in there's a real piece a' work.

Once they turn away and storm off in the other direction I hesitantly reach for the door again. I wonder what that's about. Maybe I'm right to second guess.

As soon as I step in, Pulsewidth immediately springs up to greet me.

Peyton, good to see you.

He does a slight bow before waving me over to a workbench, picking up some papers he had in front of him. I take a seat near the workbench, on a stool.

I made some concepts for what we talked about over inbox. I wanna make these comfortable and lightweight, so this is what I ended up with.

His drawings are very detailed, and the page is thoroughly marked up. His handwriting is very pretty-looking and neat, in contrast to all the scrawlings across the page.

If you're cool with all this, then all I'll need is measurements from you.

I hold one of the papers, studying it thoroughly. My brow furrows when I wonder how you could even do this for anything under 100.

Pulsewidth leans back on his stool.

Something wrong?

No, I...

I set the paper down, straightening it out in front of me.

You'd really sit down and work on this for 30?

He pauses. Then, he gets up, taking a few steps towards the opposing wall before broadly motioning towards it.

Recycled metal from discarded parts that got replaced. I genuinely don't know what to do with all this. Been trying to get rid of it for two years now, but I just end up with more.

I can't manage anything but a dumbfounded expression. How *do* you even get rid of that much?

Right...

He begins to pace as he talks.

Standard parts don't keep up forever, and they're usually not super durable unless you've got the grace of god on your side. Lotta shops give out faulty replacements so that they maintain recurring customers. The metal is fine, but you have to tear it apart to get down to the insides, usually the messily-done part in these replacements. Not that the circuitry and motors are completely trash, but...

As he talks, I look back towards the sketches. I still feel uneasy about taking up something like this, but... it'd definitely beat drawing on my arms with eyeliner every time I go to an AISR event, or try to present as myself. He seems to have a good heart, but there's always something in the back of my mind that says...

God, I hate being so paranoid.

When I look up, Pulsewidth has slid back into his seat, taking up the papers in his hand again.

...You could argue that doing specialty work like this for cheap isn't the greatest way to run a business, but I'd honestly be perfectly content doing this kind of stuff for free. Shit, maybe I should be giving away all that… but it might end up in the hands of the faulty-replacement-limb folks, so maybe not...

For a second, he leans in his chair, seemingly trying to get a look at the window.

...Is there someone still out there? I got stopped at the door by an AISR, seemed like they were just lingering around.

That...

That kid who wears that huge ass coat?

Yeah.

He defeatedly hits his fist on the workbench, getting up and walking straight to the front window, looking around for a few moments.

Motherfucker won't leave me OR my work alone.

Uh oh.

...Do you know who they are?

Grindhouse. He comes down here all the damn time to fuck with me, and now he's been trying to deter business.

What? Why??

I think he got kicked out of one of my shows once… and might've not let it go. Just crazy petty about it.

Pulsewidth settles back down next to the workbench.

Really, really sorry about that. Not letting that interfere with this. Could I get your measurements?

We make small talk as he works diligently.

Is the record store a fun place to work? I think if I weren't doing this, for whatever reason, I would've picked up a job like that.

I... like it a lot more than other jobs I've had. Party Death Machine's a good coworker, and Raph is nice.

And the job itself?

Oh, well… It's mainly sorting records, ringing folks up, cleaning. There's some pressure sometimes, sure, socially… but it's pretty chill otherwise.

...What's it like working a job like *this*?

He pauses for a moment to think.

Mm, it can be pretty intense at times. Sometimes I'm working with emergencies. Everything is pretty detail oriented, I think you can tell, haha...

He gives a second look at his growing list of measurements, motioning while quietly counting every spot he's checked.

Is it stressful?

In the midst of counting, not missing a beat, he shakes his head.

There's pressure, but I wouldn't say I stress over it. The problems folks come in with are always fixable. I rely on that idea.

Like how a math problem always has an answer.

He gets to my right hand and pauses, and the lull in our conversation immediately grows tense.

It was only for a few moments, but… by the time he moves to note it down, I feel like throwing up. I don't say anything. His mouth opens to say something, but... he pauses, and starts with something else instead.

On second thought, maybe a job like yours would stress me out a little more. People can get kinda rowdy about music. That's probably stressful.

Oh, god. People come in and ask for this and that, usually stuff that isn't on vinyl or CD or anything. Or they ask if we have a bathroom despite us *clearly* having a sign on the front that says "no public bathroom" in huge letters. Hard to miss.

Pulsewidth makes a noise that sounds like a scoff, but it's clear he gets the sentiment. He sets his pencil and measuring tape down on the workbench, picking up the page he was writing on and moving across the room to put it amongst some other things.

Well, that's all I need off of you. Shouldn't take too long, but if you have any questions… or, uh, need any pointers on anything generally, just give me a call. Would be happy to be a friend.

Talking on the phone… not really my favorite thing, usually. It must show on my face, because he corrects himself immediately.

Or you can inbox me, if that's more suited to you. I'll let you know as soon as I'm done, and we'll move to payment from there.

We say our goodbyes, and I walk out of Fine Tune… only to have the same AISR from before catch the door behind me and go straight in. I'm too late to form any words of protest, so I hustle out to my car before I see what happens next.

It's nice out.

I take a second to just stand, turning to look at the rest of the city.