Charles hated to be called Charlie, or even worse, Chuck. Why couldn’t he just be plain Charles? It was a nice name, a very prominant sort of name, he always thought. Like something a lawyer…or even a concert pianist would have.

Charles always wanted to be a concert pianist.

He would usually spend all of his free time the downtown music store, proudly picking up and examining, quite snobbishly, the Bach and Mozart records.

He adjusted his red tie as he made his way to the stifling ‘Classical’ section, sniffed a few times and then strutted casually to his favourite spot where a young woman was impatiently examining the Bach and Mozart section.

“Excuse me, you’re in my spot,” he said quite calmly.

“Your spot?,” she said.

“Yes. Mine. As in mine?” He said pointing at his chest.

“I’m sorry, but I’m very sure that Bach and Mozart would like to share their music with the rest of the world,” she said matching his snobbish snare.

Charles choked on his own breath.