Being a teen in 1990 meant a lot of things. One of those things being that everyone was getting jobs.

You'd decided to work at a toy store in the mall. It meant an excuse to be at the mall, an employee discount, and a paycheck. No health benefits, though.

The phone rang, digging you out of your zoned out mind.

"Hey, I'm sorry, my-"

The voice seemed like a boy who was trying to make his voice deeper to immitate an adult, and he seemed to be laughing a little.

"My son had an accident in your ball pit, I'm really sorry dude."

Across the store you worked at, there was a pharmacy. Inside that pharmacy was a boy with short brown hair who was curled over and laughing, phone in hand. As if trying to keep his voice out of it.

Tom. Tom DeLonge.