Five.
Guy maneuvered his Dodge Charger through the traffic of I-21
toward Bigburg. I-21 was often
congested, and there never seemed to be any pattern or reason for the heavy
traffic. Guy remembered leaving for a
snowboard trip at 5 AM, confident he’d have smooth sailing. He had been delayed an hour and a quarter in
crawling traffic for no reason he was ever able to determine. He quickly checked his look in the mirror; he
had skipped his shower and headed straight to the TV station where he worked. He saw red eyes blinking back at him;
bloodshot partly because of lack of sleep, partly because of the Taco Hole
special salsa he had rubbed into them when he got the call from Jameson about
half an hour before.
Guy’s mind was turning over and over. There were great things happening for his
band, there were exciting possibilities for his team, and one good fortune
threatened to nullify the other. The
Flamefarts might soon play at some of the most prestigious spots around, and
the Marauders had lucked into the playoffs.
Guy was a planner, a strategizer, but every time he went over the
situation in his head, he could only come up with one course of action: wait
and see. Guy hated waiting to see. He preferred to act.
He had about a quarter mile to go before he reached his
exit. His mind had been wandering, and
he realized he had little time to cross three lanes of traffic to make his
exit. In the lane to his right was an 18
wheeler that had been tentatively slowing and speeding up, as if the driver was
not sure where he was headed. It seemed
like every time Guy tried to slow down to get behind, the truck would slow
down, and when Guy tried to speed up to pass, the truck would accelerate. Finally Guy saw a gap in front that he could
just make it into. He stepped on the gas
and deftly slipped into the next lane.
The truck driver was evidently unhappy with Guy’s move; his horn
blared.
Just as the truck driver’s horn blasted, Guy’s phone
rang. This was a different ring
tone. The phone was playing “Take My
Butt to the Stars” by Randy Rank. “Holy
crap!” Guy whispered hoarsely. He had
set up that ring tone on his phone so he would know when Roger Pretentious was
calling. He fumbled briefly through his
jacket pocket, looking for his ear piece, and realized he had left it at home. He had to try to exit and pull over so he
could take the call. This could be the
call; the Flamefarts might be getting their chance to play The Spot. Guy clicked on his turn indicator, and
glanced over his shoulder. He was glad
he did, because a motorcyclist he hadn’t noticed was coming up very fast on his
right. He waited for the bike to pass,
and sailed across two lanes and made the exit ramp just in time. Once he was off the freeway, he pulled onto
the shoulder and stopped, kicking up a cloud of dust. He jerked the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said. Worried he sounded a little scared, he added,
“Guy here.”
“Good morning to you, my lad!” Roger Pretentious sang on the other end. Pretentious liked to use British-sounding
expressions. Guy figured it might be
because Pretentious had spent a lot of time in England and Europe, but more
likely it was because he was a poser trying to sound important. Either way, Roger Pretentious was a man with
connections so Guy was obliged to play along.
“Are we rising early to catch the proverbial worm?”
Pretentious crooned.
“On my way to work, so, I guess. Yeah.”
Guy was never quite sure how to respond to Pretentious.
“Well I’ll just keep you for a wee moment, if you’re
game. Have you a moment to chat?” Pretentious said.
“Sure, sure,” Guy said, allowing his hopefulness to register
in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Well, I should say, my lad, you are up. You and your
group. I’ve an opportunity I think
you’ll find quite exciting.”
“That’s great news!
Are we playing The Spot?” As Guy
heard himself say this, he wondered if he should make more effort to conceal
his enthusiasm.
“I say! You are quite
keen on The Spot, now, aren’t you? No,
I’m sorry to say, that is not what I’m calling about, although that is still an
imminent possibility.”
Guy was confused and worried that this might be the
beginning of a runaround. He had been
given the runaround enough times to recognize it almost immediately. He had learned to spot the ones he shouldn’t
waste any time with.
“Another club? You
book bands in Pleebston too, right?” Guy pressed.
Pretentious laughed pretentiously. “Pleebston!
No. But indeed, my proposition
might involve travel for you and the Farts, if you’re interested.”
“Uh, we really like people to use the full name,
Flamefarts.” Guy said quietly.
“One of the things I’ve admired about your little group is
your versatility. You all are such
multi-talented chaps. The guitarist with
his fiery thing he does. And your
stunning keyboardist. She is a wizard
with audio, eh what?”
“Thanks, yeah. I’m
lucky to work with great talents. But,
uh…I am on my way to work…”
“Yes, yes!” Pretentious sang again. “I’d like to meet with
you and discuss a different kind of a gig for you and the Flames…”
“Flamefarts,” Guy said.
“But it is going to be a bit difficult to enumerate the
details. Can we meet at The Spot this
evening? Say 7 PM? Oh, do say you’ll come.”
Guy was confused, hopeful, excited, and pressed for
time. He hated that he had to play along
with this Pretentious fellow, without knowing what the man was really
about. But he was not going to miss
opportunities, or burn any bridges.
“Ok, I’ll be there.
It might be a little tight for me to get there by 7, so I’ll call if I’m
running behind, ok?” Guy said, trying to assume a little control.
“Splendid! Jolly
good.” Pretentious chortled.
“Ok. I’ll see you
then, Roger,” Guy said. I’ll call the
band and see if anyone else can come.”
“No, no,” said Pretentious, his voice sounding like he was
trying weakly to be reassuring. “Just your lovely self will do.”
Guy wasn’t sure that he cared for the sound of that. But he resolved to play along, at least until
he found out what all this was about.
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