Crossroads of the World
Hollywood, 1995
The sign outside the office building read “Crossroads of the World.” It was a quaint little building, the kind of place where I’d expect old time actors like Lee Majors and Clint Eastwood to have offices. I found the suite number, took a deep breath, then made a confident step through the front door.
“Hi, is this the right office?” I said, with a tentative wave.
“Hey man, I’m Mick, how are you doing?”
Mick’s office was shabby — adorned with an old, chipped wooden desk sitting as a tired monument to mediocrity. A brown vinyl chair squeaked with pain as Mick lazily dropped his ass into the crevice. On the wall, there was an Elvis clock. You know, one of those clocks where Elvis’s hips swivel from side to side, while Elvis maintains a creepy grin.
“Cory tells me you’re a damn good bass player. You’ve got a good look, too. Girls love rockers with long hair,” said Mick.
“Cory told me that I passed the audition, but that I needed to meet with you first. I guess you’re Cory’s manager?” I asked.
“I am I helluva lot of things to Cory, but yes, I am his manager. What that means for Cory is that I front the money for the studio and tours and I promote him to everyone in L.A. and beyond. What that means to you, my friend, is that I will be the guy responsible for bailing you out of jail during the tour when they find a 16 year old girl in your motel room. Cory has serious talent, and if you’re smart, you’ll stick with this band,” said Mick.
“How much will I get paid on the road?” I asked.
“Hold on there, hot shot. Let’s just say you’ll be taken care of. You will get paid per gig, and your expenses will be covered,” replied Mick.
“How much will I get paid per gig?” I asked.
“That depends on ticket sales. How old are you anyway, kid, nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
“Look, the tour starts in September. If you’re interested, I’ll let Cory know, and you guys can get to work in the studio with the new drummer,” said Mick.
I sat across the desk from Mick, studying his wrinkled, weathered eyes. He had this shit eating grin that made me uneasy. Did I really want to drop out of college and tour the southwest, spending the night in Albuquerque sleeping in a van and eating Cheetos every morning for breakfast?
I couldn’t take my eyes off that stupid Elvis clock zigging and zagging across the beige wall. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
“It was nice meeting you, Mick, but I think I’ll pass.”
As I was walking back to my truck, I felt an urge to charge back into Mick’s office and blurt out that I had changed my mind and that I would be joining Cory’s band. But I knew that my first instinct had been correct.
* * *
“Cory” spent many more years squeaking out a living as a starving musician. His 1995 tour did not gain any momentum. About 10 years after my brief sit down with “Mick,” Cory caught a break and was hired as the guitarist for a national headlining act. Cory continues to tour the world playing as a “hired gun” guitarist for countless rock bands from the 80s. You may have seen him on TV, or in concert, shredding on his guitar while sharing the stage with aging rockers cashing in on one final tour.
As for me, I became the bass player for a ska band and we released an album in the 1990s. The album was well received in the ska community and we enjoyed a decent amount of radio airplay in Southern California. There’s no better feeling than driving in your car and hearing yourself on the radio. Our ska band spent years playing everywhere from Santa Barbara to San Diego, but we never made a dime.
It was damn fun, though!
THE END
© J.S. Lender 2019
