A singer felt a sore throat coming on, his manager explained. He might need a shot of cortisone the day of his show. I’ve given several; singers seem to think they work, and they’re harmless.
These are good calls. I drive to a hotel, give an injection, collect money, and return home. What’s not to like?
The manager added that the show would take place the following Saturday, and he’d phone if the singer wanted me.
On Saturday the manager informed me that the singer was free around midday. He would call to give an hour’s notice. Midday passed without a call.
That often happens. While I was preparing dinner at 6 p.m. the manager phoned to ask my services. But there was a hitch. The singer was no longer in Los Angeles but at a resort hotel in La Puente thirty-five miles away. Although weekend freeways are usually fast, this trip took an hour. The resort was hosting an event called The Urban Music Festival; it was packed with black people, the women in dazzling gowns, the men dressed as gangsters.
No one answered when I knocked on the singer’s door. I phoned the manager and heard voicemail. I paced the hall for half an hour, knocking and phoning now and then. I checked with the concierge who obligingly offered to call the room.
My phone rang as I was driving off. I retraced my steps to the room, now packed with the singer’s colorful entourage. I gave the shot, collected my money, and returned home to supper.