A Good Call

A singer felt a sore throat coming on, his manager explained. He needed a shot of cortisone. I’ve given many; 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 singer would need his shot the day of his performance the following Saturday. Early Saturday he phoned to inform me that the singer was free at midday. He would call to give an hour’s notice. Midday passed without a call.

As I prepared for dinner at six p.m. the manager phoned to announce that his client was ready. But there was a hitch. The singer was not 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 singer’s manager and heard voicemail. I paced the hall for fifteen minutes, 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.