Page 5 of If the World Was Ending

Colby stared at it. Who even has business cards in this day and age? It was ridged black card stock with silver print. It said Range in a big retro-style font. The other side had his name, a phone number, and an email address. Colby’s first thought was that it could be fake. But would a serial killer go through this much trouble? For him? Probably not. And he had heard of Range. Anyone trying to make music in this city had heard of it. It was a live music venue that was incredibly popular and ridiculously hard to book. People called it the modern-day Troubadour, which was a club where bands like the Eagles and acts like Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne had started out back in the day.

“I manage the Range and have final say on all the acts that perform. It’s on Fountain in West Hollywood. We do a New Talent Night every week. I hand-select six artists, and you get thirty minutes each,” he explained. “And we pay.”

Colby nodded calmly, but inside he was buzzing. New Talent Night at Range was too big a dream to even be on his radar at the moment. You couldn’t audition for it. You had to be selected, but no one knew who did the selecting. Apparently, Maxwell Ford did. And now Colby knew. “Are you inviting me to play there, Ford?”

“Yeah. If you wanna play in the band I’m putting together. Play and sing, of course. We need a vocalist. The other two guys play drums and bass, and they’re good. Really. They can harmonize, too, but not quite lead-singer material. You are though,” the guy said with a smile and then extended his meaty hand.

“That’s why I sing. By myself.”

“Well, Colby Keaton, you can definitely keep doing that. Here. At Laurel Hardware, when they remember to book you,” Ford said easily. “Or you can entertain my offer. Meet these guys. Jam a little, see if there’s a vibe. And if there is, you can do New Talent Night at the Range. Every week. With pay.”

Wow. Okay. He was hard-selling this.

“And if I don’t vibe with them, or don’t go meet them, I’m what? Blacklisted?” Colby asked bluntly. He had been shooting his shot in Los Angeles since he was eighteen years old. Now at twenty-five, he’d learned cutting to the chase was best.

Ford exhaled slowly and rubbed his jaw pensively. “I’m not saying that. I don’t blackball people unless you’re some kind of homophobic dick bag or like a rapist or drug addict.”

“I’m none of those things.”

“Yeah, I get that vibe, or I wouldn’t have bothered approaching.” Ford nodded. “So maybe eventually you’d get a shot solo. Probably. But I can guarantee you one in the next thirty days if you give the band thing a try.”

“I’m confused. This isn’t just booking talent,” Colby said and flipped the business card between his fingers nervously, like he sometimes did a guitar pick as he waited to take a stage. “Do you always try to create talent?”

“I’m branching out,” Ford replied. “I’ve been running the club for seven years and booking the talent for five. I know what people like, and I’m not quite seeing it out there. Not the way I envision it. A new hot young group like what Kings of Leon used to be or like Arcade Fire, without the problematic lead singer- that’s what there’s a lack of right now. That’s what I’m looking to make happen.”

“And the songs? What’s the sound?” Colby asked, and Ford nodded, a smile almost pulling his lips up. Almost.

“Well, you’d be the lead singer, so that would be up to you. You’ve got good originals, and if you wanted to save them, I’m sure you could come up with some new shit. These other two guys, Kenner and Trevor, have a few originals too, but yours are definitely stronger. Their style vibes with yours though, which is key.” Ford sounded like a music nerd who, Colby had to admit, sounded like he knew his shit. “So email if that seems like something you want to be a part of. Also, Range pays a hundred bucks per act, but if you and these guys work out, I’ll pay you a hundred each. Out of my pocket.”

“I’ll definitely think about it,” Colby replied, and he actually would because what would it hurt to meet these guys? Unless this was some really elaborate male sex trafficking thing or he was about to be forced to become a drug mule or something. It was LA, anything was technically possible. “Thanks.”

“Sure, man. Hope to hear from you.” Colby stood before Ford could leave and extended his hand.

“Email me,” Ford said as their handshake ended, and with a curt nod, he turned and left.

Colby finished his drink, alone, staring at the business card, and then he took a picture of it in case he did something stupid like lose it. Because he’d had some shit luck lately and anything was possible. He grabbed his guitar and headed out the door.

The air was dirty, warm, and swirling everywhere. Great, Colby thought, so an earthquake wasn’t enough, now we need the Santa Anas? These winds were diabolical. They had a folklore history of messing with people’s minds, but a very real history of causing devastating wildfires. Colby opened the side door and hooked his guitar onto the clips where it hung securely against the side of the van. He shut the door and walked around to the driver’s door. His blond curls flew every which way in the damn wind, so he yanked the hair tie off his wrist and tied it back.

He took Laurel Canyon instead of the freeway. There was no traffic, but he took it extra slow through the Canyon because it was one of his favorite places in the city. So many artists lived and loved and created there through the years, and Colby swore you could still feel the buzz of creative energy.

Colby’s mom had always called Colby her little flower child. He was a hippie at heart, always drawn to music his grandmother loved, like the Eagles, Neil Young, and Fleetwood Mac. He wanted to live in Laurel Canyon one day. In a mid-century modern house on one of the winding streets that climbed the hill.

As if the universe was giving him a sign, the shuffle on his playlist landed on “One of These Nights” by the Eagles, and Colby smiled and sang along with the band, dodging palm fronds the relentless wind had knocked to the pavement. He found a quiet street a couple of blocks from Trader Joe’s with a spot just big enough for him to squeeze the van into. Barely.

Still humming the Eagles, he turned off the van and put his expired West Hollywood parking pass in the window, hoping no one would notice the date on it. Then he changed out of his jeans and T-shirt, pulled the business card from the back pocket of his pants, and brought it to his bed at the very back. He didn’t put up window coverings because there was no camping on the streets of West Hollywood, and the covers were a clear indicator he was in there “camping.” Instead, he had a piece of heavy mesh for the back that he hung over a wire behind the front seats so no one could see in the back. Looking at it just gave the illusion of a dark, empty space. He crawled into his sleeping bag on top of the thick foam he called a mattress, on the square platform of plywood he called a bed frame, and pulled up his email on his phone.

This wasn’t going to be his big break, probably, but it was still a break. Any chance he got to play music and get paid for it was a step forward. His email to Ford was polite and simple. He would like to meet the guys and jam with them. He gave Ford his availability based on his Trader Joe’s schedule.

Colby fell asleep despite the wind rocking the van and the occasional voice of a passerby. At least with the wind, maybe he wouldn’t notice any aftershocks. Because a quake the size of the one earlier today would definitely have some of those. He wondered if the hot guy from the restroom was freaking out over the aftershocks? That was his last thought before he dozed off.

His next thought was that his van had been hit by a truck. Because he was woken by it shaking violently, and by the horrendous sound of crunching metal. Colby sat up, and his forehead crashed into the roof of the van so hard he almost blacked out. He fell off the makeshift bed and hit the floor of the van with a thud. His hip instantly ached, along with his forehead. Why was the roof of the van so low he couldn’t sit up? What was happening?

There was a creaking sound that was so loud it sent fear tearing through his veins, and he frantically searched for his phone and his guitar—two things he couldn’t afford to replace. There was the crunch of metal again, and the whole van rocked. Outside, he heard a voice exclaim, “Holy shit!”

Colby found his phone first, on the floor by his left leg. His guitar had fallen to the floor too, off its clip against the van wall. He grabbed it and crawled to the van's side door. It was stuck. He yanked and yanked, but it wouldn’t open. Colby let out a loud yell. “Help!”

“Is someone in there?” a voice asked from outside.