It was Monday, February 1, 1988. 

Working for the DJ service, the drill was to call in every Monday to find out where you’d be working for the coming week.  Guys who did mostly mobile shows – weddings and parties where they’d take a mobile rig out on the road – would get their locations and their rig assignments.  Guys who worked clubs – I was one of them – would get what club they were working on what night.  It made a handy way of firing people, if you were passive-aggressive; some jocks just stopped getting assignments for a few weeks; they usually took the hint.

I had the opposite problem.  After six weeks of club jocking, the service wished they had another of me.  They had me working six nights a week.  Which, being paid by the night, was a good thing.

The previous week:

• Monday: Off
• Tuesday:  Jams (the dive in Brooklyn Center)
• Wednesday: City Limits (the blah place in Rosemount)
• Thursday: Jams
• Friday: City Limits
• Saturday: George’s
• Sunday: City Limits (the snooziest night of the week; I usually ended up playing for the staff and two drunks by 11ish)

George’s was, of course, the highlight of the week.  All the more so because of Cathy.

So I called in for the week’s assignments.  I talked with Biff, the spiky-haired guy.

• Monday: Off
• Tuesday:  Jams
• Wednesday: City Limits
• Thursday: Jams
• Friday: City Limits
• Saturday: Jams
• Sunday: City Limits

“Um…”, I started, “No George’s?”

“Nah” said Biff.  “Couldn’t close the deal.  We were too expensive”. 

Crap.  I was already getting sick of Jams and “Slims”. 

After I got off the phone, my roommate Dan – the new, gay roommate – walked in. 

“Did you bring in the mail Friday??

No, I answered.

“I was supposed to get my paycheck”. 

Ow.  I’ll keep an eye peeled, I replied.  I noted that I’d gotten my paycheck…

I filed it away.  Maybe Wyatt knew something.