One Night In San Francisco

San Francisco, July 2nd, 2013. 10:08 PM

“I’m a f***ing walking paradox. No I’m not. Threesomes with a f***ing triceratops…”

The music blared through his Studio headphones. James Wilson sat on his bed and let the colorful lyrics wash over him as he absorbed the new bestseller everyone was talking about.

The InterContinental’s nightly rates were more than monthly rent at some of San Francisco’s apartments, especially the 34th floor suite he observed the nightly light show from. It was incredible how the city’s lights managed to twinkle and sparkle like that as if they knew someone was watching and wanted to show off.

Insurion really was too generous. They didn’t even know if he would take the job, and yet they still took a shot and lavished all these amenities upon him like a king. He wanted to go out and party, but the interview was tomorrow and he didn’t want to show up shit-housed, stinking, hungover and definitely late, so he stayed in. After all, he didn’t even want to think about the last time that had happened.

After surviving the four year prison sentence at UCLA, he was finally free. But being “free” hadn’t been what he was expecting. He hadn’t expected “free” to require shamelessly asking his parents for more and more money every month as rent, bills and taxes built up, chasing him like a cloud. “Free” shouldn’t be having to alternate between fast food and microwaved meals every night. “Free” shouldn’t have had to have been sitting around all day, interview for piss-boring jobs he wouldn’t have accepted in a million years had it not been for his debt. Most nights he was working overtime at the store in the mall he was temporarily at, so he couldn’t go out and party with his friends, most of whom were comfortable and had nice jobs.

“Don’t dream too high, James,” they told him. “Maybe rapping just isn’t for you. Just settle down.” Easy for them to say. The envy was killing him every night, as he stood for hours on end explaining to stupid customers where the price tag was while his buddie picked up random hot woman (or so they explained) and brought them home.

The rap career hadn’t taken off. The dreams of head-nodding, fist-pumping, reckless drug-using and wild cheering for him had been firmly strapped to the backseat as he searched desperately for money. Money, the one thing that had stabbed him in the back in the end. He had only wanted to be a rapper for money and fame, and yet he couldn’t even get enough to fund an apartment that wasn’t a cross between a homeless shelter and a bathroom in the middle of Downtown LA that no one had tidied up for years.

So for now, he was here, and recently it had started to seem like luck had finally started to glance at him. He had started to receive more call-backs that he used to (which was none) from interested interviewers (partially because he started to dress up less like a hippie when he went to them), and his rap freestyles on YouTube were finally starting to generate some views. Still, companies ultimately passed up on him, and a 1,000 combined views (probably half by him) wasn’t that much.

The past few days had been great. In high school, James had been a star point guard on his basketball team, and before every game, especially the crucial ones, he would feel a surge of combined excitement and nerves creep up, spreading to his fingertips until he could no longer stay still. Now, a day before the biggest day of his life thus far, he lay in bed and imagined the biggest phone company in the nation naming him as a software designer as the familiar feeling crept in. Since he was dreaming, he went even farther. He imagined his raps finally getting the cred they (at lest he thought so) deserved, and finally going on a tour. He imagined walking up the stage to accept his Grammy…

The door burst open… or so he thought at first. As he heard something smash, he put down the book and looked around in bewilderment, shielding his face. The door was closed. Then it dawned on him. He slowly turned his gaze toward the window. Or at least, what was left of it. It was smashed. And standing in the pieces was…

“Shut the hell up!” the ski-masked man commanded him as James stared into the black barrel, so impossibly calm and terrifying. “I’m not going to kill you.”