He called me this morning at 3:30am.
“…Hello?”
“Oh good, you’re up. Listen, I’m in Cabo and I need you to wire me some cash. These guys say they’re going to put my salchicha through a meat grinder and they look pretty serious this time.”
SP, as far as I knew, was a non-violent person. For all his drunken and debaucherous antics I had never once seen him get in a physical altercation. So the first time he called me under duress I was admittedly perplexed. Plus I was pretty sure he was supposed to be performing that night at a club in Cambridge.
“So I want you tell >REDACTED< to call me at this number: >REDACTED<. I need >REDACTED< dollars and an freshly-shamed mule.”
I delivered the message to >REDACTED< and watched for an hour and a half as he ran around like a headless chicken, downing espresso and seemingly calling everyone he knew to make the arrangements. I’m pretty sure at one point I heard him on the line with the American consulate.
“I swear this is the day SP drives me to quit this godforsaken industry. Goddamn artists.”
I’m not sure how that situation resolved itself, but I do know he put on a great show that night. And he got to keep the mule.