22.

Friday September 20, 10:00 a.m.

I had decided not to call Sharon on the phone. What I had to tell her had to be said face-to-face.

Sharon Munn was now a full-time concert booking agent who worked out of her home in Hamilton’s west end. She’d gotten into the business in her mid-twenties, when most people from the day were quitting their musical dreams in favour of more stable work. She was the only old friend I knew of in the music business. Although we hadn’t kept in touch, my career writing concert reviews had kept me up to date on her progress. She’d become remarkably successful, despite her decision to remain in Canada and in the Hammer, of all places.

Sharon had always struck me as something of a genius—bitter and edgy, but definitely miles ahead of everybody else. To tell the truth, I was nervous about asking for her help. She had never suffered fools lightly, and I had been the victim of one of her vicious tongue-lashings on more than one occasion. Despite that, I had always kind of thought of her as a friend. I wasn’t so sure she thought about me that way, if at all.

As I pulled up to the house, I had to laugh. Always the rebel, Sharon had metaphorically given the conservative, monied neighbourhood the middle finger by painting a fluorescent mural of the Ramones on her garage door.

The sound of the door-bell triggered massive chaos inside the house. Something that sounded like a small dragon thundered towards the door, bellowing and apparently intending to claw the way through the wood with its talons. I prepared to defend myself with my best Bruce Lee dragon fist.

A massive struggle was being enacted behind the door. Between the muttered invectives and thumping noises, my heart rate was through the roof.

The door was flung open. I was still frozen in my kung fu pose.

“Well, get the fuck in here, Love. I can’t hold on to Madonna all day. She weighs a hundred and eighty pounds, for Chrissake!”