Rattled by drunk heckler's request for Summer Of '69

I REMEMBER the day very well. It was so hot outside, the mugginess made my hair curl. The window to the nameless hotel room in the fine Detroit suburb of Royal Oak, Michigan, was cracked open a bit.

The phone rang.

I had been waiting for a call from my manager at the time, a quick, sarcastic man who finished his sentences with phrases like "How you like that, buddy boy?" with a cartoonish 1950s movie drag on the "buddy boy".