Stepping onto the curb, Wilson Banks was glad for the end of the day. A shitty day at the office--a place he hated like no other--had been completed by his having nearly been run over by a speeding Jaguar down a street rarely taken at all, let alone by speeding commuters. The tires of the runaway Jag had swept a large piece of paper into his line of sight. A piece of paper that he usually would have given no mind. However, this piece of paper was drawing him. What was on it? The winning lottery numbers? The Jag driver's phone number? He carried the Washington Post under his arm--the page was definitely not from today's paper. But he could not continue walking. He must pick up this scrap of paper lying in the street.
With daylight waning, he did not bother to look at the sheet until he found himself in his badly lit apartment twenty minutes later. After setting down his keys, paper and hat, and placing his drying umbrella in the tin by the door, he placed the scrap on his wooden dining table. He stared at it for some unmeasurable length of time, and went to change from his work clothes. Grabbing a beer and the first menu he could find on his return from the bedroom, he went back to the table and sat in front of the scrap, spinning the Italian menu in circles with a finger. He stared at the scrap of paper for another minute until he rose, taking the menu with him. After placing an order from the phone in the kitchen without bothering to look at the menu, he replaced it in the drawer closest to the refrigerator and returned to the table where the dampened scrap still sat alone.
What was he afraid of? It was merely a piece of paper, likely a flier for an upcoming concert or fraudulent Nigerian prince. So he should just turn it over. Why had he picked it up in the first place. Just turn it over. Turn it over.
"What are you doing with your life," asked a royal blue font. "We can help set your world right."
"We?" Who was "we?" He continued to read.
"Come to CrashCourse on Thursday Nights, and we'll turn your world upside down--or more, RIGHT SIDE UP."
Thursday? Today was Thursday. After taking note of the time and location listed on the flier, he folded it and placed it into his pocket, patiently waiting for his dinner to arrive. Scarfing down his meal in minutes, he returned to the street and headed for the surprisingly close location. What could this place be? Who would be there? And what did they mean by turning his life "right side up?" Were they career counselors? A social club? What if it was all some scam to rid him of his hard-earned, barely there funds? He could not know, but had to find out, no matter what the consequences.
And it had all begun by his being nearly killed by a driver in a hurry. Had the scrap flown from her open window? Or had it already been on the street? Did this Jag have anything to do with Wilson's current mental discord, or had its backdraft and rainy tires merely lead him to find a page on the street? Could there possibly be a connection? What if this would actually destroy his life? What then?
He cast these thoughts aside, hoping that his old friend Fate, who he didn't speak to much, would bring him the change he sorely needed in his life. Particularly on this day. One that had started out with promise, but had turned out to be such a horrible experience. His birthday. Fate must save him on his birthday.
Looking up from his thoughts, he noticed that he was coming upon the address of CrashCourse, whatever it might be. When he noticed the blue Jaguar--the same blue as the text on the page he held--sitting directly in front of the entrance to what appeared to be a low-key nightclub, he knew instinctively that this car and its driver had nearly killed him, but had saved him as well.
Now if only he knew what--or who--that savior would be.
Walking through the doors of the CrashCourse Nightclub, he was looking forward to finding out.
