A Hot One
"….with the mandatory evacuation of New York City. Repeat: all residents must evacuate immediately. Though no one can prevent the inevitable, this is the time to be with loved ones, to…"
Rob Thomas was drifting in and out of consciousness in a tiny studio in Spanish Harlem. He had overslept—it was 3 p.m.—but that's what vacations are for, anyway.
Y'know, 2004 was pretty rough, he thought, attempting to sit up in bed as his bedsheets stuck to his skin, which was drenched in sweat. But summer in New York is fucking brutal. He glanced at the TV screen in the corner, which continued to show an equally sweaty news anchor pleading with the audience. With a furrowed brow, Rob turned up the volume. What, did I wake up at the start of the end of the world?
"Currently, all trains and buses are out of service. Riots have begun to form in the streets, and first responders are overwhelmed. The government has issued a message to New York City's residents: remain calm, and focus on what is important in these final moments…I am also getting reports that, regardless, classes are still being held on all CUNY campuses. God help us all."
Oh shit, okay, I guess I did, Rob thought, a chill going down his spine. He jumped out of bed and opened the window to his apartment to look down at the streets below, only to be practically smacked in the face with the brightness and heat of the sun. Squinting, he shouted down to a boy he spotted on a stoop below, hugging a bag of ice that seemed to be melting down by the second.
"Hey, kid!" he said. "Do you know what's going on? Why is everyone panicking?"
The boy turned to look at him, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun's rays. "…Hey aren't you that dude? My mom loves 'Lonely No More'."
Sequined button-ups and extremely tight bell-bottoms flashed before Rob's eyes. He shuddered. "Yeah that's…that's great, kid. But seriously, what's happening?" He wiped sweat from his forehead. Man, it's unusually warm out.
"You don't feel it? The sun's gonna crash into the earth, stupid," the boy replied, before scurrying off with his ice-bag, which by now was reduced to a bag of water.
The sun…? No. That's physically impossible. Rob grabbed a t-shirt and threw it on before quickly exiting the apartment building and venturing out on to the streets. The pavement was so hot he could feel it through the soles of his shoes.
Glancing around, Rob's fears were confirmed. Everyone was practically melting; some fainted right in the street. Birds were dropping like flies out of the air, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.
"The time has come," a voice behind him said. Rob whipped around to see a man, fully dressed in a velvety button-up, long pants, a round-brimmed black hat, and dark sunglasses, despite the sweltering heat. There was something supernatural about his presence…and something equally familiar.
"The prophecy is being fulfilled. We will continue to drift towards the sun until we are 7 inches away, as has been foretold," the man continued. He placed his hand firmly on Rob's shoulder and squeezed. "But now that you are here, we can stop it. We can stay cool, Rob Thomas."
Rob shook free from the man's grip. "What are you talking about? You're high, man. Or like, seriously dehydrated. I don't have shit to do with this."
"Y2K, Rob Thomas," the man said firmly, taking steps towards Rob. "Do you remember? How it didn't happen? What happened in 1999, Rob Thomas? Remember. Remember."
When the man placed his hand on Rob's shoulder again, he was suddenly overwhelmed by visions of dancing women in the streets, tacky cowboy hats, and…the riff. That riff.
"Oh my god," Rob said in a near whisper. "Santana?"
"The time has come," Santana repeated.
"Okay, wait, hold the fuck on," Rob interrupted. "Are you trying to say that…that when we collaborated, we stopped Y2K somehow? And what does this have to do with what's going on now?"
"My friend, when we collaborated, music truly began," Santana said, adjusting his glasses. "How could the world end then? But we did not really stop it, we simply delayed it, until others could contribute to music something of the same caliber as 'Smooth'."
"…But that never happened," Rob said, slowly piecing the puzzle together.
"No, it didn't," Santana said in a low tone. "And now we are paying the price. I tried to stop it myself, but I couldn't. I didn't have the power to do it alone."
Santana whistled loudly, and out from the shadows came several members of his band. The boy Rob addressed earlier ran up to Santana and, on bent knee, bestowed unto him his guitar. Santana removed his glasses and looked deep into Rob Thomas' eyes.
"I can't do this without you, Rob Thomas."
Rob slowly stepped up to the mic placed out for him. He gripped it tightly and took a deep breath before turning to face Santana again.
"Alright, boys, let's make this real" he said, full of determination.
"Or else forget about it."
(((WILL ROB THOMAS AND SANTANA'S EFFORTS LEAD THEM TO A SMOOTH VICTORY? OR IS NEW YORK CITY AND THE REST OF THE WORLD DOOMED? FIND OUT NEXT TIME (NEVER), AND BE SURE TO CHECK OUT OTHER WACKY MUSIC ADVENTURES, LIKE THESE-)))
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