I asked. “Let me tell you something,” Mitch replied, his nose dotted with the foam of a triple-shot cappuccino. “Joey Lovecraft’s moods are like Martian weather. Little understood. Spectacular from afar. And basically unsurvivable by humankind.” “Ah.” I tilted my head to catch more of the early afternoon sun. “So not good, then?” “I’d say he was a nine today. Borderline ten.” I stared blankly across the table. “No one told you?” said Mitch, surprised. “We track Joey’s moods with a numbering system. Ten is the worst; one is the best. Mu sends out an e-mail to the staff every morning. Just a number in the subject line—that’s it. She’s never reported a one, as far as I’m aware. If you believe some of the older roadies, he came close during the summer of 1983, before that stupid fucking parachute jump. Typically, though, four is as good as it gets. Five means Mu and Sue go home in tears. Higher than a six, and Joey’s bodyguard has the okay to call his doctor for a medical-marijuana prescription.
