Tim put his gray hat on, took his duffel bag out of his trunk, and made his way into the main terminal at LAX. Usually the band would fly out together for their first show of a tour, but Lars was in San Francisco, Branden was in Utah, and Matt was with his wife's family on the East coast. They'd be meeting up at the first stop on the tour, Denver. Or Dallas. Tim knew it was something that started with a D.
"First class to New York?" the airline attendant asked when Tim handed over his ID.
"Yeah, that sounds right," Tim mumbled. He took his ID back as the computer printed a boarding pass. It was an overnight flight, and he'd been up late the previous night working with Orange, so he'd have no trouble sleeping. He bought a newspaper inside the security checkpoint, boarded the plane right away, and fell asleep before he'd even read past the front page.
A brown-haired man in a suit rolling a piece of luggage and carrying a garment bag showed up at the same airline counter just a few moments later. He took his wallet out of his pocket, removed his driver's license, and slapped it down on the counter.
"Can I check your bag Mr..." the attendant looked at his ID. "Tim Armstrong?"
Mr. Armstrong placed his suitcase on the scale just as a soft ringing came from his pocket. He took out his cell phone and opened it. "Yes?" He sighed. "God dammit, Brenda. I told you to have Greg handle that meeting."
The airline attendant pulled the boarding pass out of the printer. "So that's first class to -"
Mr. Armstrong snatched the boarding pass out of her hand. "Nevermind. I'll be in the office tomorrow afternoon. Just make sure Henry has his presentation ready." He closed his phone and headed for the security screening.
Once on the plane, Mr. Armstrong ordered a Scotch and checked his watch. It was too late to call any of his employees in New York, but there were some Chinese potential UFL investors who could use a kick in the ass. He dialed his phone, screamed at his associate's secretary who didn't speak and English, and waved away the flight attendant who asked him to turn off his phone for take-off.
Tim was jostled awake by the plane landing. It was daylight, and he groped to close the plastic window shade with his eyes mostly-closed.
"Can I get you some coffee?" a flight attendant asked.
"That would be so fucking nice of you, I'd really appreciate it," Tim mumbled.
The flight attendant frowned. "Was that a yes?"
Tim nodded. He had to remember to enunciate when he was around people who didn't know him. A few days ago he went out to eat with Brett and tried to flirt with the waitress, who responded by giving him a flyer about free ESL classes at the community college.
Tim finished his coffee as he got off the plane. In the baggage claim area, there was a man in a black suit holding a sign that read "Mr. Armstrong".
"Hey, what's up?" Tim said to the man with the sign.
The man raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Armstrong?"
"Matt sent you? It's cool, I can take the bus," Tim said. "Is it Irving Plaza or Roseland?"
"You look different than your pictures," the man said.
Tim dug a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "Yeah, getting fucking old, man. You know how it is. Are we meeting at the hotel first?"
The man nodded. "The conference is at the Hilton. Can I get your luggage?"
Tim hefted his duffel bag up. "Gotta pack light."
"Follow me, sir."
The man led Tim to a black limousine parked at the curbed. Tim hesitated.
"Uh..." Tim said. "Really, man. Just let me know where this place is and I'll take the bus."
The man opened the door and gestured for Tim to enter. Tim felt like he was going to a funeral, but he didn't want to insult the guy, so he got inside the limo. In the back seat there was a television and bar, but Tim just took his newspaper out of his bag and continued reading it. "Can you believe this shit?" he said.
"Excuse me, sir?" the driver replied.
Tim looked up. He was used to reading with Lars, who would automatically respond, "I know! Fuck that shit!" without having any idea what Tim was talking about.
"Uh...Darfur," Tim responded.
The driver nodded.
They arrived at the hotel quickly, and Tim was relieved to get out of the limo and onto the sidewalk, where he could finally smoke his cigarette. He then went into the hotel lobby and approached the young man at the front desk.
"Can I help you, sir?" the man asked.
Tim sighed and ran his hand over his face. "Everyone's calling me fucking sir today." He forced a smile. "Tim Armstrong? I'm with a group..."
"Of course," the man said. He tapped a few keys on his computer, then handed Tim a key card. "You're in room 304. Your group is in conference room B."
Tim frowned. Usually the band didn't choose a hotel this nice, much less get extra rooms. "My group's in a conference room? Matt and Lars and Branden?"
The man looked confused. "Everyone's in the conference room, sir."
"My friends, you can't miss 'em," Tim said. "Lars has tattoos on his face, and Branden has a piercing," Tim tapped the bridge of his nose. "Right here."
"Um..." the man said. "I didn't see many attendees with...face tattoos?"
A woman in a business suit rushed to the counter. "Has Mr. Armstrong arrived yet?"
The man gestured to Tim. "This is Tim Armstrong."
The woman looked him up and down. "You look different than your pictures."
"I'm getting that a lot today," Tim mumbled.
"Well, your speech is in five minutes, so you should get to the conference room," she said. She took his duffel bag with one hand and grabbed his wrist with her other hand.
"Speech?" Tim asked.
The woman led Tim to conference room B, where a sign on the door read, "The Future of America Online, with Key Note Speaker Tim Armstrong."
"What the fuck?" Tim said, as the woman pushed him through the door.
Mr. Armstrong passed out after three phone calls and four glasses of Scotch. When he woke up, the plane had landed, and people were filing past him. He retrieved his garment bag from the overhead compartment and hurried to the baggage claim, dialing his phone the whole time.
There was a young kid with a blue mohawk standing near the baggage claim, holding a cardboard sign that read, "TIM".
Mr. Armstrong stopped, looked around, and hung up his phone. "You're my driver?" he said to the kid.
The kid looked at him. "You're not Tim Armstrong."
"Yes I am."
The kid laughed. "No way, man. I know what Tim Armstrong looks like."
"Do you have a limo outside?" Mr. Armstrong asked.
The kid shook his head. "I was just supposed to take Tim on the bus."
"The bus?" Mr. Armstrong spat out. "I specifically requested a limo." He took out his cell phone and hit one of the speed dials. "Brenda!" he shouted. "Where the hell is my limo?" He listened for a moment. "I'm not at the conference. I just landed in..." He looked around, then hung up his phone. "This isn't LaGuardia."
"La what?" the kid said. "This is Chicago."
"Chicago?" Mr. Armstrong put his hand to his head. "Where are you supposed to take me?"
The kid rolled his eyes. "I'm supposed to take Tim to the House of Blues."
Mr. Armstrong pushed past the kid and to the baggage claim, where he picked up his rolling suitcase and headed for the exit. He pushed to the front of the line at the taxi stand and asked the driver to take him to the House of Blues. Something strange was going on. He was sure the conference was in New York, yet he was apparently expected at this place in Chicago. Could it be a mix-up? A prank? He leaned his head against the cab window and sighed. Probably Brenda had just double-booked him. He'd give his speech at the House of Blues and then fire her when he got back to New York.
The House of Blues wasn't what Mr. Armstrong had expected, but it wasn't the first time AOL had tried to be "hip" by holding a conference in a club. He walked inside, where a waitress was wiping down tables.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I'm Tim Armstrong," he said.
The waitress smiled. "They're waiting for you backstage."
"Bring me a jack and coke, would you, sweetheart?" Mr. Armstrong said, and he walked past the curtain at the side of the stage.
The first thing he saw was a trio of men sitting in a circle of chairs, two holding guitars, and all surrounded in a cloud of smoke. When Mr. Armstrong entered, they stopped playing and looked up. One of the guitarists, who had spiky blond hair and...something written on his face?...stood up.
"Hey, how's it goin'?" the man asked. "You with the club?"
Mr. Armstrong frowned. "I think you're in the wrong place. I'm fairly certain my company didn't order any heroin or whatever it is you're selling."
"What the fuck?" the man said.
The other man with a guitar sighed. "Lars, don't punch people until you're sure they're not cops. We've gone over this."
Lars grabbed Mr. Armstrong's tie and twisted it. "Who are you?"
"I'm Tim Armstrong," Mr. Armstrong choked out.
"Very fucking funny," Lars growled. He shook Mr. Armstrong by the neck. "Who are you really?"
Mr. Armstrong struggled to get out of Lars' grip. He took his wallet out of his back pocket and handed it over. "Check my ID," he said. "I'm Tim Armstrong, CEO of AOL. I'm supposed to give a key note speech today to shareholders."
The other two men crowded around Lars as he inspected Mr. Armstrong's wallet.
"He's really named Tim Armstrong," Lars said. "That's so fucked up." He handed the wallet back to Mr. Armstrong. "Our friend's named Tim Armstrong too." Lars turned to the dark-haired man. "That's funny, right?"
"Yes, I'm sure it's a hilarious coincidence and not a monumental fuck-up that's gonna make our lives miserable." The dark-haired man dialed his phone and put it to his ear. "Hey, man. Where you at?" He listened for a moment, then turned to Mr. Armstrong. "Is your speech at the New York Hilton?"
"I thought so," Mr. Armstrong said.
"Your plane ticket got mixed up with someone else's," the man said into the phone. "Our show's in Chicago tonight. Get to the airport and get the first flight you can. Call me when you get to O'Hare and I'll pick you up." He paused to listen. "Remember when we were kids and I made that t-shirt that said 'Tim this is a bad decision'? Remember how I referred to it like every day?" He sighed and turned back to Mr. Armstrong. "He's gonna give the speech for you."
"What?" Mr. Armstrong said. "How can he possibly give my speech? Does he know about content management? Web journalism? Online communities? Mobile interfaces?"
The third man, who'd been silent so far, piped up. "Hey. Tim's really smart."
"Apparently not smart enough to advise you against getting the space between your eyes pierced," Mr. Armstrong said.
"Okay, he's not a cop," Lars said. "I can punch him now, right?"
Conference room B was packed with at least hundred well-dressed men and women sitting at round tables. Tim had taken off his jacket and hat, and was sitting at the rectangular head table holding his phone, having just ended his conversation with Matt. After a moment the woman who'd escorted him into the conference room appeared and took the seat beside him.
"Hey," Tim said. "So, I think there was a mix-up."
"I pretty much figured that out from the giant spider web tattoos," the woman said. She held out her hand. "I'm Angela Reed, from the AOL Board of Directors."
Tim shook her hand. "Tim Armstrong, from Rancid."
"From where?" she asked.
"Nevermind."
"I just spoke to Mr. Armstrong," Angela said. "Our Mr. Armstrong. We're going to reschedule the key note speech for tomorrow. He's going to stay in Chicago for the night to recover. Apparently someone punched him in the face."
"Yeah," Tim said. "He probably told Lars he wasn't a cop." He retrieved his gray hat from the table and put it back on. "But you don't gotta cancel it. I'll do the speech."
Angela looked confused. "You'll give the speech? Are you conversant in online content management?"
Tim shrugged. "I read a lot. I'm good in front of big groups. It's cool." He stood up. "I don't wanna be a dick and make everybody go home, ya' know?"
"I don't think Mr. Armstrong would approve of this," Angela said nervously.
Tim smiled. "Good thing I'm Mr. Armstrong, right?"
"What?"
Tim walked up to the podium and adjusted the microphone. The room immediately got quiet, and all eyes turned to him.
"Hey, what's up?" Tim said. "Uh...I'm not your guy, but we got the same name, so I figured what the fuck, right?"
The room was silent.
"Can I smoke in here?" Tim asked.
Angela put her head in her hands.
"All right, look," Tim continued. "I know this speech is supposed to be about America Online. I don't know much about online. I mean, Hellcat - that's my label - it has a website, but I don't know where it is. My friend Brett has a Tweeter, but I don't know what that means. He says he puts pictures of his baby online, but if I wanna see the baby, I just go over to his house and see the baby, you know what I mean?
"Yeah, so, I don't know shit about online, but I know about America. I been across this country and back again in everything from a '69 Chrysler to a Greyhound bus. Sometimes I traveled with my best friends, and sometimes I traveled just with my Gretsch, and it was like, fuck man, you know? Everywhere I went I met people, and they all had a lot of shit in common. Everyone wanted to belong somewhere, and be safe, and be with their crew, and listen to music, and just fucking whatever.
"When I think about America, I don't think about money and businesses and all this sitting-in-a-hotel fucking bullshit you people do. I mean, don't get me wrong, you seem like good people, but this ain't America. America is kids who live on the streets, and it's killin' them, but it's still better than the shit they got at home. America is kids in gangs shooting each other who woulda lived if they'd only had a place to go see shows instead of getting fucked up. America is people who go to work every day in factories and warehouses. Waitressing and fuckin' McDonald's, man. They work their asses off and still don't make enough money to feed their kids and pay their rent."
Tim gripped the edges of the podium and leaned forward. "America's not about money. It's about people. You wanna spend all day having meetings and figuring out how to fuck some money out of someone, be my guest. I ain't gonna tell you how to live. But if you wanna meet people, real people, you come out on the streets of America with me. You come to a fuckin' Rancid show." He removed his hands from the podium and pulled his hat down to cover his eyes. "The Aggrolites are good too." He stepped aside and sat down at the table. Angela was eyeing him warily. Someone had put salads down on top of all the place settings, and he stuck his finger in it and sniffed it to see what kind of dressing it was.
Suddenly the entire conference room erupted into applause. When Tim looked up, most of the people in the room were standing and clapping. He turned to Angela.
"Do you know what kind of dressing this is?" he asked.
"That was an amazing speech," Angela said. She paused and looked to her side cautiously. "Mr. Armstrong - our Mr. Armstrong - is kind of a dick. And AOL is kind of a joke. The board is meeting this afternoon and, I know it's crazy, but I'm going to propose we force him to resign." She tilted her head. "Would you like to apply for his job?"
Tim picked something out of the salad. "Is this a tomato or a radish?"
"Do you have a card?"
Tim dropped the tomato/radish back onto his plate. "Yeah, hold on." He took a Sharpie out of his pocket and scrawled a phone number on one of the cloth napkins.
Angela took the napkin from him. "This is only five digits."
"Oh, right." Tim took the napkin back and added one digit to the beginning and one to the end.
Angela smiled. "I'll just look up the area code."
People were beginning to line up at the head table and were trying to get Tim's attention.
"You guys seem cool and I wish I could stay," Tim said. "But I got a show tonight in uh...Calgary."
"Chicago," Angela corrected.
Tim stood up. "Yeah, I gotta get to Chicago. But it's been fun. We'll hang soon. Stop by my place in L.A."
The room burst into applause again.
---
AOL Merges With Indie Record Label by Tom Jackson, staff writer, Los Angeles Times
Los Angeles - Today AOL board member Angela Reed announced a surprise merger for the online services provider. AOL, valued at $4 billion, has merged with California record label Hellcat Records, an independent vanity label which has never turned a profit. The company will drop the name America Online and operate as Hellcat Records. In the biggest shock of all, AOL has closed down its online operations effective immediately. However, no layoffs were made, as all employees have been re-assigned to the new Hellcat Community Building division. In an exclusive interview with the L.A. Times, CEO Tim Armstrong (who looks very different from his pictures) explained what Hellcat Records would be doing with the new resources provided by their acquisition of AOL. "We're gonna build some skate parks," he said. "All ages clubs, rock clubs, shit like that." He continued to describe the venture, but his speech was largely unintelligible mumbles punctuated by profanity. He concluded with, "I gotta go. I got a show tonight in Reno. Or Raleigh. Some place that begins with an R." Mr. Armstrong's heavily-tattooed friend then entered the room to inform him that their bus was leaving shortly for Seattle. Industry analysts say ---
"Excuse me, sir?"
A man in the Chr-Hansen office building in Denmark put down the business section and looked up at the young woman in the doorway.
"The dietary supplements committee is ready for you," she said.
"Tell them I'll be there in just a minute," the man said.
The woman nodded. "Very good, Mr. Frederiksen." She walked out of the door and down the hall to the conference room.