The hum of the road was a lullaby, a counterpoint to the nervous excitement I felt under my skin. Chicago, with its blues drenched music halls and the recent triumph of our Minutes+Hours show was a fading memory in the rear-view mirror.
Ahead, the sprawling, sun-baked promise of Los Angeles awaited, where (we later discovered) a heroin-addicted model awaited with her junkie photographer to unveil our latest collection… CULTURE. My partner Kerim, a man whose easygoing demeanor belied a keen entrepreneurial eye, was at the wheel of our magnificent, slightly battered, ‘62 Chevy Impala. Its low, steady rumble was the perfect soundtrack to our journey west. On my wrist, the Core Timepieces FURY GMT gleamed arrogantly, its dual time zones a constant reminder of the distance we were covering—Chicago time still holding sway on the bezel, while the main hands raced towards Pacific Standard.
“Think they’ll get it, in LA?” Kerim asked, his voice a low rumble against the highway drone.
I shrugged, a smile playing on my lips. “Depends on what ‘it’ is. The reviewers, or the general public?” I checked the GMT function on my FURY, noting the difference; we were making good time. The watch’s robust titanium case felt reassuringly solid….
He laughed, and we settled into a comfortable silence, the kind only years of shared history and countless creative endeavors can forge. Our chariot, the Impala, with its wide bench seats and signature taillights, ate up the miles, the landscape slowly morphing from the verdant plains of the Midwest to the vast, open expanse of the desert. I love the smell of chrome in the desert!
An 8-Ball all day
It was somewhere in the dusty stretches of Arizona, a detour off the main highway, that we stumbled upon it. An abandoned gas station, its signage faded to a ghostly whisper, stood sentinel over a collection of rusting relics. A small, ramshackle garage, its door hanging ajar, beckoned with an air of forgotten secrets. Kerim, ever the urban explorer, was out of the ‘62 Impala before I could even voice a protest.
“Just a quick look,” he called over his shoulder, disappearing into the shadows. If we were talking a break we might as well take a swig from the flask. Raising it to my mouth I followed, the creak of the door echoing in the still dry hot-as-fuck air. Inside, a thick layer of dust coated everything, a testament to years of neglect. Old tires lay stacked in a corner, their rubber cracked and dry. Yellowed Playboy centerfold Miss December 1991 dangling from one tack on the back wall, marking years long past. In a grimy, oil-stained toolbox, amidst rusty wrenches and forgotten bolts, Kerim let out a gasp.
“Holy Shit! Look at this!” He exclaimed, holding up a familiar, spherical object. It was a Magic 8-Ball, its opaque liquid swirling with dark mystery. Its plastic shell was scratched and faded, but otherwise, it seemed remarkably intact.
“Wonder how old that is,” I mused, taking it from him. It felt surprisingly heavy in my palm.
“Let’s ask it a question,” Kerim grinned, ever the instigator.
I shook the 8-Ball, watching the dark liquid churn. “Will our photo-shoot in LA be a success?” I whispered, half-joking.
The answer, when it finally emerged, was stark white against the inky blackness: “IT IS CERTAIN.”
We laughed, a little too loudly for the solemn silence of the garage, and tucked the peculiar find into the Impala’s glove compartment. The desert sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple as we rejoined the highway, the 8-Ball’s pronouncement a playful echo in our minds….. though even more so was Miss December.
The Desert prophecy and Wolfman Jack
After about 40 miles as darkness settled around us it was pierced every so often by the distant shine of other headlights approaching. In the middle of nowhere and bored, I opened the glove box and pulled out the 8-ball in one hand, grabbing the Impala’s dusty radio dial, with the other managed to coax a burst of static-laden sound from the old system. The sound cleared, and a legendary, gravelly voice blasted out, filling the desolate space with raw energy: Wolfman Jack.
“A-haaa! Listen up, you desert wanderers! You artists out there chasing the bright lights of Hollywood, I’m lookin’ at you! This here Wolfman’s got a special transmission tonight, tuned just for the good times rollin’ in that sweet ‘62 Impala!”
My jaw dropped. The radio crackled again, and then the Wolfman’s voice returned, closer, almost conspiratorial. “You got a big shoot coming up in the City of Angels, right? Well, let me tell you, brother, that lens of yours is gonna catch lightning! You’re gonna knock ‘em dead! And that gorgeous creature you got to pose for the camera? She’s gonna take one look at ya—you, the artist, the man of the hour—and she’s gonna fall head over heels. Love is in the frame, man! She’s gonna be madly in love with Stephen!”
I froze, the name echoing in the car’s interior. My name?
Kerim’s eyes were wide. “He... he named you.”
I shook the Magic 8-Ball, my hand suddenly clammy. “Will our photo-shoot in LA be a success?” I whispered, half-joking.
The answer, when it finally emerged, was stark white against the inky blackness: “IT IS CERTAIN.”
We laughed, a little too loudly for the solemn silence of the desert, the Wolfman’s prophecy and the 8-Ball’s pronouncement a playful echo in our minds. I tucked the 8-ball back into the Impala’s glove compartment and leaned back closing my eyes with an evil grin taking over my face.
The Vanishing Hitchhikers
Kerim was still driving, his gaze fixed on the endless ribbon of asphalt. I glanced down at my Core Timepieces FURY GMT. The sharp, flame-embossed dial of the watch face seemed to pierce the darkness as I noted the late hour.
Then, I saw her. A figure on the side of the road, bathed in the fleeting glow of the Impala’s headlights. She was leaning against an old, rusted guardrail, her hair a cascade of dark waves, her dress clinging to her curves. Impossibly elegant and utterly captivating in the desolate landscape.
Kerim slowed the Impala to a crawl. “Pull over,” I urged, curiosity overpowering caution.
As the car coasted to a stop ten feet ahead of her, the woman didn’t move, but turned her head slowly, her eyes catching the faint red of our taillights. I rolled down my window.
“Need a ride?” I called out, my voice sounding thin in the vast quiet.
She pushed off the guardrail, taking a slow, graceful step toward the car. Her voice, when it came, was soft, carrying a hint of distant music. “Hi, I’m Vera, I’m trying to get to LA. I heard they have the best dreams there.”
“That’s where we’re headed,” Kerim said, leaning over. “Hop in.”
She smiled, a stunning flash of white in the gloom. But as she reached for the passenger door handle, she paused, her expression becoming distant, like smoke caught in a breeze. Then, in the breath it took for Kerim to reach across the seat and pull the handle open for her, the figure simply… wasn’t there. The spot where she had been standing was empty, the air vibrating with a sudden chill.
“Did you hear that?” Kerim whispered, pulling back into traffic, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “She was right there.”
The pattern continued, throughout the night and into the next day. Hours later, in a stretch of road lined with jagged rock, we saw a statuesque woman in a vibrant purple satin one piece jumpsuit, waving languidly with a gloved hand. We slowed, but she dissolved before we could even hit the brakes. Later still, near a flashing neon sign for a long-closed diner, we spotted a blonde-haired girl wearing a sparkling silver dress looking like Dolly Parton, leaning against a palm tree that shouldn’t have been there, her posture the epitome of bored glamour. Each time, they were impossibly attractive, radiating an almost ethereal glow, and each time, as the wide frame of the Impala approached, they would simply dissipate into the shimmering heat haze or the deepening shadows. We stopped questioning it, recognizing the uncanny magic the road held. The Wolfman’s promise hung in the air—of a certain success, and a certain love—making the appearance of these phantoms feel like a strange, beautiful preamble to a destiny we were speeding toward.
By the time the sprawling lights of Los Angeles finally appeared on the horizon, the Impala had carried us faithfully through the strangeness, the Core Timepieces FURY GMT marking every strange, impossible hour of the night.
Venice, Vanity, and the Wolfman’s Rule
That day started on Venice Beach, CA, the air tasted of salt, sunscreen, and the faint, metallic scent of ozone. I remembered what Wolfman Jack, in his rare moments of brutal honesty, had once told me: “Steve, never fall for the beautiful mess. The mess is expensive, but the idea of the mess? That’s priceless.” He was talking about business, but standing there watching the model, Sasha, I knew he was talking about everything and nothing all at once.
The Impossible Model
The setting was a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece. We’d secured a spot just north of the pier, where the famous boardwalk’s energy bled into the pristine stretch of sand.
The light was the reason we chose LA. It was that golden, late-afternoon glow, technically “magic hour,” but here it felt eternal—softening the skin and giving everything a cinematic, slightly overexposed sheen. Giant silvery reflector discs bounced the sun back at our subject, creating blinding pools of light against the deep blue of the Pacific. The Culture watch fit perfectly on her wrist.
To one side, the endless blue ocean, dotted with surfers waiting for the perfect swell. To the other, the gritty, vibrant life of Venice: a distant boombox blasting with hip-hop, skateboarders carving lines on the concrete, and a constant, low roar of distant traffic on Ocean Front Walk. I noticed next to us a graffiti tournament... that’s a story in and of itself and for another day. We were surrounded by high-end camera equipment, cases of clothes, and a small, harried crew trying to keep the onlookers at bay.
Everything felt urgent. The tide was creeping in, the sun was dropping, and Phineas Scope our meticulous photographer, (recommended to us by Sean Penn... again, another story for another day,) was pacing a nervous rut in the sand, barking adjustments into a headset. He was focused on the technical perfection of the framing, ignoring the rising drama. It was a high-stakes moment, a $10,000 gamble on getting the perfect shot to define the campaign.
The Model and THE CONFESSION
“I’m a Dolly Parton fanatic!” As Sasha turned back to the camera, embodying the impossible, magnetic allure of the unknown in the dying California light, I realized the confession itself was the most certain thing about the whole day. I thought it was a perfect statement. It was another vanishing whisper in the pursuit of something beautiful, an impossible magnet drawing us all closer to the edge. The photo-shoot’s triumph was certain, and we had the images we needed, but Phineas Scope’s jaw remained tight, his smile frozen.
Later, as the sun finally sank into the Pacific and the crew packed the last of the expensive equipment, Phineas cornered me near the catering truck, his eyes flat and devoid of their usual predatory sparkle.
“Sasha,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the nearby crash of the waves. “She thinks ‘Jolene’ is edge. She thinks a woman who owns her own amusement park is ‘authentic decay.’ Do you understand the difference, kid? Dolly Parton is Teflon. She has no dark corners we can exploit. We sell the beautiful scar, the hint of ruin. We do not sell ‘I Will Always Love You’ sung ironically at a karaoke bar.”
He ran a hand over his smooth, silver hair, agitated. The Magic 8-Ball, oblivious to the drama, was already on the phone arranging private jets for the team’s departure.
Phineas Scope sighed, a deep, rattling sound of disappointment. “We’ll finish the campaign with these shots, but Sasha is done. She broke the rule: she showed us her comfortable heart, not her broken one. Next time,” he warned, his gaze sweeping the now empty beach, “find me someone who pretends to worship Kurt Cobain. It’s cleaner.”
I nodded, watching Sasha in the distance, laughing genuinely with the exhausted makeup artist. She had the light of a thousand rhinestones in her eyes,a sparkle, a light that shone too brightly for the shadows we were trying to sell. The love I sought—the one just beyond the vanishing whisper—felt less like a dark, inevitable passion and more like that bright, unexpected sparkle. Perhaps, I thought, the beautiful mess wasn’t the disaster, but the realization that even Dolly Parton fans could be the impossible, magnetic allure of the unknown. And Fuck you Phineas Scope the song Jolene is total edge!
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Under Pressure . . . One Test We Don’t Want to Cheat on