It was a fireable offense. I lost the band.

Sometime between the Jazz game, the sushi bar, and the company karoke party. I wasn’t black out, per se, but it was that part of the night when the eyes switch from video to photo: short, blurred snapshots of Utah Jazz T-shirts, neon bar fronts, hazy tendriled back rooms, and now, the too sterile, too bright Aisle 4 at Rite Aid.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?” the chubby-cheeked, blonde Rite Aid kid asked.

“Have you seen Foster the People?”

“CDs are in Aisle 7. You looking for their Pumped Up Kicks album?”

“No,” I slurred. “I’m looooking for the band. We wanted beer. Did they come in?”

“Ummm no, sir. Rite Aid doesn’t sell beer. Not in Utah, anyway.”

It was 10:47 PM, a Tuesday. I would be fired in thirteen minutes, and Rite Aid did not sell beer.

Not in Utah, anyway.

My boss gave me three simple rules:

1. Show Foster the People a good time.
2. Try to stay under $10,000 on the corporate AmEx.
3. Get them backstage by 11. At the latest.

I knew I could check off Rule #1. Rule #2 was close—save for that sake bomb tab. But then there was Rule #3.

I was supposed to entertain the band Foster The People for the evening. Take them out for the game, a sushi dinner, and then maybe hit the bars until their concert. In short, I was supposed to make them forget they were in Utah.

I like to tell myself I was chosen for my boyish good looks and strapping wit. But, in truth, I’m not that interesting. I have nine minutes of conversation material—two if you don’t like sports—and then it’s a blizzard of questions until the check comes.