I was a dog. Back in Minnesota, I both tenanted and belonged to a pack of temperature-sensitive werewolves. Some days, that fact seemed more important than others. It was one of those secrets that meant more to other people.

cole st. clair: No. No, no, no.

f♮ live: Four nos. This is an exclusive for our show, guys.

Cole St. Clair definitely doesn’t have a dog. But he might have an album soon. Let’s put this in perspective. Remember when this was big, guys?

On his end of the line, the opening chords of one of our last singles, “Wait/Don’t Wait,” sang out, pure and acidic. It had been played so often that it had lost every bit of its original emotional resonance for me; it was a song about me, written by someone else. It was a great song by someone else, though.

Whoever came up with that bass riff knew what he was doing.

“You can talk,” I told Leon. “I’m sort of on hold. They’re playing one of my songs.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Leon replied.

Of course he hadn’t. He was suffering in silence, our man Leon, behind the wheel of this fancy L.A. limo.

“I thought you were telling me why you were driving this car.”

It poured out of him, his life story. It began in Cincinnati, too young to drive. And ended here in a hired Cadillac, too old to do anything else. It lasted thirty seconds.

“Do you have a dog?” I asked him.

“It died.”

Of course it had died. Behind us, someone honked. A black car or a white car, and almost certainly a Mercedes or an Audi.

I had been in Los Angeles for thirty-eight minutes, and eleven of those had been in traffic. I’ve been told there are parts of L.A.

where the cliché of continuous traffic is not true, but I’m guessing that’s because no one else wants to frequent them. I was not excellent at sitting still.

I swiveled to look out the back window. There, in a sea of monochrome, a yellow Lamborghini idled, bright as a child’s toy, a knot of palm trees as backdrop. And on the other side of it was a swimming-pool-colored Volkswagen bus driven by a woman with dreadlocks. As I turned back around, sliding down the leather seat, I saw the sun glance off warehouse roofs, off terra-cotta tile, off forty million pairs of huge sunglasses. Oh, this place. This place. I felt another surge of joy.

“Are you famous?” Leon asked as we crept forward. My song still played in my ear, tinny.

“If I was famous, would you have to ask me?”

The truth was that fame was an inconsistent friend, never there when you needed it, ever-present when you needed some time away from it. The truth was that I was nothing to Leon, and, statistically, everything to at least one person within a fivemile radius.

In the car beside us, a guy in Wayfarers caught me gazing at California and gave me a thumbs-up. I returned it.

“Is this interview on the radio right now?” Leon asked.

“That’s what they tell me.”

Leon ran through the stations. He blew right by “Wait/

Don’t Wait.” I shook his seat a little until he backtracked.

“This one?” He looked dubious. My voice crooned through the speakers, coaxing listeners to remove at least one item of clothing and promising them — promising them — it would be worth it in the morning.

“Doesn’t it sound like me?”

Leon looked at my face in the rearview mirror, as if looking at me would give him his answer. His eyes were so very red.

This, I thought, was a man who felt things deeply. It was hard to imagine being as sad as he was in a place like this, but I guessed I had been sad here once, too.

That felt like a long time ago, though.

“I suppose it does.”

On the radio, the song drew to a close.

f♮ live: So there we are, people. Remember now? Oh, the summers of rocking out to NARKOTIKA. Okay, Cole. Are you there, or are you conducting another study on dogs?

cole st. clair: We were musing on fame. Leon has not heard of me.

leon: It’s not your fault. I just don’t listen to much else but talk radio, or sometimes jazz.

f♮ live: Is that Leon? What’s he saying?

cole st. clair: He’s more of a jazz guy. You’ d know it if you saw him, Martin. Leon’s very jazzy.

I jazzed my hands for the rearview mirror. Leon’s hooded eyes regarded me for a sad moment. Then one of his hands crept off the gearshift to do 50 percent of jazz hands.

f♮ live: I believe you. Which album of yours are you going to tell him to start with?

cole st. clair: Probably just that cover of “Spacebar”

that we did with Magdalene. It’s jazzy.

f♮ live: Is it?

cole st. clair: It’s got a saxophone in it.

f♮ live: I’m blown away by your knowledge of musical genres. Say, let’s talk about that deal with Baby North.

Have you worked with her before?

cole st. clair: I had alw — f♮ live: I wonder if everybody knows who Baby is?

cole st. clair: Martin, it’s very rude to interrupt.

f♮ live: Sorry, man.

leon: I know who she is.

cole st. clair: Really? Her and not me? Leon knows who she is.

f♮ live: He is jazzy. Does he want to sum it up for the listeners at home? I mean, if he’s not in danger of crashing?

I offered my phone to Leon.

“This is a hands-free state,” Leon said.

“I’ll hold it for you,” I offered, expecting him to refuse. But he shrugged, agreeable.

Sliding behind his seat, I held my phone to his ear. He had one of those haircuts with a very defined ear shape carved into the side of it.

leon: She’s that lady with the web TV shows. The crazy one. It’s Sharp Teeth Dot Com, but she spells it strange.

With numbers, I think? Sharp t-three-three-t-h dot com? I don’t know. It might be ones instead of ts.

f♮ live: Do you watch any of her shows?

leon: Sometimes in between pickups, I watch on my phone.

She had that one last year. That drug lady with the baby?