He tried his best, but Jack wasn't the world's most natural singer or talented guitar player. He knew three chords, as did most folk singers. What he lacked in musical training, he made up for in passion and life experiences. At 25, he started hanging out and singing at clubs. He did what everybody did, singing the classic folk songs. He did try to mix it up by slipping in modern-day references, but only when he felt confident. He wanted to reference Kennedy and his visit to Wizard Island in The House of the Rising Sun. Nothing came to him, and the song passed without change. The two or three people there clapped. 

“Thank you for your time.”

He hoped to leave the club without ceremony but had to wait for his pay. He felt sorry that he wanted money. It felt wrong, as if he had scammed or tricked people into giving him money to play music . The times he got paid, though, as tonight, were rare. He wasn't sure why the owner of the Gaslamp Cafe, Sarah Whitehead, liked him enough to give him a shot. 

As the crowd wasn't screaming obscenities, he knew he'd get some money. He sat at the bar as Sarah passed around the hat, collecting from the patrons. He made ten bucks. He sighed, bundled up tight in his brown wool coat, and left the club.   

“I don't know how you can listen to that stuff.” 

Darn it, the person Jack was hoping to avoid—Cornelius Whitehead, Sarah's great-nephew. Cornelius fancied himself a big, tough guy. It didn't matter that he weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. In Cornelius’ mind, all he needed was a leather jacket to intimidate the folk singers who came out of the club. 

“You never hear my boys singing stuff like that. They won't let you into the Space Mafia when you're into that sort of thing.“

“Thanks. I'll add it to the list.“

Whenever Jack played the Gaslamp, Cornelius lectured him on a bizarre hatred of the Space Mafia—folk music, jazz, electric guitar, dance, and emotions other than anger. Also, Cornelius wasn't in the Space Mafia. It was common for rich kids like Cornelius to pretend to be tough guys, but it was rare for them to do it in their 40s. Jack smiled and waved at Cornelius as he walked towards the train station.

Back home, people had warned Jack about how dangerous and mean New Amsterdamers were. Other than Cornelius, though, Jack got along with them. Jack had been living in New Amsterdam for only a couple of months. His life had been okay in the Midwest; being born there helped, but he had felt restless. Tired of cold days, frozen pipes, and ice dragons, he headed east. He had no friends in New Amsterdam, but he had no friends in Michigan either. If he were going to be lonely, cold, and miserable, he wanted to do it in vibrant New Amsterdam.

Loneliness follows the life of an artist as a constant companion. Was being a singer what made Jack lonely, or was he a singer because he was already lonely? He couldn't answer that, but the city had left him with few acquaintances. The closest he came to connecting was old men who wanted to chat, like his landlord. Still, his time in New Amsterdam was going as well as anybody with no friends or family in the big city could hope for.

Jack lived on the city's east side, a 30 minute train ride away. By paying extra, Jack could ride the Nether Train, which stops in a dimension outside of conventional time and space. It would mentally feel like he had been traveling for 1000 years, but physically and biologically, Jack would arrive at his apartment the second he entered the train. But he wasn't rich, and men in business suits intimidated him, so he took the regular train. It was dirty, worryingly sticky, and it was very, very hot, but it was easy. He found a seat in the back, leaned against a window, and closed his eyes. Then he heard a low-pitched...“Meow.”

He opened his eyes, and there, staring at him, filling up the train car, was a griffin. It looked right into Jack's eyes, its beautiful, vibrant feathers standing on edge. New Amsterdam had a population of wild griffins. Far away from their native Greece, the griffins were brought over by rich New Amsterdamers as pets. It was popular in the 1920s to have a powerful and majestic griffin escort. The fad died out after a griffin ate Thomas Astor.

This was the first time Jack had ever encountered a griffin. He held his breath. He remembered reading, with griffins hold still and make no sudden movements, as they will get bored and move on. Or was that bears? Then, out of a terrible, stupid instinct, Jack reached out his hand to feel the feathers. The animal, confused and embarrassed, wandered off to the next car. 

“I'm sorry,”n Jack said to the beast, then sighed and finally fell asleep.