The 5 am club

—Steve Jobs
“I’m so tired,” the entrepreneur muttered with the energy of an ancient turtle
on a vacation day, while holding a monstrous cup of coffee. “This journey
might be harder than I thought. I’m starting to feel like I’m walking into a
whole new world. Like I told you yesterday after the seminar, I’m definitely
ready to change. Set for a new beginning. But I’m also feeling uneasy about
all this. I didn’t sleep much last night. Such eerie—and sometimes violent—
dreams. And, yes, this experience we’ve agreed to might be dangerous.”
“Well, I feel like death, man,” said the artist. “I hate being up this early.
This was a terrible idea.”
The two brave souls were standing on the sidewalk outside the hall where
The Spellbinder had worked his legendary skills—and broken many hearts
with his collapse—the day before.
It was 4:49 
AM
.
“He won’t show up,” barked the artist roughly. He was dressed in black
with a ruby red polka-dotted bandana on his left wrist. Same boots as
yesterday. Those Australian ones. He hurled a mouthful of spit into the
desolate street. He squinted at the sky. And then he folded his tattooed arms.
The entrepreneur had a nylon duffle bag over her shoulder. She styled a
silk blouse with bohemian sleeves, designer blue jeans and a pair of sandals
with high heels—the kind you see off-duty supermodels with sunglasses the
size of Greek island sunsets wearing. Her lips were scrunched together and
the lines on her face were arrayed in a series of interesting intersections.
“I’d bet the homeless man’s a no-show,” she said with a sneer. “I don’t
care about his watch. It doesn’t matter that he could be so articulate. It means

---

nothing to me now that he reminded me of my dad. God, I’m exhausted. He
was probably at the seminar because he needed a place to rest for a few hours.
He probably knew about the whole 5 
AM
Club morning routine because he
heard—and stole—that bit of The Spellbinder’s presentation. And the private
plane he talked about was probably part of his favorite hallucination.”
The entrepreneur had returned to her familiar skepticism and hiding
within her fortress of protection. The hopefulness of the day before had
clearly dissolved.
Just then, a pair of strikingly powerful halogen headlights pierced the wall
of darkness.
The two companions looked at each other. The entrepreneur managed a
smile. “Okay. Maybe instinct really is much smarter than reason,” she
muttered to herself.
A gleaming Rolls-Royce, the color of coal, pulled up to the curb. With
swift efficiency, a man in a crisp white uniform leapt out of the sedan and
greeted the two with old-school civility.
“Good morning to you, Madam. And to you as well, Sir,” he enunciated in
a British accent as he placed their bags into the vehicle with one skillful
swoop.
“Where’s the derelict?” asked the artist with the tact of a hillbilly who’d
never left the woods.
The driver couldn’t help but laugh. Quickly, he regained his composure.
“So sorry, Sir. Yes, Mr. Riley dresses in very unassuming attire, shall we
say. He does that when he feels the need to ‘get gritty,’ as he classifies the
practice. He leads a remarkably exclusive life most of the time and is a man
accustomed to getting anything he wants. Everything he wants, to be more
precise. So, once in a while, he does things to ensure his modesty and
humility remain in check. That’s part of his quirky charm, I might add. Mr.
Riley asked me to give these to you.”
The driver pulled out two envelopes, made of the highest quality paper.
On opening them, the entrepreneur and the artist saw these words:
Hey, cats! Hope you’re awesome. Didn’t mean to spook you both yesterday. I just needed to keep