Page 1 of No, You Hang Up

one

Ishould really pull over to take a break.

In Kentucky, rest stops are pretty much everywhere. Truck stops are just as common, but they have nice showers and a PA system that’s ready to tell you when your time slot is available. I could nap in the parking lot with my sunglasses on and then shower to wake myself up.

Instead, my fingers flex on the steering wheel and I lean back against the seat, my back protesting after eight straight hours of this. With the sun long since set, I finally remembered to take my sunglasses off about twenty minutes ago, when my too-tired brain finally processed why the world looked so dark.

But I refuse to take full responsibility for my half-asleep, half-zombified state right now. After all, there’s a reason I keep my visits to my Floridian family brief and very infrequent.

“You’re almost home,” I remind myself, voice barely audible over the music pouring from my speakers. My playlist ended long ago, for the third time, and instead of putting it on repeat, I decided to put myself at the mercy of the shuffle feature on my music app. Though I’m not sure how I got from my preferred late 2000s alt-rock to something that might be blues country, and the sound is pretty offensive to my ears.

At least it keeps me from getting too comfortable.

When my discomfort grows and I can’t focus enough to stop fidgeting, I move to poke the screen of my console. I accidentally flip to FM radio—which I’ve probably never used and definitely pay for—instead of resetting my music to one of my preferred playlists.

The first few channels are just ads, and I keep poking the screen, my eyes glued on the dark, nearly empty interstate with empty fields on either side. I wonder if this is what limbo feels like. Just empty land and a never-ending road.

But when I inevitably hit a couple of news stations back-to-back, it jolts me back into reality with a groan.

“—local teachers’ union set to boycott. As Kentucky is considered one of the lowest?—”

I quickly tap the screen, not wanting to hear about the latest in unfortunate teacher news. I live here, after all. And since one of my best friends has a sister who’s a high school teacher, I know all about their eternal battle with our government. I even have a t-shirt tucked in the back of my closet left over from a boycott I got dragged to, where I’d had a t-shirt thrown at me and a sign shoved into my hands. Though, as I’d been pretty hungover, all I really remember is stumbling over my own feet and mumbling along with the rightfully furious teachers while trying to keep my sign held upright.

The next station goes in and out; country music offends my ears for the few seconds it takes me to jab at the screen again. That’s a definite no thank you. Having been raised on country music since I was in the womb, I’m definitely not looking to broaden my horizons in that regard.

The weather doesn’t interest me, either. Nor does the sports coverage of some local game that might be either basketball or soccer.

Two stations later I hit another newscast, and I sit back just as the music for the station cuts back in, a bit staticky at first as I drive with my eyes fixed on the road illuminated by the headlights of my car.

“Good evening, or should we say, almost good morning,”the woman says in a voice that’s a little rough and humorous. “For anyone still awake or out on the road, we hope you’re not under too much stress.”She goes on for a few minutes, discussing local weather and a few spontaneous points of interest. While I haven’t listened to a radio DJ discussing current events since I was riding a bus in high school, I find there’s something incredibly familiar about it, even all these years later.

It reminds me of cool mornings with my face pressed to the glass. Uncomfortable, vinyl seats with artificial cracks I’d run my nails in. I remember playing the floor is lava with my seat-mate, a girl who lived on my block, but was a year older than me.

While I miss the simplicity of blearily getting on the school bus to listen to the local station of favorite music and entertaining DJs delivering the morning report, I don’t miss the rest of it. I definitely don’t remember our bus driver—a barking woman with a permanent scowl and an entitled son—with any kind of warmth in my heart.

Nor do I particularly miss how relieved I was to get away from my parents, who spent almost every night yelling and bickering over the smallest thing they could find. But then again, maybe that’s why I moved to Lexington, Kentucky, instead of staying anywhere near Pensacola, Florida.

“Now, we know what you’re all wondering about,” the woman tells her listeners, a hint of excitement in her voice. “Everyone wants to know what the police have found at the latest murder scene near central Lexington.”

I barely blink at the words. The first two murders were interesting. Terrifying. But six months later the police have decided they were part of a string of random crime, probably amped up by the economy and current political climate.

Unfortunately, in my experience, Lexington isn’t exactly the heart of acceptance, and I’ve met too many people strapped into their beliefs tightly enough to do something that they never would’ve considered before. While the murders weren’t confirmed to be belief-motivated, I can’t help thinking that it’s pretty likely.

“In this case, no news isn’t good news, but it’s all we’ve got for you,” the woman admits ruefully. “Just the same tranquilizers in the victim’s system and the same level of brutality. Authorities believe that this most recent death might not be related to the others, despite the obvious similarities. But unfortunately…” she trails off with a laugh. “I’m not exactly the best one to ask. No one deigns to tell your local late night DJ the interesting news. I know, I’m just as disappointed as you. But until then, how about I regale you with some of my favorite songs to match the mood, hmm?”There’s humor in her words that gains my interest, and I glance toward my console just to check exactly what channel I’m listening to.

“Now sit back, and enjoy another forty-minutes of commercial free music here at 100.4, DJL.” Her voice fades out as music picks up, and I can’t help the way my lips twitch at the opening notes of “Psycho Killer” being played on the radio.

Well, it’s certainly appropriate.

It’s easy to sink into the music, to listen to one slasher song after the next, from “Psycho Killer” to “Bad Moon Rising,” and even “Maneater.” It definitely feels a little like the DJ is projecting that the killer—or killers, I suppose—is a woman, but I’m not so sure about that.

From what I’ve heard, women are much better at hiding their victims and not leaving really any evidence than men could ever be. Plus, two men were arrested in the last few months for contributing to the Lexington crime spree.

“Fuck,” I murmur, finally deciding that I have to pull over to pee. Three empty bottles of iced coffee glare up at me from the passenger seat, mocking me and reminding me I do not have the bladder of a racehorse. I’m just a weak human and need to pee.

“Just one more hour.” The words sound like a plea, a prayer, as I pull off onto a short road leading to one of Kentucky’s many questionable rest stops. Some of them are nice, with little museums and dog parks and gazebos.

Some of them, like this one, look like they’re just begging to have a murder committed in the bathrooms. Hell, at one a lot like this, I even saw aclowncoming out of the rest stop a few years back. Needless to say, I decided to risk a kidney infection and sped on by to stop at the gas station ten miles down the road.

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