Page 11 of Out of the Storm

“Yeah, well...” Jeff trailed off, nervousness clawing up his throat.

“I’m sorry for the French fries before, at the mall. I mean, I shouldn’t have been throwing them, but Mel—she’s the friend I was with—well, she was...”

“Annoying you?” Jeff tried.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Pretending to scoff, Jeff said, “I had no idea you were even capable.”

“Of being annoyed? Of course I am. I know I’m the seemingly unflappable host ofTell Me S’moreandGraham’s Flour Hour, but that’s only for show.”

“I’ve never heard you sound the least bit pissy.”

“I can’t let myself be negative on the air. Not many people’d listen to me.”

Continuing to turn the phone cord between his fingers, Jeff said, “Imight be more inclined to.”

“Hah, right. What’ll that sad saga be called? Maybe something like ‘This is the Way the Cookie Crumbles’?”

Jeff nearly rolled his eyes. “Always with the food. Why is that?”

“Two things,” Gary began. “One, my last name is Graham, and honestly, I’m not that creative. Once I thought of the name Graham Cracker, that was, like, ninety-five percent of my creativity ration for the year, so I thought I’d better run with some graham cracker-related programs. And two, everyone likes food.”

“Hm.”

“Everyone likes food, everyone eats food. Food brings people together. Look, how many times have you found yourself invited to some sort of event and the first thing you think about is whether or not there’ll be something worthwhile to eat? Always. I mean, wedding? Hope they have cake. Church? Let’s see what they have for coffee hour. Voting? Gee, I hope Mrs. Schmidt brought her famous chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the local candidates. I’m more worried about whether Mrs. Schmidt will remember to put the chocolate chips in the batter since she’s three hundred years old.”

“You’re off by two hundred years or so.”

“You’re right, she’s five hundred and she smells like moth balls andstillher cookies are the best I’ve ever had.”

Jeff smiled to himself. Apparently, Gary Graham the Radio Man could be pretty fucking funny when he wasn’t busy trying to cater to the bland-as-white-bread listeners of WKBR.

“I’ll have to try one sometime.”

“I could probably sweet talk her into making a batch for Saturday.”

Strangely nice, that Gary Graham.

“Okay.” Jeff craned his neck to check the time on the clock radio on his bed once more. “Don’t you have to be up in seven hours?”

“Six. I can’t hop straight on the radio before I’ve even had my coffee. I need to cobble together some topics each morning too. Well, cobble orcobbler.” He paused and made a noise that sounded like a mixture between a chuckle and a sigh. “Sorry. Can’t turn off the word play sometimes. You know, I think Iwillask about cobbler tomorrow, which means that I have one task out of the way already. So, uh, I’m okay to chat some more if—”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Peachy. I’m—”

“On Stillwagon Road.”

“How’d you know?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Was it weird that he had come home from his shift and immediately looked up Gary in the phone book? It wasn’t like Gary Goddamn Graham hadn’twantedto be found. He had even put a little advertisement for the radio station in there.

“Phone book.”

“Right. Hold on.” Suddenly, there was a loud thud. “Okay, let’s see now . . . Russo . . .”

“Are you . . . looking me up?”

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