Page 7 of Out of the Storm

Abruptly, Jeff shook his head. Jesus Christ. Had he lost his mind? Developing a crush on Gary Goddamn Graham. What the fuck.

“Hang on, folks.”

Gary’s fuck-worthy voice cut out. Seconds later, another voice joined in.

“Am I on the air now?”

“Yes, you most certainly are! Is this Annabelle Craig?”

“It is!”

“Ah, I knew I recognized that voice. How’s the yarn shop these days?”

“Good! Why, today alone, we sold. . .”

Another terrible feature of Gary’s silly station—it was local.Annoyinglylocal. Listeners would call in, and then Gary would chat with them about their business or church or even school events. And thenmanyminutes later, they’d finally circle back to the conversation topic of the day, which was only ever moderately more interesting than listening to some sixty-five-year-old talk about the meatballs they had eaten at the potluck at First Presbyterian earlier that week.

Against his better judgment, Jeff turned his attention back to whatever Annabelle Craig was saying.

“...so my cousin from Oklahoma pronounces it cats-up.”

“Oklahoma, huh? Have you ever visited?”

“Not yet. I’m a little too afraid of the tornadoes, you know?”

“I can imagine. Well, you can always visit in the winter, right? You wouldn’t have to worry about tornadoes then.”

“Oh, that’s true!”

Uh . . . no?

“Or you could stay in the city. I assume you’d have some kind of protection from skyscrapers.”

Jesus, Gary, stop with the bullshit.

“Or the mountains, maybe.”

Clearly Gary was in need of someone to set him straight.

After sitting up again, Jeff took a moment to reorient himself, his mind still spinning from the effects of the three-ish fingers of whiskey he’d had earlier in the evening, and then wobbly-walked across the room. Once he reached the rotary phone on his desk, he picked up the receiver and muttered a few choice words under his breath as he slipped his finger into the hole over the number five. He proceeded to call the stupid fucking number of Gary’s stupid fucking station. God, he’d have to be on the show now, wouldn’t he?

It started to ring.

“Hello, hello. You’ve reached Gary Graham of W—”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeff said, not really caring if he sounded like a rude piece of shit. He had never been much of a people person.

“Great! Hang on a minute...” Jeff only had a second to compose himself before he heard a click. “Okay, you’re live! Now, tell me, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh, Billy.”

“You’re kidding. Billy McCoy from the Eastwood Mall?”

Damn, Gary hadn’t caught the Clint Eastwood reference, had he?

“Yeah. Right.”

“Perfect!” Jeff winced from Gary’s chipper tone, which only reminded him of how verynotchipper he felt right then. Or ever, lately. “Do you prefer the sour-and-tangy taste of malt vinegar or the sweet-and-tomato-y taste of ketchup with your fries?”

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