Scott sighed. "We've been all through that, you and I. Don't you remember?"
"I know you don't drive to work, if that's what you mean."
"And you won't come down here and pick me up. So that leaves us both back at first base."
"Well, I suppose it does at that. Too bad."
"Look, the record's about to end. I have to talk on the air. Hold on, okay?" He turned to flip on his mike switch and then saw that the record had already finished, how long ago he could not be sure. Then, with a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach, he realized that the delay tape was running. He had neglected to turn it off when the mystery woman called in. It had simply kept running, and, this time, he was afraid, it had gone out over the air.
Scott began flipping switches and turning dials madly, desperately trying to turn the output off before the incriminating portion of the taped conversation hit the air waves. In the panic, he turned his cup of cum filled coffee over onto the console. There were loud snapping sounds, billows of steamy smoke, and brutal flashes of light. Suddenly everything went dead, everything but the telephone. It began to ring, and he picked it up, not being able to think what else to do.
"KSZX, Night Line. Good evening."
"How dare you put such dirty stuff on the air?" shrilled a female voice. "You ought to be ashamed. You should be arrested. I've a good mind to call the police."
"Do whatever you want to, Lady," Scott cut in. "I've got problems of my own." He stabbed the button, disconnecting her and tying in to the first line.
"Are you still there?" he asked the woman who had started all this with her veiled proposition.
"What?" barked a male voice. "What the hell are you talking about, Forsmo? I just had a call from the engineer out at the tower. He says you're off the air. What the hell is going on?"
"Just a little accident, Mr. Ransberg," Scott answered weakly.
"Accident? Can you fix it?"
"I don't know. I'll try if I can ever get off the telephone. Excuse me, I have to go now." He disconnected his boss. Good-bye job, he thought. At least Ransberg had not mentioned the lewd call's going out over the air. He probably did not know that part of the story yet. Chances are, he soon will, Scott thought to himself ruefully. Christ, Celia, why didn't I just stay home with you where I belonged.
The telephone was still ringing, but Scott ignored it. Manfully, he fought to get himself under control. Quickly, he flipped switches and made new connections, knowing now what he was doing and acting accordingly. In minutes, he had transferred the operation to the auxiliary console, and the station was back on the air.
"KSZX-FM, the voice of night time Indy," he intoned, using his best, radio trained voice, "We had a little problem here at the station, Folks. Hope you don't mind. We're back with you now, and Night Line is ready to take your calls."
With dread, he picked up the telephone. "Hey," said a man's voice, "What you said to that chick was real cool a few minutes ago. No wonder you blew out the transmitter. Do you get a lot of calls from broads like her?"
"A few," Scott replied.
"Gee, I'd wish you'd put 'em all on the air. It's a real inspiration to us lonely guys out here. Some operator you are, Man! I gotta hand it to you. I'm never going to miss a night with you from here on out."
"Thanks," Scott said, and he hung up.
The next call was another harangue about his lack of morals and about how he ought to he under arrest. Scott listened, not commenting and just letting the old man on the other end of the line go on and on. He sounded like the one who had called in to complain about fluoridation.
"Thanks for your opinion," Scott snapped and cut him off. He looked wearily at the tape monitor. It was whirring away merrily and the call from the man who had complimented him was already feeding out over the air. What he ought to do was stop it, right in the middle of the conversation. Instead, Scott did nothing. What was the difference? No doubt this was his last broadcast, maybe his last broadcast anywhere if Ransberg decided to put the word out blackballing him in the industry. He might as well give Indianapolis what it obviously wanted, sensationalism.
He kept taking telephone, calls and letting them feed out over the airwaves, complete with all the obscene words, and the vilifications of his moral character, and the praise of his macho attitude towards women, and all the rest of it. The calls came in so fast and furiously that he had little time to do more than switch from line to line almost as though he were an answering machine. Before long the callers were disputing one another, irate citizens calling in to refute what a previous listener had claimed on the air. Scott was hardly part of it any more. He moved in a dream, and the calling did not let up until his shift was over.
"Hey, Man," Barry Mann shouted, sticking his head into the control booth, "Your time's up. Cut it off now. Quit hogging the spotlight."
Scott shook his head dazedly. Where had the time gone? He urged the last caller into finishing her sentence, gave his sign off, and switched on his theme song. He was so exhausted he could hardly get up from his chair. Still, he felt wonderful, better than he had since he came to Indianapolis. If this were his last time on radio, he had given them something to remember him by.
"Christ, Scott, did you do a job! Everybody in town's talking about it."
Barry Mann was fairly jumping up and down with excitement as he clapped Scott on the back, knocking the wind out of him.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Barry? Where'd you hear everybody in town talking anyway?"
"At the Huddle, Man, that greasy spoon up on Thirty-eighth Street. Of course, everybody in town wasn't there, but the freaks who do gather for breakfast every day are a pretty good sample of public opinion. They loved your show."
"Sure, sure. Maybe I'll dedicate tonight's show to them, if I'm still around to do it."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I'm betting Ransberg will fire me for being too controversial. Some of the language was pretty blunt."
Barry nodded his head thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right, even though most everybody I know talks a lot worse than that nowadays."
"Not on the radio they don't. You know how it is. We might offend some little old lady out in Greenfield. Besides that, the call that started it all and my reply to the woman on the other end isn't going to help me in the least, not with Ransberg."
"I suppose you're right," Barry said, shrugging his shoulders. "Still, I'm telling you it was a great show. Good luck with Ransberg." Barry turned to the microphone and flipped the switch ready to start his morning show.
Scott stood for a moment, watching the announcer's back. Maybe the show had not been so outrageous after all, and maybe enough people did like it to balance the complaints. No, that could not be true, not in this town. He would go home, fall in bed, and wait for Ransberg to call and fire him.
Rona Barnes, the redheaded receptionist was already sitting at her desk when Scott reached the lobby of the station.
"What are you doing here an hour early?" Scott asked.
Rona looked up, the sunlight glinting on her flame colored hair. She smiled broadly. "I came in because of you, actually. I caught the last hour or so of your program."
"Oh," Scott said quietly, plopping down in the chair next to her desk. "And you thought I'd need moral support, is that it?"
Rona nodded her head and looked at him seriously. "I know I really don't know you very well, Scott, but…"
"But what?"
"But I just felt like you might need somebody to be here when you got off work, to field any calls that happened to come in."
"Oh, I see. And have there been lots of them? Calls, I mean."
"Only six or seven, since I've been here."