Morning Man

by Barbara Kellyn

  The man looked hesitantly at the cup, then up at Tack.

  “Go ahead. It’s good stuff.”

  With his eyes to the ground, he gave a silent nod of thanks and accepted it. Turning away, he pushed off to get his rattling cart rolling with momentum. “It’s time get movin’ anyhow,” he mumbled, continuing down the alley.

  Tack gave the dimly-lit Dumpster one last look when a box wedged behind it caught his eye. He found an old grapefruit crate holding a ratty wool blanket, a chipped plate and a couple of bus tokens. There was probably more inside, but it wasn’t his place to look through a box of someone else’s business that they had either hastily left behind or planned on coming back for later.

  As he returned to the door, a flash of headlights shone on the entrance and a zippy little red VW zoomed into a parking space with a halting screech. Of course that’s what she’d drive. Recognizing the Travis Tritt tune playing through Dayna’s open window, he smiled. She emerged, curls piled high on top of her head, wearing a plush-bunny pink tracksuit that hugged her curves as if they’d been sculpted out of soft, pliable marshmallow. After adjusting the straps of her bag on her shoulder, she crossed the lot holding a take-out tray of coffee.

  “‘Morning,” she said with a sunny smile, wiggling one of the two cups free with her fingertips and handing it to him. “You take it black, right?”

  He marveled at the fact that without even knowing, she’d replaced something he barely had a moment to miss. Now that was the kind of partner to keep around. “That’s awfully nice of you, sugar, thank you.” He took the cup and held the door wide open.

  * * * *

  Dayna unloaded her bags in the jocks’ prep office and took her spot in the co-host chair that was now rightfully hers to occupy. She picked through the weekend error reports and staff memos in the inbox, then settled in with one of the newspapers.

  “So, let’s go with the plan to do a game at seven-twenty and at eight-fifteen,” he said, turning on the radio to monitor what was currently going out on the air. “And we can wing a call-in at quarter to every hour.”

  “You think that’s going to be enough listener interaction for Bonnie?”

  “I’d rather we roll with things as they come up instead of sounding like we’re trying too hard, you know? Plus people still expect us to squeeze in a tune or two.”

  “Sure,” she said, yawning.

  “Still getting used to morning shift, hmm?”

  “Either that or the fact that I live with an imbecile who thinks nothing of having a party at midnight, knowing full well I had to get up early.” She pulled apart the paper and went for the lifestyle section. “You live with anyone, Tack?”

  “Me? God, no.” He shook his head. “And I like it that way because of what you just said. Not many people understand the kind of hours you need for this job. I’m cool knowing the rest of the world will never be in sync with my sleep patterns.”

  She warmed to the idea of Tack being fast asleep, a gentle giant all curled up snug and cozy. It made her want to crawl back to bed. It made her want to close her eyes, nestle in close to his big, burly chest and let him spoon her all the way to dreamland.

  “Right?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, maybe you should find a different living arrangement.”

  She smiled. “I wish. But I’m stuck until I can get a couple of paychecks under my belt. Or my fairy godmother holds up an armored truck.”

  He took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “I could lend you a few bucks until you get back on your feet.”

  She waved her hand. “I mean, thanks for the offer, but I’m not going to start our new partnership off like that. Money should never come between friends.”

  “Well, maybe you could talk to Bonnie about giving you an advance. Or see if the station can do a contra deal with a local hotel and get you a room?”

  CJ’s accusations of coattail riding jangled around in her head. “No, I can stick things out for a few more weeks. I want to do this on my own.”

  “I respect that. But if this guy is keeping you up all night…” His voice trailed off. “Or maybe you like the fact that he’s still able to pull your pigtails?”

  “Bite your tongue! CJ is going to rue the day he dropped me,” she snarled before relenting with a wicked smile. “And I sure as hell will not give him the satisfaction of driving me out of that house before I’m good and ready to go.”

  Tack chuckled. “In case I forget, remind me to always stay on your good side.”

  Wanting to wring CJ from her mind, she turned her focus back to the paper, zeroing in on the daily horoscopes. “What’s your sign, cowboy?”

  “Leo,” he said.

  She glanced up, examining his on-the-prowl eyes and the tuft of sandy blonde mane curling out the back of his cap. “I can see that. Leos are very sexual creatures.”

  A grin spread across his face. “What makes you think I’m so sexual?”

  “Oh, please. You ooze sex.” She rolled her eyes, pretending to appear unaffected by all he was oozing right then. “It says, ‘Your generous spirit can’t be held back today, and even if you don’t have much to give, you can still make a tremendous difference.’”

  He sat back in his chair and stared somewhere off into space.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’ really. It’s just that I saw this homeless guy out in the back alley this morning. I think he might live behind the station.”

  “Wow, seriously?”

  He shrugged. “Actually, I don’t know. I scared him off before I had a chance to find out. But I gave him my coffee.”

  She eyed the one that she’d brought him.

  “No, not this one. I had another cup before you got here.”

  “Well, maybe that’s how you made a tremendous difference today.”

  “I only gave him my coffee. That won’t change anyone’s life.”

  “You never know,” she said, scanning the page for her own horoscope. “At the very least, you probably made a new friend.”

  * * * *

  The on-air light blinked on during the final chorus of My Maria and Tack leaned in to the mike for the back sell. “Continuous country hits on Hot Country One-oh-three with Brooks and Dunn taking us up to seven-twenty. Your Monday morning traffic and weather is coming up shortly, but first, Dayna has some helpful advice for us guys still relying on the same old pickup lines.”

  “Well, as everyone knows, most guys don’t have a clue which lines work best on women. But according to a new study, opening with a funny bit makes all the difference between going back to her place or going home alone.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll buy that.”

  “In the study, women were shown situations in which the guy used pickups in the categories of sexual, humorous, complimentary or sincere based on something they had in common. The ladies gave the highest ratings to the funny approaches.”

  “You mean, like ‘Hey baby, are you from Tennessee? ’Cause you’re the only Ten-I-See.’”

  “Eww!” She winced. “That wouldn’t even work at last call.”

  “All right then, what’s the cheesiest line a guy has ever used on you?”

  She considered it half a second. “Hi. My name is Tack Collins.”

  “Oh, snap!” He laughed, clutching at his chest to remove the invisible arrow she’d just zinged at him. “Ladies, give us a call and pass along the worst line you’ve ever shot down, or guys lay down your best pickup and let Dayna stomp on–uh, I mean, rate it for you.” He went to the phone lines and randomly pressed one of the flashing buttons. “Hot Country One-oh-three. You’ve got a good pickup line for us?”

  “Yeah, hi,” said a young guy. “I’ve gone up to a girl and asked, ‘Do you know how much a polar bear weighs? Me neither, but I know it’s enough to break the ice.’”

  She nodded. “I like that. It’s kinda sweet and you’d certainly get the conversation rolling.”

  Tack punched up anot
her line. “Hot Country One-oh-three. Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Artie.”

  “Okay, Artie. If you saw Dayna across a crowded bar room, how would you try to win her over?”

  “I’d say, ‘Damn! Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fiiine written all over you.’”

  She clapped. “Love it! I might just buy you a drink after that one.”

  “I’ve got one more,” Artie said with a chuckle. “Do you happen to have a bandage? Because I hurt my knee when I fell for you.”

  “Artie, you smooth-talking devil you, Dayna’s scribbling down her number right now,” he teased. “Let’s hear from the ladies now. Hello? You’re on with Tack and Dayna.”

  “Hi. This is Jodi.”

  “Jodi, what the worst line a guy’s tried out on you?”

  “At the office party last December, this pervy jerkwipe from the IT department came up to me and asked, ‘Can I take your picture? Then I can show Santa exactly what I want for Christmas.’”

  Dayna grimaced. “Nothing like a little yuletide creepiness.”

  “You can imagine how totally awkward it was when my computer crashed a week later and I had to call him up for tech assistance.”

  “While we’re on a roll, let’s try another line,” he said. “Hot Country One-oh-three.”

  “Hi, Tack. This is Noelle.”

  He whistled. “Naughty Noelle, I know you must’ve heard some real dandies, darlin’. What’s the best or worst line out there on the club scene?”

  “Well, this one good-looking guy walked up to me and said, ‘Are you religious? Because, honey, I know you’re the answer to my prayers.’”

  “Oh, smooth, Tack. Real smooth.” Dayna rolled her eyes.

  He waved his hands in the air. “Hey, I swear, that wasn’t me, was it Noelle?”

  Noelle giggled. “I wish.”

  “See? Not my style.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “Try me,” she said defiantly. “Give me your honest-to-goodness, best Tack Attack right now.”

  He stared at her across the console, realizing he’d have to come up with something impressive to make her swoon. He may not have had the perfect words, but he knew he had the voice. As if he was whispering in her ear, he nuzzled his lips up against the mike and put on a deep, Barry White-sexy growl. “Don’t you remember me, baby? Oh, that’s right, I’ve met you only in my dreams.”

  It was priceless to witness Dayna drawing a complete blank. “Uh-huh,” she said, slowly nodding as if in a trance. “I think that one just might do the trick.”

  * * * *

  Dayna left Tack to wrap things up in the control room before ten, still smiling that Day One was successfully under their belts. “Hey Dub,” she said, giving him a friendly wave as they passed in the hallway. “Looking forward to hearing your show.”

  “That makes one person who’ll be listening,” he grumbled, staring straight ahead.

  “Fan-frickin’-tastic,” she muttered, rounding the corner to the office.

  “Wait up, Miz Cook.” Jared jogged up behind her.

  “There can’t be more than seven or eight years’ age difference between us. Call me Dayna.”

  “I’m twenty, ma’am.”

  “Okay, so maybe there are a few more years between us than I thought. But I still insist you call me Dayna. And that you never, ever call me ma’am again, understand?”

  He nodded dutifully as he continued to follow. “Yes, ma’am…uh, Dayna.”

  She smiled. “Better. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I put your mail on your desk, including a couple of phone messages and a memo about signing up for the mixed softball team we’re putting together for the media league. You should maybe think about joining us because it’s a lot of fun. I also updated the station website with the morning show information and your new bio over the weekend, so if you get a chance, take a look at that.” He took a breath before continuing. “When you see Mr. Collins, could you tell him he has a couple of commercials he needs to voice before he leaves? Great. Oh. And Mrs. McMulland would like to see you.”

  “Is that all?” She smirked, stopping short in front of the office door. A beautiful arrangement of tall, sunrise-yellow calla lilies sat on her side of the desk.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Someone sent you flowers.” Jared pointed out the obvious.

  She smiled wide and reached for the card tucked among the blooms. It was unsigned and simply read Congratulations. “Any idea who they’re from?”

  He shrugged. “They were already here when I came in with the mail.”

  “Well, whoever sent these has great taste. They’re lovely.”

  Tack shuffled in, holding a cup of coffee up to his mouth as he walked and refueled at the same time. “What’s that?”

  “Someone sent flowers to Miss Cook,” Jared said, before turning to her apologetically. “I mean, to Dayna.”

  She delicately rolled a velvety petal tip between her finger and thumb. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “Yep,” he said, passing by without as much as an upward glance before plunking down in his desk chair.

  “Thanks, Jared. Let Bonnie know I’ll be right there.”

  “Production is ready when you are, Mr. Collins,” he squeaked. “Only two spots to get done this morning.”

  “Okay, kid.” He pulled open the top drawer and proceeded to hunt for something.

  Dayna carefully lifted the base of the vase and moved the lilies to the corner of her workspace. “Great show today, partner.”

  “Uh-huh.” He continued rifling through the drawer until he came up with his stopwatch. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he clicked it on and off repeatedly to test it.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’,” he said with a brooding tone. He stood up and reached for the handle of his mug with his free hand. “You heard the kid. I’ve got spots to do.”

  Dumbfounded, she bit her lip and silently watched him leave again. Who pissed in his Froot Loops?

  * * * *

  Tack stayed focused on filling his gut with coffee, although there was a lot weighing on his mind. Like who the hell had sent flowers to Dayna. Probably that skeevy piece of shit she was shacked up with who never deserved a quality woman like her in the first place. Of course, what gave him the right to feel possessive? He barely knew her at all, and yet, he already wanted to know everything about her.

  There was also the uncomfortable encounter in the control room with Dub, who hadn’t even made eye contact as he replaced him behind the console during the top-of-the-hour shift change. Although Tack wasn’t certain, it sure sounded like he mumbled something like, “That girl’s only going to bring you down.” He sloughed off his former co-host’s petty resentment and hoped that Dub would get over it soon.

  But the guy from the alley haunted him most. What was his story? Where was he going? Would he be back for that box if it belonged to him? What was in it? Tack had no idea why he’d felt so much compassion for this particular fellow, but he had a hard time shaking the idea that somehow, he needed to help him. And who had the time for that?

  He reached the bottom of the basement stairs and shouldered the production studio door open. “All right, all right, I’m here.”

  Elliott, producer extraordinaire, wheeled his chair from one side of his high-tech soundboard to the other, snatched two scripts and handed them over. “I can’t believe it! Tack Collins is gracing my studio with his presence. Wow, can I get your autograph? Huh? Pretty please?”

  “Right after you kiss my ass,” he sneered, skimming over one script for the Ford dealer and the other promoting his weekly appearance at the Roadhouse’s Suds ‘n’ Spuds Night. He scanned it closer and realized it had been written as a two-voicer with Dayna. “Uh…El? This isn’t the usual copy.”

  “Nope, ’cause it ain’t your usual spot. You’re cutting it with your better half.”

  He grumbled. “As usual, I’m the last to find out anything
around here.”

  “Let’s just lay down the first script now and I’ll call her down in a few.”

  Tack set down his mug and trudged into the recording booth. He picked up the headphones on the wooden stool next to the boom stand, put them on and took a seat. Positioning himself a dollar bill’s length away from the microphone, he cleared his throat and did a quick read-through of the dealer ad. Elliott flicked on the talkback switch. “Sounds good in here, Tackman. Whenever you’re ready.”

  The script in one hand and his stopwatch in the other, he sat up straight, puffed out his lungs and put on his official announcer voice, running flawlessly through the thirty-second commercial. His stopwatch froze at thirty-two-point-seven seconds. “Shit.”

  “You dragged a bit on that middle part,” Elliott said. “Let’s go again.”

  The second time, he stumbled over the enunciation of a sticky word near the bottom of the copy, but nailed it on the third take. He blew out a gust of air and his posture slackened as Miss Cook wafted into the studio like a perky puff of cotton candy.

  With a silly grin, Elliott did a three-hundred-and-sixty degree spin in his seat. “Dayna, Dayna bo-bayna…banana-fana, fo-fayna…fee-fi-mo-mayna. Dayna!”

  Her face lit up. “Hello, Smelliott. What are we doing?”

  He pointed through the glass. “Climb into the cage with the big bear. But be careful, he’s a snarly one today.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” she said. “He gets kinda grumpy when he’s hungry.”

  Elliott laughed. “I should put up a sign: Do Not Feed the Animals or Announcers.”

  Tack clucked his tongue as he adjusted his headphones. “You two do know that I can still hear you, right?”

  Her eyes twinkled as one corner of her soft, pink mouth turned up in an alluring half smile. If it was some feminine tactic meant to throw him off guard, it worked. Sucker.

  “If I come in there, you’re not going to bite me, are you?”

  He considered that distinctly sweet possibility and cocked one eyebrow. “Only if you want me to.”