by Lois Winston
Gee, thanks for reminding me, Vera. I needed that.
I punched line one. “Hello! You’re on the couch with Maggie–”
Before I could belt out the rest of my signature welcome, a male voice slammed over the line, practically hyperventilating with rage.
“So you think we’re a bunch of weirdos, is that it? A bunch of crazy kooks?”
Uh-oh. This was going to be worse than I thought. I glanced up to see Vera Mae grinning from ear to ear, her towering beehive bouncing from side to side like a dashboard bobble-head. Vera Mae, who hails from southern Georgia, believes that “the higher the hair-do, the closer to God.” Her carrot-colored tresses could give Marge Simpson a run for her money.
She held up a sign with the word YES! on it, followed by another that read DAMN STRAIGHT!
I should explain that Vera Mae has an infinite number of these hand-lettered signs, and she delights in holding them up at strategic moments during my call-in show.
I like to think of her as a Dixie version of a Greek chorus.
“Really, sir, I have no idea–”
“Your coverage of our annual furrie convention in Cypress Grove left a lot to be desired, young lady,” the voice went on in a harsh rasp. A smoker’s voice, I decided. One of those gravelly whines that made you think he’d inhaled an entire truckload of Camels and was threatening to hack up a lung any minute. “I’d expected that at the very least you’d invite our esteemed president, Clarence Whittaker, on your show as a featured guest...but no, you walked right by him at the Furrie Awards without even a hello.”
I frowned, trying to remember. The Furrie Awards. Oh yeah. I’d done a live, remote broadcast outside the Cypress Grove Convention Center last week, covering the Annual East Coast Furrie convention, but it was all a blur.
Which one was Clarence Whittaker, anyway? Was he the guy in the Smokey the Bear get-up? Or the portly skunk with the swishy tail? Or maybe the gray fox who’d patted my behind with his mangy paw? There must have been two hundred people milling around the square, all dressed as their favorite animal, paws entwined, drinking champagne and dancing in a conga line.
Is it any wonder I’d blocked the whole scene from my memory? As Freud would say, there are no accidents. I wanted to forget, so my mind was a blank.
“It’s discrimination, that’s what it is! I’m sure my congressman would like to hear about this. It’s un-American.” His voice quivered with self-righteousness.
“Hmm. Well, I certainly apologize if I overlooked your esteemed, uh, leader, but...”
“But nothing! Did you know that over half of our furrie members are in a committed relationship with another furrie? And that most of us are college-educated and upstanding members of the community? We’re doctors, lawyers and teachers. We even have a few preachers in our midst...”
This call was going nowhere. I looked up at the window. Vera Mae was pretending to slit her throat.
“No, I didn’t know that, but I’ll make a note of it. And the next time you come to town, I’ll be sure–”
“Well, listen, girlie, the next time we come to town, you be sure to give us the attention we deserve. And don’t forget the Furrie slogan.” He had another coughing fit as I leaned toward the board to cut him off.
“I’ll certainly do that. And thank you for calling WYME.”
I punched a button and disconnected him. “Well, Vera Mae, I guess now we’ll never know what the furrie slogan is, will we? What a loss.”
“Oh, I can think of a good slogan for that group,” she purred. “How’s this?” She leaned forward so her mouth was almost touching her microphone. “Once you try yak...you never go back!”
Ouch. “My producer thinks she’s a comedian,” I said quickly. I could just picture the phones ringing off the hook at her yak comment. “Who do we have next, Vera?” I struggled to put a note of professionalism into my voice.
After all, I am a licensed Ph.D psychologist, although my grad school advisor would probably have an aneurysm at the career path I’ve taken. The truth is, I’d gotten sick of New York winters and rising real estate prices. When I spotted an ad for a “radio psychologist” in sunny Florida, I auditioned for the job and grabbed it.
I’m thirty-two and single and I figured this was the time to do something a little reckless in my life. So I closed my private practice in Manhattan, sold my IKEA furniture and moved into a two-story mock-Hacienda style town house into a tiny town called Cypress Grove, Florida. It’s near Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, a pleasant drive to Ft. Lauderdale.
As the Chamber of Commerce says, “Cypress Grove–it’s near everyplace else you’d rather be!”
That was three months ago, and I’ve never looked back. Well, not too often, anyway.
Vera Mae stopped snapping her gum and sprang to attention. “We have Sharlene on line two.” Meaningful pause. “Again.”
Could this day get any worse? Sharlene calls my show like clockwork, three times a week, always ready to complain about Walter, her super-controlling husband. She’s a classic codependent, never ready to take responsibility for herself or change her life, and her voice grates on my nerves like teeth on tinfoil. Even over the phone line, she manages to suck the energy out of me.
I leaned forward to hit line two, but spotted Vera Mae waving at me frantically.
“Is there a problem, Vera Mae?”
“Oh wait a minute. Dang it, I goofed. Sharlene will have to wait a darned minute. Because now it’s time for a word from our new sponsor, the Last Call Funeral Home.”
Vera Mae pushed a button but nothing happened.
Dead silence. I made a “what gives?” signal with my hands in the air.
“Oops, sorry, Dr. Maggie. You’ll have to read the ad copy live, it’s sitting right there by the mike.”
Ah, the joys of small town radio.
Reading the occasional commercial, or “spot” as they’re called, is part of my job description. So I sat up straight, adjusted my headphones and crossed my legs. No time for a bathroom break when there was a sixty-second spot to read.
Since our last copywriter quit two weeks ago, Irina, the Swedish receptionist, is the new WYME scribe. Irina is doing her best to learn English, but puns, humor and slang expressions go whizzing over her beautiful blond head. This has led to some embarrassing double-entendres that I know will be the highlight of the blooper reel trotted out at the next WYME office party.
But how can Irina think straight with our studly sports announcer, Big Jim Wilcox breathing down her neck? Or worse yet, staring down her impressive cleavage.
I put on my best talk radio voice, oozing warmth and sincerity, like a QVC host.
“So just call on the friendly folk at the Last Call Funeral Home in your hour of needs.” Needs? “Er, need,” I said hastily. Couldn’t someone at least proofread Irina’s work? “We have many ways of helping your dead ones.” Dead ones? Vera Mae snickered and I glared at her. “Um, that should be loved ones, folks. Sorry about that. Yes, it definitely should be loved ones.”
Finally I got to the Last Call slogan: “Remember, at The Last Call Funeral Home, we leave no stone unturned in our quest to help you.”
No stone unturned? I bet Jim Wilcox helped her with this one. It’s just the sort of sophomoric humor that would appeal to the middle-aged sports jock.
“Ready to take a call? Sharlene is still on the line,” Vera Mae said in a sugary voice.
“Bring it on!” I was gritting my teeth so hard I knew I’d need a bite plate before the day was out.
“Line three!”
“Hello, Sharlene, you’re on the couch...”
“Oh, Dr. Maggie, you’ve just got to help me,” Sharlene wailed. “I don’t think I can take another minute of this. It’s just not fair!” She began sobbing and snuffling, a walking ad for divorce court.
“Now, Sharlene, try to calm down and tell me what’s going on. I’m sure I can help you.” Actually, I was pretty sure a good lawyer could help Sharlene
a lot more than I could, but for the moment, she was my problem. More muffled sobs. “Is it your husband? Is that what’s troubling you today?”
This provoked an even bigger wail from Sharlene. “He’s ruining my life. My mama warned me not to marry him. I always thought I could change him.”
“Sharlene, you know we’ve talked about this issue before. And when a woman marries a man hoping to change him,—” I allowed myself a small, knowing chuckle. “—changing a man is as likely as—”
“As teaching a pig to fly!” Vera Mae’s voice boomed into the booth. I think I liked it better when Vera Mae confined herself to holding up signs. Her homespun wisdom can be a bit unnerving on live radio but she has a heart as big as an Imax screen.
“Thank you for that gem of wisdom, Vera Mae.”
I could hear muffled sobs from Sharlene. “Sharlene, do you remember some of the options we discussed the last time you called? We talked about various strategies you could use in dealing with Walter.”
Vera reached for one of her favorite signs and held it up.
KHATTC.
Translation: Kick his ass to the curb. This is Vera Mae’s sure-fire solution for an errant husband or boyfriend.
Don’t ask, don’t reason, don’t plead. Just KHATTC.
“Well, I appreciate your help, Dr. Maggie, but somehow I just can’t get up the energy to do anything. And you know, Walter can be real mean when’s he’s been drinking and he seems to have a sixth sense or something, just like Patricia Arquette on Medium. He always seems to know when I’m talking to you.”
I gave an involuntary little shudder. There was something creepy and predatory about Walter, and I hoped he never discovered my home address or phone number. I do my best to protect my privacy, but there’s always an element of risk when you do a live radio show five days a week. Zabasearch will get you every time.
You can’t hide in a tiny market like Cypress Grove. You never know when a disgruntled listener might take offense at your advice and then track you down to even the score.
“Let’s try to stick to the issue of you and Walter, Sharlene. Can you pinpoint a time when things started to go wrong between you?”
“Well, “ she said hesitantly, “things have never been the same since he threw me through the plate glass window last Christmas.”
Hmmm. This poor girl needed more help than I could give her on a radio show.
“Oh, no!” Sharlene’s voice rose to a terrified squeak. “I hear him coming, Dr. Maggie, I’ve got hang up right now. Lord knows what he’ll do if he finds me talking to you. He’s been making some threats and—”
“Sharlene!” A male voice boomed in the background and suddenly the phone went dead. For a moment, I just stared at the microphone. Poor Sharlene. Would anyone be able to help her? Would she ever find the strength to leave Walter?
Finally, Vera Mae broke the silence. “Are you ready for another call?” She sounded shaken, and for once, she wasn’t making any smart-ass jokes. “I’m leaving a line open for you, Sharlene,” she added softly.
The next couple of calls were routine, and as we slipped into a commercial, Vera darted around the partition, and stuck her head in the studio. “Maggie, there’s some nut on the line four. He’s got his panties in a twist. I think it’s about that Sanjay fellow we’ve scheduled for later today. He’s making threats. Crazy threats.”
Crazy Threats? We came back from the break and Vera Mae said smoothly, “Take Line four, Dr. Maggie. It’s important.”
“All our calls are important, Vera Mae,” I said, confused. Who was on the line and what did he want? And why would he be upset about our upcoming featured guest, Guru Sanjay Ginjii? Sanjay was a popular radio and television personality. A little nutty, but harmless, in my professional opinion. New Age gurus aren’t my cup of tea, but this guy has a huge following, a book deal, a movie deal and a syndicated newspaper column.
“You’re on the couch with Doctor Maggie,” I said, swiveling back to the board.
“Your days are numbered,” a muffled voice said. The voice was soft, insinuating, chilling. I swallowed hard, and my mouth suddenly went dry. I felt the skin prickle across my shoulders. “Did you read the note I sent you?”
“The note?”
“It’s in a bright yellow envelope. It was hand delivered this morning.”
I looked over at Vera who was frantically flipping through the listener mail. She held up a canary yellow envelope with no stamp and waved it at me. Then she ripped it open, read the note inside and blanched.
“Did you read the note?” the caller persisted.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s it’s all about,” I said quickly. “We always welcome listener opinions, good or bad.”
A nasty chuckle from the mystery caller. “This one’s bad,” he rasped. “This is going to be the Apocalypse.”
“The Apocalypse?”
“Like I said in the note, the end is coming quicker than you think. Much quicker. It will end with a bang, not a whimper. It’s the end for you and for those godless Sanjay-ites.”
Sanjay-ites? Oh yeah, the people who dressed in white and were followers of Sanjay Ginjii. There was something so eerie about the whispery voice and I felt little icy fingers tap dance up and down my spine. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
I took a deep breath, my mind skidding over my options. Was it best to keep this person talking? Or break off the connection?
I sat there, fraught with indecision when I noticed Vera tapping on the window, pointing frantically to one of her famous hand-lettered signs.
This was a new one. She pointed to the note in her hand and then to her sign. She’d written B. O. M. B. with a bright blue magic marker.
B.O. M. B. I squinted, trying to figure out Vera Mae’s latest acronym.
B .O .M. B. Better Oppose Mixed Beverages? I was stumped.
B. O. M .B. Beer On My Breath?
More frantic pantomiming from Vera Mae. Her face was drained of color and she was sagging against the console, her features slack. I tried to ignore the hard lump that had suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach.
B. O. M. B.
Bomb. Bomb! Ohmigod. We’d just gotten a bomb threat.
My thoughts scurried through my head like a manic squirrel as I tried to deal with the reality of the threat. Was it a joke? Was it serious? And if there was really a bomb, where was it?
Would there be time to evacuate the station? Should I dial 9-1-1, or alert the switchboard first? Or the station manager? Was there some procedure I was supposed to follow?
I looked over at Vera Mae and now her eyes were ballooning, her mouth open, frozen in horror like one of those Edvard Munch paintings.
I thought about my mother and my friends and the fact that I was way too young to be blasted to kingdom come.
And then an explosion rocked WYME and suddenly I didn’t have to think any more.
TWO
I stood perfectly still, trying to process what had happened. Either a meteorite had hit WYME or we’d been bombed. Okay, reality check. This wasn’t the Starship Enterprise. It must have been a bomb.
The noise stopped but I could feel still the vibration slicing through the soles of my feet and snaking its way up my body. An acrid smell filled the air and my eyes burned as I scrambled out of my chair. The smoke alarms were blasting, filling the studio with a noise like a 747 getting ready for takeoff.
And then all hell broke loose. Vera Mae screamed and grabbed Tweetie Bird’s cage, making tracks across the production studio with her precious cargo. Tweetie Bird is Vera Mae’s aging pet parakeet and she drags his heavy metal cage to the station with her every day.
“So it really was a bomb?” I said dazedly. “It must have been, I can smell smoke in the air.” My mind felt like it had slammed into a brick wall, but the crazy thing was, the smoke smelled familiar. An image of a movie theater flashed into my head, for no reason at all.
“Hand me your sweater, Maggie!”
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br /> “You want me to take off my sweater?” My hand involuntarily went to the neckline of a short-sleeved raspberry sweater I had paired with some new Liz Claiborne slacks.
“Not that sweater you’re wearing–the cardigan!” she snapped. “I have to put it over Tweetie’s cage before he has a conniption.” When I didn’t react right away, she yanked the cardigan off the back of my chair. “C’mon, girl, time’s a wasting and you’re standing there like Lot’s wife. Let’s blow this joint.”
“Have you already called 9-1-1? And Donna at the switchboard? Shouldn’t we notify the station manager?” I started shuffling through some papers, wondering how to shut down the audio board. What was the protocol at a time like this? We couldn’t just run out the door, could we?
Apparently we could.
“Done and done and done. Now let’s go!”
“Wait!” I opened the mike and played the first piece of music I could find into the machine. The sounds of Celine Dion filled the air. I quickly turned down the volume and pushed away from the board. Music is good in an emergency, right? Didn’t the orchestra play as the Titanic sank?
On second thought, maybe music wasn’t the best choice in this situation. Too late now.
I could hear muffled shouts and running footsteps in the hallway outside the studio. Apparently, everyone was evacuating and through the tiny window in the door, I saw Big Jim Wilcox at the head of the pack. He elbowed the petite traffic secretary, Tammi Ngyuen, aside to bolt through the double glass doors. (who says chivalry isn’t dead?)
I grabbed my purse just as I heard sirens wailing outside.
Police cars, and from the sounds of it, fire trucks. One of the advantages of living in a small town is that help is always close at end. Both the police station and fire station were within walking distance of the studio.
Vera Mae started to open up the heavy door to the hallway, and I grabbed her. “Wait, you’re supposed to put your hand on the door first, to see if it’s hot.”
“That’s plumb crazy. Anyone with a lick of sense can see that it’s not hot. Didn’t you see that movie Backdraft?”
“Backdraft. Is that the one where John Travolta played a fireman? I never thought that was one of his more convincing roles, did you? Of course, I never really believed he was an angel in Michael, something about that grungy wing and the three day old beard—”
