“I know! Hold on the line while I take the next call, and I’ll be back to get your e-mail address so I can send you party details.”
With that, I clicked HOLD and picked up another call. Loud music pumped over the line in the background.
“Catie?” a guy screamed over the music.
“Yeah?” Somewhat nervous, I hovered my finger over DISCONNECT.
“Sonny here. Don’t ruin my show, babe, while I’m busy knocking freaky boots.”
This time I laughed. “Well, if it isn’t our fearless leader on the line. Are you having relationship problems, Sonny?” I figured while the cat’s away, the mouse would play, and I was going to get out all my zingers.
“Hey, turn that down for a sec,” Sonny hollered over the line. “You need a Twitter name, Catie girl! We wanted to tweet you from this party, but we couldn’t. Tell the audience that Monday we’re starting a contest for the most creative Twitter handle for you!”
Before I could respond, he was gone.
“Oh boy! Looks like I have to get on Twitter, Haftees. While I think about that and chat with Michelle, here’s another Halloween hit for you, ‘Werewolves of London.’” I gave a wolf howl into the mic and said, “Call me!” I was turning into a regular tease or flirt, or whatever the name was these days.
Letting my breath go, I went to Michelle and wished her well. After I got her e-mail address, I flicked through a few calls. One was a potential party for my girl, and I dashed off an e-mail to her.
The call lights continued to blink, and as the song finished, I picked up another random call.
“Catie, who apparently needs a Twitter name here. Happy Halloweeen,” I said, laying it on thick. This was my chance, and I needed to grab it.
“Hey.” The voice was deep and hypnotic, and I had to shake my head so hard, my earphones almost came off. I definitely needed a call screener next time I took over the show.
“What can I do for you tonight?” Not asking for the caller’s name, I finally squeaked out a question.
“I’m at a party by myself, no date, and I find myself missing someone I wish was here.”
“Hmmm, I’m sure there are a lot of people at this party, other friends,” I quipped.
“Yeah, but not one in particular.”
“Is it a male or a female friend,” I asked my caller, pretending to be coy.
“Definitely female.” His voice was scratchy and raw, as if he’d been yelling a lot.
“You should reach out to her.” Christ, I banged my forehead into the mic and a loud thud echoed through the studio.
“I am.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m talking to her right now. Come to my party if you know who this is.”
He rattled on but I hung up, disconnecting his call. I quickly hit PLAY on the deck and Fetty came on.
“Who’s going to whip it nae nae tonight?” I heard myself say, announcing the song, but I didn’t register the words coming out of my own mouth.
Slouched back in the chair, I took stock of what just happened. Blane Steele called my show and asked me to his party. At least, I thought so.
But I couldn’t go, and I didn’t. I stayed on the air and gave out a few dozen doughnuts instead.
And signed up for Twitter.
@SonnyB_KnocknBoots:
Welcome @CuteCatieP to Twitter! #Hafton #HaftonNEWS969 #happyhalloween
@HaftonSweetiePie:
Who was that who called @CuteCatieP tonight? I swear it was @BallerSteele #cheater #happyhalloween
@BallerSteele:
Happy Halloween #Hafton! Who’s ready to cheer the Green Boys to a ’ship? #dontworryaboutmylovelife
@Hafton101:
Rumor has it that @SonnyB_Knocknboots has gone soft and let @BallerSteele out of the bet. Maybe he’s in love? #steelenolongercelibate?
Blane
Sunday mornings in the field house had turned into a regular thing for Mo and me. We’d meet there around eight, bust each other up in one-on-one, and hit the gun before eating our weight at the diner.
Sober and clearheaded, but fucked in the head all the same, I made my way to the court on the Sunday after the Halloween party. The air was chilly, and despite living for three years up north, I was cold. I tossed my hood up, pulling the strings tight, thinking maybe it would squeeze some sense into my head.
For Christ’s sake—forgive me, Lord—I was a wanted man, and there was no need to get caught up on some little chippie.
But there was. She might be a little sprite in stature, but she was a giant when it came to personality. And curves.
The back door to the field house clanked shut behind me as I made my way to the locker room. Banging my palm into my locker, I threw my bag in, and grabbed a pair of my practice shoes and made my way to the couches to lace them up.
The TV was on and the place was immaculate with its dark green wooden benches and matching leather couches. The lockers lined up along the wall with a small monitor above each one, flashing our picture and number. The place was obscene, considering I grew up in a trailer park outside Jacksonville.
The good thing was the locker room still smelled fresh and clean with the regular season two weeks away.