Because of his diabetes, Mom wouldn’t let him go out for sports, so he became a role--playing game freak, mostly Dungeons and Dragons. I made so much fun of him, but he loved it. I actually got kind of worried because he was so completely immersed in these fantasy scenarios that he’d talk about them as if they were more real than the real world.
One time he tried to explain the convoluted plots and intricate strategies he devised, but I gave up trying to understand, because the truth was it bored the shit out of me. At least he had excellent taste in music.
I hope he’s not still in that same head space. I really do.
God, I’m afraid. All my fears funnel into my biggest one: that I won’t stay sober. Because if I don’t, I might as well be at the bottom of Tuttle Creek Lake.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.
Chapter Seven
NESSA ARRIVED AT the station at eleven P.M. every Monday and Thursday night, armed with electronic music she’d chosen from her and John’s vast collection of more than 150,000 songs. Her oldest file was a tune from 1895, the same year her house was built, by a group called the Unique Quartette.
She made it a point to never play the same song twice, unlike the other “deep cut” shows on syndicated and satellite radio. She assumed the overplay elsewhere was intended to sell music, but luckily that wasn’t the focus of her show. At least, not yet.
KCMA operated out of a lonely building overlooking a field with a tall sign declaring WELCOME TO 98.6 KCMA COUNTRY! It was mostly computer--run with only two live jocks on the job, one for the morning drive (such as it was in a town of fifty--six thousand) and one for afternoon drive (ditto). The rest were syndicated shows from a satellite feed.
Now as she pulled into the dirt parking lot, she saw a Vespa scooter parked next to the car her producer, Kevin, drove.
She hoped she could hold it together tonight. She’d selected a slate of music that was aggressive, drum--heavy—-nothing that reminded her of John. She could do this. It was just another Thursday.
The front of the building was glass with a foyer to trap the heat or chill, depending on the season. She went inside and saw Kevin sitting atop the reception desk stretching a rubber band compulsively.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “Didn’t expect you in so early.”
Sitting behind the desk with his feet propped up on it was a young guy in a narrow--brim fedora and skinny jeans with a knapsack on his chest. Ah. The Vespa rider.
“You Nessa?” the new guy asked, making no move to stand or even sit up.
“Yeah,” she said.
“I’m your new producer,” he said.
Nessa looked at Kevin in confusion. “I wasn’t aware I was getting a new producer.”
Kevin kept his eyes on the rubber band and said, “I can’t keep doing the overnights. My kids are . . . and my wife . . . well, anyway. So this is Otto Goss. He’s the guy who makes sure the satellite feed doesn’t cut out when no one else is here.”
“In other words,” Otto said, “I babysit the computer five nights a week. Might as well produce a show since I’m already here.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I’m gonna take off,” Kevin said.
“Good working with you, Kevin,” Nessa said, feeling knocked off her game. She wished he’d have given her a little more notice, although what difference it would have made she couldn’t quite articulate. Too much crazy stuff going on this week.
“You too,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” And he walked out the door.
Nessa turned to Otto, who was texting someone. She waited, but the thumbing went on and on.
“So, Otto,” she said.
He held up a finger without looking up and went on thumbing.
She started to feel superfluous and stupid standing there watching him, so she walked toward the break room. As soon as she was almost out of earshot, he said, “So, Nessa.”
She stopped and turned.
He didn’t look up from his phone as he said, “We need to go over some ground rules before we go live.”
“What do you—-”
“Hold on,” he said, still not looking up.
It took every ounce of her self--control not to walk away. Instead, she waited politely.
“The end,” he said. “Just finished my novel.”
Nessa didn’t say anything to the anticipatory look on his face. The silence stretched until Otto’s expression dimmed and turned into a frown.
“Ground rules. One. I’m not your lackey. I’m not going to fetch water and snacks for you like Kevin did. Two. I will not be answering mail for you or anything like that. I’m not your secretary. And three. I need to have some input on the playlists.”
Wow. He was talking like he was the “talent.” Was he trying to be funny? “I don’t think you—-”
“Let’s go in the studio,” he said, and led the way. Once inside, Otto tossed his leather flapped--and--goggled helmet and knapsack into the corner, then switched on the lights and board, hit some buttons and dials. He put his own headphones on upside down, like a beard—-in order to not disturb that ridiculous hat.
Nessa felt rushed and jumbled by this guy’s dismissive attitude. His disregard for her was stunning.