[Pause]
And so, I think our discussion tonight can be seen in the larger picture. Its implications are staggering. The question is nothing less than — Are we men, made in the image and likeness of God, or are we soulless animals, creatures of the flesh void of any chance for redemption? Darkness or Light? Order or Chaos? The days of tabling that question are over. Each of us must seize the truth and fight the enemy with a viciousness that won’t allow defeat.
[Pause, a long audible breath]
Next time: Jane Fonda, the International Monetary Fund, and the Book of Revelation. I’m Raymond Todd. Good night and God speed.
He queues up his theme music — a weird, midspeed mix of something like organ and zither. It makes Flynn uncomfortable and he’s grateful when Wayne fades into the top-of-the-hour network news feed.
Ronnie moves forward, reaches down, and mutes the lead report about an air crash at O’Hare. She leans over Ray’s shoulder and says, “They let you alone tonight, big guy. How come?”
Ray doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge her or relinquish his chair. He continues to draw on his cigarette and stare past the hanging microphone out the plate glass at the dim corridor beyond. Finally he wheels backward, collects his things, a pack of Camels and a clipboard fat with scrappy mismatched pieces of paper.
“Tide is turning, sister,” he finally says, giving a look to Flynn, who nods.
“Smells that way,” Ronnie says, sliding into the seat and adjusting the headphones over her ears.
“I’ll leave you to your little orgy,” Ray says to Flynn on the way out of the booth.
“Pleasure meeting you,” Flynn says back.
“Get comfortable,” Ronnie says, and Flynn settles down on a small stool behind her. Through a window to their left they can see Wayne on the phone in the engineer’s booth, lining up Ronnie’s first calls.
Ronnie brings up the volume on the news and they come in on the upbeat close-out story, really just a headline and a few words of follow-up on a young girl in Nova Scotia who found a classic message in a bottle. Then the network announcer signs off and the theme music comes up.
Wayne breaks in to ask, “All set?”
Ronnie takes a sip of coffee and nods while adjusting the position of her mike.
“I got a nonorgasmic twenty-eight-year-old female banker on line one,” Wayne says, “an impotent gay musician with chronic nightmares about wild dogs on line two. Line three is standard bondage, male. And line four is a recent divorcee with a bad body image.”
Ronnie hits a button on the board and says, “Gimme the wild dogs and tell the divorcee to hang on.”
Flynn watches Wayne nod and slide on two different headsets — one heavy model around his neck, and another light, black plastic model over his ears. The ear set has a small tube-like mouthpiece that curves to the front of his lips. He looks like a NASA programmer. His hands are both on a mixing board that’s below the level of the window. An ad for a real estate development fades and the theme music to Ronnie’s show starts up — some low-key after-hours pseudo-jazz, alto sax, light brush drum, a little piano doodle. Flynn wonders who chose this theme and if they thought it appropriate to the show. And now, listening closely for the first time, instead of sitting in the darkness of his study, lying in the dentist’s chair and anticipating the sound of Ronnie’s voice, he decides it is appropriate, somehow it does convey the mood.
A pretaped announcer’s voice slides on, female, very low, on the verge of raspy, suggestive. It says, “Live from downtown Quinsigamond, it’s Libido Liveline, with your host Ronnie Wilcox.”
Ronnie takes a sip from her mug, tilts her head back, and lets the coffee run down her throat in a slow trickle. Then she takes in some air, lets it out through rounded lips like she was blowing a smoke ring, and as Wayne brings the theme music down, she says, in a slightly breathless but confident voice:
How are we tonight? How is everyone feeling? The lights on my phone tell me there are some problems, some sadness or misunderstanding. It feels like a good night to banish some of those troubles, to start down the path toward self-realization. Self-intimacy. Because the better we understand ourselves and what gives us pleasure, the better we can pass that pleasure on to others.
[Pause. Sips coffee]
Ronnie’s in a fine mood tonight, friends. Ronnie feels like anything could be possible tonight. She’s dying to hear your voices. But before we begin, I’d like to pass on a general suggestion, a small idea that might spark the senses a little. Maybe heat things up. When the show finishes tonight and you’re still wide awake and wondering what to do, give the great outdoors a try. I’m serious now, all right? We’ve got such gorgeous weather lately. Get outside. At night. Find a secluded park. Find a wooded grove. Bring your partner and dance. Tango, maybe. Under the stars, in the moonlight. I know.
[Deep breath]
Sounds a little retro, a little kitschy. Little Doris Dayish. Sure. But trust me, ten minutes with the breeze moving in your hair and the sound of the leaves blowing past your feet … it’s different. Anything can happen. The moon goes to work on the blood, you know. Try a little slow dance out in the night. See where it leads. Call me. Let me know.
[Pause]
Now, on to our first call. Hello, Carlo, you’re with Ronnie. Relax and talk to me. My assistant tells me you’ve been having some bad dreams lately.
Flynn stares at her back and listens to the caller relay a nightmare of snapping, foaming Dobermans surrounding his naked body. It’s an awful image and the person on the phone is articulate enough to make it detailed and vivid. The voice chokes up a little once or twice, but Ronnie has a knack for calming and reassuring. She leads the caller through to the end of the nightmare and then gently starts to probe for its cause, the real reason this man has called.
And as Flynn stares at her back, the slope of her shoulders, the mild sheen of light off her hair, he starts to think that possibly a turning point has already been reached, that the days ahead may have little resemblance to the ones past. The idea of this not only excites him but fills him with a kind of distracting pulse, a wave of energy that feels like a benign, enervating tension running down his spine. It makes him feel like he has to move, do something to release pressure.
So he gets off his stool and walks up to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and starts a slow rubdown. For a second, he flinches, wondering if he’s done something wrong that might disrupt the broadcast. But Ronnie’s a pro. She places one of her hands over one of his and never stops talking.
Flynn leans down and kisses the top of her head and takes in the smell of coconut. Then he pulls away and walks out of the booth.
Wayne looks up from the board, startled, maybe even a little frightened. Flynn tries to put him at ease with a smile and a hands-in-his-pocket shuffle.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he says.
Wayne shakes his head too fast. “Once enough calls are lined up, the rest is cake. Ronnie does her own carts. I just keep an eye out for problems.”
“G.T. Flynn,” Flynn says, sticking a hand out and nodding.
Wayne shakes his hand and doesn’t think to offer his own name. Instead he says, “You known Ronnie long?”
“Not too long, though I’ve been a listener from the start.”
“Ever call in?”
Flynn smiles. “No, but I probably wouldn’t tell you if I had.”