Welcome caller, p.5
Welcome, Caller, page 5
Jazz purses her lips and picks up the stack of googly eyes that Goby left on the coffee table. She starts taking them off and sticking them on her leather jacket. “Ask him next time.”
“What?”
“You’re calling in again next time, right? Ask him if he’s straight or not.”
“Jazz,” Malcolm says seriously. “I can’t just ask someone—someone on live radio—if they’re gay. What if he is gay but he’s in the closet? Or what if he’s straight and I just make an absolute fool of myself?”
“There are ways to go about it without directly saying, ‘Hey, do you happen to be a raging homo by any chance?’” Jazz says. “Just, like, ask him about his dating life or something. Slip it in there, all casual-like.”
“Casual-like,” Malcolm repeats. He hates that he’s starting to warm up to the idea. Dating could potentially come up as a topic of conversation on a late-night radio show, yeah? It’s possible. This could work.
Jazz nods her head seriously. “Casual-like.”
Malcolm pauses then. “Hang on, why are you here?”
“What the fuck, man?” Jazz says, lifting her arms in offense.
Malcolm laughs, throwing a pillow at her that she dodges with ease. “No, I mean, Mona’s at the skatepark. You’d usually be tripping over yourself to watch your girlfriend look cool on a board, what are you doing at the apartment?”
Jazz pauses, using Lady Governor’s presence at her side as a distraction. She takes off a googly eye from her jacket and places it on Lady’s forehead.
When she doesn’t respond, Malcolm says sternly, “Jazmine.”
“Mona said you might need a distraction,” Jazz finally says, sticking another googly eye on Lady’s chin. She’s a surprisingly patient cat. “She told me about what happened at the pub.”
Malcolm momentarily worries that she’s talking about what happened in the alleyway with Peter—but no, Mona didn’t know about that.
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm says, eyes downcast. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said all that to Mona. I was way over the line.”
“I mean, yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Jazz says, nodding. “But she said you’ve already apologized, like, a hundred times. I’m not mad, dude, and neither is she. We’re just worried about you.”
“You have nothing to worry about. I was just tired.”
“It was more than that,” Jazz says sternly. “She says you looked like your world was falling apart when you came into the pub. Like you’d crumble at the drop of a hat.”
Malcolm stays silent.
“Is it happening more often?” Jazz asks, her voice far kinder than it usually is.
He wants to tell her to stop, to say something crass and loud. He needs her to be normal with him. He can’t deal with everyone changing up their routines. First Peter being companionable, and now Jazz being nice. He can’t handle all of these changes—but he knows he owes her an explanation.
“It’s not like how it was in school,” he says, and she relaxes.
His episodes (he’s never sure what else to call them) happened pretty frequently in school. He spent the majority of his weekdays on edge, feeling like a soda can getting shaken up as he squeezed through the crowded halls to get to their classrooms where everything was just too bright and loud, and it would build and build until he’d lash out. He was usually able to keep it in until he got home, punching at his pillow and at his arms and legs until all of that energy drained out of him. But sometimes he’d let it out on his friends. On Jazz. It’s a wonder how he kept any of them.
“What can we do?” Jazz says.
“You know I don’t know the answer to that,” Malcolm says. He reaches over and plucks one of the googly eyes off of Jazz’s jacket, sticking it onto Lady Governor’s ear, which flicks a few times in response. “I just keep it bottled up the best I can until I can go somewhere to calm down.”
“I hate that you have to go through it at all,” Jazz says, and he looks up at her curiously.
“Me? I’m the one hurting people when I get like that.”
“You hurt people the way a wounded animal hurts people, dude,” Jazz says. “You don’t mean to hurt anyone, you’re just in pain. I see it in your face, in your whole fuckin’ body, everytime it happens. I just hate that we can’t help.”
Malcolm slides off of the couch and sits down next to Jazz, bumping his forehead against her shoulder. The leather of her jacket is cool and solid against his skin. She pats at his knee, sighing. He wishes it didn’t sound so defeated.
He doesn’t say anything. He wishes he could say that they’ll figure something out. That there is something they can do to help. But he doesn’t know a single thing about why it happens or how to change it, how to cope with it other than by isolating himself or exploding.
Jazz seems to notice him retreating into his head, and she kindly changes the subject.
“You’ve got a pretty rad cat, man,” she says, sticking yet another googly eye on Lady Governor. She’s starting to look more and more like a biblically accurate angel.
Malcolm smiles weakly. Lady Governor always had a way of dragging him out of his pity parties. “Yeah, she’s pretty neat.”
Lady Governor meows, a pitiful high-pitched sound that was one of the reasons why he took her in when he first found her. She steps over into his lap carefully and makes herself comfortable, still ignoring the plethora of sticky eyeballs on her fur.
“You gonna call Mr. Rebo again?” Jazz asks.
Malcolm makes a face. “Don’t call him that, it makes him sound like a dad.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t be interested if he were a DILF?”
“You shouldn’t be allowed to speak,” Malcolm says, and Jazz shoves at his shoulder with her own. He laughs and continues, “Yeah, I think I’m gonna call in again. He said his segment is every weekend, including Fridays.”
Jazz perks up. “Are you gonna call tonight then? It’s Saturday!”
“I know it’s Saturday.” Malcolm hesitates for a moment, poking his tongue against his bottom lip. “Should I not wait? Would that be too, like, clingy?”
“Don’t fucking wait, dude! You’re probably the best thing that blessed his boring night,” Jazz says. “Can I listen in? I want to listen in.”
“No, you may not,” Malcolm says.
“Why not?”
“Because if he does like men and is also somehow interested in me of all people, I don’t need you ruining my chances by dicking around while I talk to him.”
“I’ll be silent as a mouse! Cross my heart and hope to die,” Jazz says. She swipes her finger across her chest in a slicing motion, complete with surprisingly accurate slicing sound effects, before letting her head fall to the side with her tongue rolled out dramatically.
Malcolm shakes his head, “Not tonight, at least. Maybe another time.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
Malcolm smiles, but it falters when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He feels his face pale, and Jazz sits up.
“Is it—”
“I don’t know,” he says, digging the phone out of his pocket. His shoulders relax when he sees the contact. “No. No, it’s just Mona.”
Jazz nods, relaxing as Malcolm answers the phone.
“Mona Lisa,” Malcolm says as a greeting.
“Never heard that one before,” Mona says. “Are you available tonight, love?”
“Uh, yeah,” Malcolm says, looking at Jazz, who raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. Why can everyone do that but him? “What do you need?”
Apparently, Mona needs him at work tonight. Two of the night workers gave up their shifts, so the pub will be short staffed. Mona, being too kind for her own good, had already said she and him could fill in for them.
“I’m so sorry,” Mona says. “I shouldn’t have said you could do it without asking, especially after the day you had yesterday—you need rest, and here I am making you do even more work—”
Malcolm has to shout her name a few times for her to relax, but he eventually convinces her he’s fine enough to work.
“Can’t pause my life every time I have a breakdown,” Malcolm says. “I’ll be there.”
Jazz doesn’t seem as convinced.
“Are you sure you’re alright to go in?” Jazz says. “I know you said this episode wasn’t as bad as in school, but from what Mona told me—”
“Mona hasn’t seen me during an episode like you have, remember?” Malcolm says. “By the time she knew me in college, I was having episodes every few months instead of every other day. She was just surprised, that’s all.”
Jazz still seems unconvinced, so Malcolm touches her cheek until she looks him in the eye with no small amount of reluctance.
“I promise you,” he says emphatically, “I’m fine.”
8
He should’ve said no. He should’ve hung up on Mona and stayed home.
Barely ten minutes after he’s started his shift, he looks outside and sees the very last person he wants to see. The arrogant bastard’s collar is coolly pulled up against the wind, his eyes squinted as he shoves at the front door. (It’s been storming on and off all week—seems like it’ll be on again soon enough.) Malcolm hits the deck and hides underneath the bar counter just as Peter enters the pub.
Mona is a saint for keeping her cool. She throws him a curious look before glancing up at who can only be Peter and saying, “Hey there, stranger!”
“Oh, hey!” Peter says, pleasantly surprised. Malcolm can sort of see the two of them in the mirror along the shelves. Mona is taller than either of them and blocks most of Peter’s body, but Malcolm can see his hands resting on the bar. His skin is a cooler, deeper brown than Mona’s. “Sorry, was it...Mary?”
“Mona,” she corrects, waving her hand to dismiss Peter’s embarrassment before it’s even there.
“That’s a cool name,” he says, voice laced with genuine interest.
Malcolm can see part of Peter’s smile in the mirror, crinkling his eyes. He’s so much nicer to Mona than he ever is with Malcolm. Or maybe he’s just happier. Malcolm doesn’t know why the thought tugs unpleasantly at his chest.
“Thank you very much! I chose it myself,” she says, placing a hand on her hip. “Can I get you anything?”
Peter taps his fingers against the counter twice. “What would you give someone to ease their nerves?”
Nerves? Malcolm thinks. What’s he up to?
His back is starting to ache, and he suddenly wishes he had the brains to pick a more comfortable hiding spot before getting stuck in this crouched position.
Mona makes a curious noise as she prepares a drink. “You’ve got something big tonight?”
“Nah, not big,” he says, and now that Malcolm thinks about it, he does sound a bit nervous. “Just got my hopes up to talk to someone later, and I’m not sure how it’s gonna go. Or if he’ll even show up.”
Someone? What kind of someone? An employer kind of someone? A date kind of someone?
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Mona says. He sees her in the mirror, reaching over to place a comforting hand on Peter. He relaxes under her touch. She always has that effect on people. “You seem like a pretty cool guy. Whatever it is you’re worried about, you’re gonna kick ass.”
She hands him his drink, something auburn (Malcolm wasn’t paying enough attention to see what she made). Peter laughs, and tips the drink to her. “Thanks,” he says, before taking a sip. His eyes widen and he looks at the glass in his hand with delighted surprise.
“Good, right?” Mona says. Peter barely has a chance to respond before Mona is perking up, turning away excitedly. “Oh! I know what’ll help distract you.”
Malcolm watches her reach over to the terrarium that’s currently hidden underneath the counter. His eyes go wide and he shakes his head at her furiously, and she throws him a mischievous smile before turning back to Peter.
“This is Terrance.”
There’s a moment of silence. In the mirror, Malcolm can see Peter leaning in close to the terrarium, looking slightly confused.
“All I see are leaves and sticks.”
“Hang on, he’s good at hiding,” Mona says, before opening up the terrarium and dipping her hand inside. She brings her hand back out, holding it out to Peter. “Ta-da! Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Peter’s eyes are wide, but in interest rather than alarm. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “That is cool.”
“Right?” Mona says, twisting her arm as the stick bug crawls across her palm and her fingers. “He’s the pub mascot.”
He’s definitely not.
“I love him,” Peter says. He holds out his own hand hesitantly, drink forgotten. “Can I?”
“Of course!” Mona says, placing her hand near Peter’s so Terrance can slowly crawl across their palms. “Just don’t tell my coworker, he’s always making a fuss about OSHA.”
“Well, he isn’t here, is he?” Peter says. “Nothing he can do about it.”
“Precisely, my friend,” Mona says, poking at Malcolm’s leg with her toe. “If he really cared about OSHA violations, he’d be stopping me right now. Guess he doesn’t mind as much as we thought.”
Malcolm rolls his eyes, wishing Mona would look down at him again just so he can send her his most devastating glare.
The two of them talk for far longer than Malcolm was prepared to crouch for. By the time Peter has left, Malcolm’s arm has gone numb where he had been putting most of his weight, and his neck has developed a painful crick. Mona reaches down and hauls him to his feet, already talking.
“That was the guy from the record shop I was telling you about!” Mona says. “He’s just your type, don’t you think? Hell, if I were straight, he’d be my type too.”
“Him?” Malcolm says. “Mona, that’s Peter!”
Mona blinks at him. “Yes, Peter from the record shop.”
“No, Mona,” Malcolm says slowly. “Peter, my archnemesis.”
Her head snaps towards the front door, even though Peter is long gone. “He’s the guy you poured soup on? But he’s so sweet!”
“I didn’t do that on purpose!”
“We need to get you back on his good side,” Mona says in a way that makes Malcolm suspect she’s already strategizing in her head.
“Who says I’m the one who needs to get on his good side? Maybe he needs to get on my good side,” Malcolm argues.
“You have to let me teach you how to skate,” Mona says, ignoring his protests entirely. “He’ll see you outside his shop and won’t be able to resist your rebellious charm.”
“With my luck, he’ll see me wipe out and break my nose first.”
Mona looks like she’s about to argue, but Malcolm shuts down the conversation as another patron enters the pub. Mona is undeterred; she continues to throw several suggestive winks his way throughout the night, including a few not-so-subtle (and slightly inaccurate) hand gestures that leave him flustered and whipping a cleaning cloth at her hip. He should have never introduced her to Jazz.
He tries to race to his room as quietly as he can knowing Goby might be asleep. The shift he took kept him until midnight, making him an hour late to Rebo’s show. The show will be on for a couple more hours, but Malcolm doesn’t want to waste a second of it. Mona was kind enough to clean up for the both of them, seeing how antsy he was to get home. He’ll never be able to repay her for all of the favors she’s done him.
When he finally leaps into bed, still fully clothed and panting, it’s twelve minutes past midnight. He slaps the on button for the radio, and it buzzes to life just as a song fades out.
“That was ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ by the Clash,” a familiar voice says, and Malcolm relaxes back into his bed. Rebo delves into a short story about the band and his experience with their music; his sister is a bigger fan of them than he is, apparently, and he dedicates that song to her. Malcolm likes that he talks about his family so much. It makes him feel warm.
“Now, I know I haven’t had much luck so far tonight, but we’re gonna give this another try,” Rebo says, and Malcolm sits up. “If there’s anyone—maybe even, uh...never mind, just—if there’s anyone who’d like to call in tonight, here’s our number.”
Malcolm whips out his phone, punching in the numbers. This time he saves it to his contacts. The screener answers him first, like last time, and he’s told to hold until the host is ready. There’s a click over the receiver, and Malcolm swallows despite the desert that his mouth has become.
“Welcome, welcome, to the Marvelous Max Rebo show!”
There’s a voice in the distance that sounds like it says, “That’s not what it’s called!”
“Not yet, but it’ll catch on, just you wait,” Rebo replies to them. Then his attention is back on Malcolm. “Welcome to the show, caller! Don’t mind my supervisor, she’s a stick in the mud. Who do we have here?”
“You really don’t get calls often, do you?” Malcolm says, and he’s already breaking out into a smile.
There’s a second of silence before Rebo is speaking again, sounding just short of elated. “Oh, please. Please tell me this is who I think it is.”
Malcolm sighs, hoping he sounds more put out than he truly feels. “It’s Clark.”
“Clark Kent!” Rebo shouts, and there’s a sharp sound like he’s clapped his hands together in triumph. “I was hoping you’d come back!”
“I told you I would,” Malcolm says. He grabs a pillow from behind his head and hugs it to his chest. “Sorry I’m a bit late to the show. I haven’t lost my spot as your favorite caller have I?”
Rebo makes a dismissive noise. “Never.”
The call goes well into the night, far longer than their last. He learns that Rebo’s favorite animal is a panda, and Malcolm confides that iguanas are his. Rebo’s favorite color is green, and Malcolm’s is orange. It isn’t until the call is over that Malcolm remembers Jazz’s advice on how to ask Rebo about his sexuality, but there’s a strong part of him that knows this won’t be his last chance to ask about it. He can wait.
Even after his call has long ended, Malcolm stays up until Rebo is signing off from the show at 2am. “Goodnight and sleep well, everybody,” Rebo says in a warm, low voice, as if he were lulling the audience to sleep himself.
