Stoop Talk Radio

Keely had been ecstatic to get the call. After a month of unemployment, she was literally climbing the walls. Oh, it was great exercise, but parkour was starting to consume her life. She needed to get back into an office environment and working for a radio station was an exciting opportunity! She got her best blue power suit out of the closet, along with a white silk blouse, then agonized for twenty minutes over her choice of shoes. Is this normal, she wondered? It can’t be normal. That led to more agonizing. Then she glanced at the clock, and had to bolt out the door in her ASICS with stilettos and pumps stowed in her over-sized purse.

Keely scampered over to Sixth Avenue to catch the PATH train at 23^rd Street. She managed to get a seat, and — portfolio on lap — planned to rehearse her interview. But since she had a chance now to change shoes, she opened her purse and spent the whole ride to Hoboken weighing the merits of heels versus pumps. What statement was she trying to make and which shoe would help her make it? She exited the train still in her ASICS.

Keely came out of the PATH on River Street, determined to commit to her stilettos. Power. Stature. As she slipped them on she thought, I really do hope he’s not short, then strode determinedly towards Newark Street where she made a left up to Washington. As her shoes started to pinch, Keely’s couldn’t help thinking this whole job search wouldn’t be necessary if Donal hadn’t betrayed her. Her mind flashed back to her firing, and she grew tense and angry, which was no way to make a good first impression. She just needed to find that café — there it was, The Copy Cup — and get a relaxing cup of chamomile tea before the interview.

Above the counter, a huge chalkboard listed hundreds of available items. But the handwriting was illegible and the board had been erased and written over so many times that there was no contrast between the printing and the slate surface. The barista was a young Black woman with wide, hazel eyes and a pouty mouth. She cleared her throat, then asked, “Ordering?”

“I’m looking for chamomile tea,” Keely said. “But I don’t see it.”

“Why don’t you just ask for it?”

“Alright. May I have a cup of chamomile?” Keely asked.

“We don’t have that.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that?”

“You didn’t ask.”

So that’s how it’s going to be? Keely thought. Okay, then. “Do you have any Valerian tea?”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter. If you don’t know, you haven’t got it.”

“How do I know we haven’t got it if I don’t know what it is?”

Keely took a breath. “I’d like tea. What would you suggest?”

She shrugged. “I don’t drink tea.”

“But you sell it.”

“I don’t sell nothin’. People buy what they want.”

“And I’d like to buy tea!”

“What kind of tea?”

Keely looked up to the board and loudly read the first item she saw, “Black Cohosh.”

The barista threw down her towel and walked away in a snit.

Keely eventually got a tall peppermint from a different server. She headed to the side counter for some sweetener — not too much! — when she spotted a tall man in a business suit taking a seat by the window. The unhelpful barista veered straight for him and practically gushed as she asked if he’d take his usual. That had to be him: Emmett R. Dorsey, CEO and President. Keely was surprised at his doughboy pallor, and how he seemed totally unconcerned with the unkempt sweep of his hair or the absence of any crease in his trousers. But perhaps it was the very lack of Manhattanite, metrosexual vanity that gave him his power and allure. He was a — slob was the wrong word — Bohemian? An artist? A thought leader! Yes, immersed in his unique vision, he saw little purpose in buffing his shoes or performing any mundane exercises in conformity.

Somewhat in awe, Keely stepped up and introduced herself. That went well enough, though he seemed to grunt as he extended his hand and exhibited some reflexive gulping as she sat down at his table. Keely tried to overlook his discomfiture; it was possible he was a savant. Or had Aspergers. They chatted — his stream of consciousness was sort of rambling and disjointed; a laser mind flitting from point to point? — but Keely was struck by his energy, and how he made her feel like she was the only person in the room. Eventually, they got down to business.

“So, Mr. Dorsey, your station…”

“W.E.R.D.” he declared. “Werd! Where we constantly reinvent the medium.”

“And your target demographic?”

He paused to consider her question. “We’re critical,” he admitted. “Sometimes. Out of necessity. But we don’t deliberately target anyone.”

Keely wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Uh-huh. Is this satellite or terrestrial?”

Again he pondered. He weighed his words carefully. “It’s both extraterrestrial. And subterrestrial.”

“So that’s, um, underground aliens?” Keely suddenly felt inadequate. His language and concepts eluded her. She took a sip of her tea. Ugh! She’d overdone the sweetener, it tasted like warm toothpaste.

Mr. Dorsey showed an urgent impulse to clarify. He gestured broadly, tipping his coffee. Keely jumped, rattling the table so the coffee splashed onto her portfolio and his pile of papers. “Oh, that’s your resume,” he said, holding up the dripping sheet.

“Don’t worry,” Keely offered. “I can print another.” She fished through her purse, pulling out her pumps before finding a thumb drive. “I’ll be right back!”

Keely strode across the floor to the copy counter. A tall blonde woman greeted her with icy blue eyes. This was not a particularly welcoming staff.

“Um, hello.” Keely handed her the thumb drive. “Could you print the document resume redux ultimate final revision?”

She answered coolly in a throaty, Russian accent, “You vant mehbe edit von last time?”

Keely smiled good naturedly, “Why tamper with perfection? And not that I think I’ll need them, but maybe a few copies. Say, four or five…hundred?”

The Russian shook her head. She inserted the drive, tapped the keyboard and waited, staring off into the distance. Then she pulled a newly printed sheet from the machine beneath the counter. She scanned the sheet and showed it to Keely. “Vee von’t make copies of this.”

Keely was a little confused, but replied, “Okay. Well, I only need one.”

“Nyet, you need rewritten.”

Now she was annoyed. She’d labored for days over that resume. “Oh? Is there some part of redux ultimate final revision you don’t understand?”

She handed Keely several sheets of stationary.

“Five resumes come this morning, all better than yours.”

“Well, it’s not a competition,” she scoffed. But, uh, yes it was, wasn’t it? She glanced at the first page. “Wow. This one catches the eye.”

The Russian nodded. “Notice section on Skills.”

“Yeah,” Keely concurred, “it’s not buried below Experience.”

“Also not spelled with two i’s.”

Okay, now she was insulted. “Fine. But my ski-ills speak for themselves. Which is why I am going to land this job!”

“Here?” she pointed downward. “You are owerdressed. Also not qualified.”

“No.” Why would she think Keely’d work in a coffee shop? “Wait, unqualified for here?”

“Can you vork copy machine?”

Keely chortled. “Of course. Not.”

“Coffee machine?”

Keely fanned her hand as if trying to dispel the confusion. “Again. No. But that’s not the job I meant. I am going to be the new marketing director at W.E.R.D. radio.”

She looked past Keely to Emmett. A flash of recognition seemed to cross her face.

“And I vill fly to moon on back of vinged pig.”

“Listen, you,” Keely started, “what’s your name?”

“Fedora.”

“Fedora, like the hat?”

She looked cross. “In Russian means gift from above.”

“And obviously you take that literally.” Keely took a breath. “Well, Fedora, my name is Keely which means thin, from starvation, and is the third most popular name among preteen bulemics. But my point is, I can do anything I set my mind to.”

“Like vork for man who interwoos pretty, girls in coffee shop?”

Wait,” Keely thought. This is suspicious. “Do you mean…you think I’m pretty?” Before Keely could get an answer, Mr. Dorsey stepped up to the counter, obviously under time pressure. But he was gracious, despite having had to wait.

“Ms. Twain, I have to run. Meeting with the Board of Directors.” His face went from an expression of dread to a bright smile. “Where I will happily submit your resume.”

Keely was overjoyed. “Thank you, Mr. Dorsey, you won’t be disappointed.” She reflexively handed him a resume.

“Who’s Ashley Roberts?”

“Oops. Sorry.” Keely snatched that resume back, flipped through the sheets in her hand and presented her own.

“That really caught my eye,” he said. “But no matter, my mind is firmly made up.” He extended his hand, they shook and he walked jauntily out.

Keely pivoted back to the counter. “Well, Sombrero? Put that in your hat and, and…and…”

“Vear it?” Fedora took the sample resumes back from Keely and placed them beneath the counter. “Don’t be too excitement. Is happens many times. Soon to be getting phone call, explain he fights for you to his Board, but they have own candidate. He loses. But, since you von’t be vorking together, you now are free to explore personal love connection.”

“Ew,” Keely cringed. “Really? Ew.”

Keely didn’t know how to feel. Had she been had…again? This…hat lady… didn’t strike her as particularly credible, but what reason would she have to lie? Unless she was just so completely cynical that she enjoyed dashing people’s dreams. But, that didn’t make sense. She was too young and pretty to be cynical. Pretty women could be superficial and vain and clueless, but in Keely’s experience, they had too many advantages in this world to become cynical.

Still, Keely wondered if she should run after Mr. Dorsey. Ask him to explain. But how could that come off as anything other than an accusation? And if she was wrong — if Sombrero was punking her — she’d lose any chance at the job. Well, one thing was clear: she couldn’t stand in the middle of The Copy Cup. She needed to —

Hide! Oh. Em. Gee. Keely spun away from the bank window. Donal? What was he doing here? Was this some weird coincidence? Impossible. Donal never left Manhattan, except to visit the Hamptons.

“Is he coming in?” she asked.

“Who is?”

“The man outside.”

“Mehbe we lock doors. Kip all customers out.”

“Oh, could you?”

Apparently not. If the eye roll were any indication. Within seconds, Donal strode through the door, accosting Keely as she looked vainly for an alternate exit.

“Donal, what are you doing here?”

“Keely, I feel bad…”

“You should. You betrayed men. And, by the way, that satellite TV campaign was perfect.”

Donal nodded, seemingly chewing the inside of his cheek. “Flawless. On your part. And clearly, saying it doubled as an asteroid deflector was meant as a joke.”

Keely wanted to swat him. Her mind flashed back to that meeting — no, Inquisition! — before the Board.

“Ms. Twain,” the old stone-face had intoned, as if 40 years after Ms. magazine it still pained his sinuses to use that title. “Your little joke about the satellite dish deflecting asteroids has been held to be a warranty.”

“Warranty? What does that mean?”

Donal cleared his throat. “It means the satellite company guarantees your home won’t be hit by meteors.”

“But, that’s ridiculous.”

The stone-faced relic grunted. “Tell that to our client, who’s being sued for 40 million dollars.”

“Seriously?” Keely chortled. Apparently an Australian farmhouse had been hit with space junk and was attempting to parlay the freak accident into a MegaMillions jackpot. Keely didn’t know what to say, except, “This is not on me. I’m Creative. Legal vets all copy. Obviously, Legal was sleeping.”

Stone Face cast a jaundiced eye at Donal. “Yes. Apparently with you.”

That was Keely’s first-ever instance of acid reflux. And how did Donal respond? Did he step boldly into the breach and dispel the foul rumor? Did he challenge those who would cast aspersions upon a lady’s honor? Did he just mutter, “Yeah, I wish,” which would have accurately summed up their relationship? No. He blushed. Bowed his head sheepishly. And giggled.

“Hold it right there,” Keely had thundered. It was clear what they intended. They wanted to pacify the wronged client by firing her. “That’s a totally unfounded allegation! And the fact that you would bring it up here. In this manner. That’s a level of disrespect I will not tolerate. So, if you’re looking to fire me, I have one thing to say: you can’t fire me, I quit!”

Only then did Donal pick his crimson face up from the floor, muttering, “The firing comes with six months severance.”

So that had been that. No severance. No unemployment! Keely was simply cut loose, with an eighteen hundred dollar a month Tribeca sublet. Now, Donal touched her arm and gestured toward the table she’d shared with Mr. Dorsey. Her cup of mint tea was still there. So were her portfolio and her pumps. Keely sat, reluctantly, and subtly slipped her shoes back into her purse.

“I was worried about you,” Donal insisted. “I was afraid you’d do something crazy, and, my god, Keely, you’ve done it. You’ve crossed the Hudson River. And not by plane. Do you realize, you’re in New Jersey? A state named after a change of clothes?”

“I know where I am and I don’t have to answer to you. Because you’re a traitor. I thought you were a stalker — which was bad enough, creepy but flattering — but you’re really a traitor which is creepy and unflattering.”

“I can explain.”

“No, you can’t. Because, first, your actions would have to be explainable. And, second, someone would have to listen.”

Donal reached across the table to her. His puppy eyes gazed longingly. Ooh, she hated those puppy eyes!

“Keely, how can you call me a stalker, when I’ve come all this way to see you even though you wouldn’t return my calls?”

Well, he had a point. Except, “Donal, that’s the exact definition of a stalker.”

“I guess when you put it that way.”

“YOU put it that way!”

Oh, what was the use? Keely couldn’t fight Donal. Yes, he was cloying and ever so slightly pathetic, but if ever a man was attentive! Keely had never met a man who could recall and recite back every line of their conversation. He was a listener. And a stalker. Keely recalled the first night her doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

“FTD.” It was 3 a.m.

She’d opened the door to have three dozen, long-stem roses thrust into her arms. Behind the bouquet, a heavily mustachioed deliveryman had peered at her. When she took hold of the arrangement, he was gone. A few nights later came another ring.

“Who is it?”

“Candygram.”

Keely had opened the door to find Willie Wonka, the creepy Johnny Depp version, not the retro-chic Gene Wilder, with a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates. With a “no, it couldn’t be” tip of her head, she’d closed the door. Then a few nights later, another ring.

“Wine of the Month.”

Keely’d thrown the door open to find Donal sitting on the staircase, clutching an empty bottle, on the verge of tears.

“Why don’t you love me?”

That should have been the final straw. Donal was definitely creepy and pathetic. Unfortunately, he was also vulnerable and endearing. Those infuriating puppy eyes! So, days later, when a muscular figure in a spangled jumpsuit with thick, black hair and long sideburns had appeared at her doorstep, Keely had accepted the fictitious pretense that she’d won a spa visit. Now, remembering those sensitive fingers on her shoulders and the dulcet crooning — “Lovely you and blue Hawaii…” — Keely had to admit, “You almost won me over with that Singing Elvis Massage Gram.”

Donal bristled. “Sadly, that wasn’t me.”

Keely jerked upright. “Oh?”

“And it was so hurtful to watch.”

“Ew! See! Stalker!” She grabbed her belongings to bolt from the table, but Donal clutched her hand.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “Concerned friend. And trust me, I can overlook one night with Elvis, if you’ll just let me look after you.”

Keely huffed. “Donal, I can look out for myself.”

“But you have no job!”

“Wrong. I’ve already got another job. Right here.”

Donal looked mystified, then irritated. “Well, you’re overdressed for this place.”

“Not to work here,” Keely scoffed. “Jeez, I’m not a complete loser.” She looked up to see the unfriendly barista.

“Anything else?” she growled.

“No thank—”

And with that the barista squeezed out her rag over Keely’s cup, filling it with scummy water, before walking away.

Donal leaned in and whispered. “I can protect you from things like that.”

Keely pushed the disgusting cup away. “I don’t want your protection. If that’s why you’re here, you can go right back to Manhattan.”

“I’ll tell you why I’m here. Just look in your bag. Before you left the office, I slipped something in. To let you know I’d always be there. I’m really surprised you haven’t found it by now.”

Warily, Keely opened her purse and rummaged. She reached deep to the bottom, fingering items of which she had only a distant memory, before pulling out —

“A GPS tracker?”

“Damn, I should have hidden that better.”

“You’re a stalker!”

This time Keely would not be dissuaded. She bolted from the table, out of the Copy Cup and down Washington Street. Unfortunately, her stilettos were not built for speed. Donal had no trouble catching her and keeping pace.

“I hate to tell you, Keely,” he cried, “but I must. W.E.R.D. is not satellite radio. It’s two guys in a basement belching and farting over the Internet.” He held out his tablet, so she could see the screen. And there it was. Emmett R. Dorsey. W.E.R.D. He was a fraud.

Donal whistled and waved a limousine over to the curb. The chauffeur got out and opened the passenger door for them. Keely bowed her head and scooted across the seat.

“It’s alright,” Donal said, soothingly. “You couldn’t have known. Unless you’d Googled the company, but who does that?” He chuckled, “Extrasubterrestrial radio!” Then he nudged her gently. “Look again in your purse.”

What now? Why? Oh, Keely didn’t care anymore, she just wanted this day to end. She reached deep in her purse and pulled out —

A listening device.

“You bugged me?!”

“Damn.”

Keely threw the door open and the limo screeched to a halt. She pulled away from Donal and dashed across the street. He called after her plaintively, “I can protect you from extraterrestrials!”

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