Emmett stretched himself out on the stoop and gloated. Following Emmett’s recap of events, Rauf was excited, but not altogether sold.

“So she’s a top-notch professional who can deliver the goods?”

“No,” Emmett scoffed. “Then she wouldn’t work for us.”

Rauf groaned. “This isn’t you trying to get laid again?”

“Yeah,” Emmett chided. “Laid on the mountain of money she’s going to rake in.”

Rauf wagged his head. “May Shiva spare your skull.”

Emmett placed his cell phone on the step between them. He put it on speaker and dialed.

“Moment of truth.” It took only one ring before she answered. “Hello, Ms. Twain? Emmett Dorsey.”

“Oh, great,” she answered. But Emmett detected tone.

“I just wanted to let you know I presented your name to the Board.”

She cut him off. “Oh, and let me guess, you fought real hard, but the Board had their own candidate, so I didn’t get the job.”

Emmett was stunned. Where had he heard this before? Oh, yeah. “No.” He chuckled nervously. “Listen to you!”

“But now we’re free to explore our personal connection.”

An alarm went off in Emmett’s head. Security breach! Abort! Abort! “No,” he assured her. But… “Wait, you felt a connection?”

“No!” she growled. “I thought you were sincere.”

“Well, I am,” Emmett declared. He switched the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. He paced in front of the stoop, trying to stir up residual confidence. “The Board unanimously approved you as the new marketing director of W.E.R.D. Congratulations!”

There was a pause on the other end. “Wait. Aren’t you just two guys in a basement?”

Damn, Emmett thought. “What makes you say that?”

Rauf was less than helpful. “It’s on the internet.”

“It’s on the internet,” the phone echoed.

“Well,” Emmett hawed, “Now you know why we need a NEW marketing director.”

Rauf leaned in with his two cents. “Because that was the best idea the old marketing director came up with.”

Yes! Emmett took the ball and ran, mimicking, “Oh, let’s make like you’re just broadcasting out of a basement.”

“Your parents’ basement!”

“And it’ll be all geek fabulous and edgy and subterrestrial. Which is not even a word when you think about it.” Emmett had definitely gotten his groove back. He knew he was in total control of the call when she responded:

“So this is legit?”

But then Rauf got all antsy and panicky all over again. Emmett waved him off as he flatly stated, “Absolutely!” He then turned and stared directly into the face of Keely Twain.

“Is this your house?” she asked.

Emmett’s throat constricted. “My parents’ house.”

“And the station?”

Emmett couldn’t muster a sound. He pointed to the basement.

“So the internet…?”

Rauf whimpered, “Never lies.”

Keely jammed her phone into her purse and made an abrupt about-face.

“Look, we’re a start-up,” Emmett offered. “Blog radio.”

“With scores of loyal listeners,” Rauf added.

She glanced back over she shoulder. “Scores? Like four score and seven? How were you going to pay me?”

Rauf stepped forward, “A very generous commission structure.” He nudged Emmett.

“I was laid off when the economy bubble burst. I got a severance.”

She stared incredulously. “And you have some left? From ‘08?”

“Actually,” Emmett conceded, “the Dot Com bubble.”

She lurched back on her heels. “Whoa! You’ve been on the couch fifteen years?”

Emmett nodded. “It’s been one hell of a ride.”

“A ride?” she squawked. “Nobody rides a couch.” She shook her head like she was trying to settle loose pieces of brain matter. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”

She started north, but a limousine backed up suddenly, knocking over some garbage cans. She glared at it and marched in the opposite direction. Rauf goaded Emmett to go talk to her, so after a moment’s hesitation, he trotted after her. Emmett wasn’t sure what to say, but the girl was so unbalanced on her high heels that she had to slow down, so there wasn’t much urgency to say anything. After walking alongside her for some distance, Emmett just started talking about the neighborhood.

“When grew up here, the stoops were full. Everyday at three, my mom would come out, talk to other mom’s. They’d broadcast the neighborhood news. The kids’d play ball, with our boom boxes as the soundtrack. And after dinner, the dads would come out, smoke cigars, talk business. Politics. And on their radios, ball games. The poetry and order of the block. Three strikes, yer out! We all thought we’d grow up to be those dads.”

They arrived at a fringe of park, and Emmett sensed some recognition from her when she saw the street sign reading, “Frank Sinatra Drive.”

“The hood’s changed,” Emmett admitted. “But I think there’s still a place for stoop talk. Where nobody rants, or accuses, everybody settles and makes peace, because it’s the neighborhood, and we’re all invested. We endure. C’mon, there’s something I want to show you.”

They walked up to Washington Street, and crossed an intersection to the median strip, where a bronze plaque marked an historic spot.

She read the inscription. “On June 19, 1846, the first match game of baseball was played here on the Elysian Fields…. until this time the game was not seriously regarded.”

Emmett didn’t have much more to say, except, “Sometimes things that aren’t seriously regarded can turn out pretty special.” Emmett tipped his brow to Keely Twain, and let her know, “The offer still stands.” Then he shrugged and headed home.

*                                  *                                  *