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The portable radio from the pub is never used, as far as Malcolm is aware, so he’s pretty sure it’s only barely considered stealing to take it from the pub and bring it to his apartment late that night. It’s like taking home furniture someone’s left on the curb, sort of. It was Mona’s suggestion in the first place anyway. He was so worried about his phone dying again the next time he fell asleep to music, she insisted he take the radio to ease his mind. (She had originally suggested moving the record player into his bedroom, but Malcolm said Jazz would riot if it was removed from the living room.)
He didn’t tell Mona about what happened with Peter in the alleyway. He has to physically shake his head to keep the memory from replaying over and over in his mind, his face burning with shame every time he thinks of Peter’s stricken face. He could apologize, he wants to apologize, but that’s just not what the two of them do. They glare and they scowl and they move on. They don’t apologize. Do they?
No wonder the guy hates him.
Malcolm sets up the radio on his nightstand, letting the music play as he strips off his clothes and shimmies into a pair of Spider-Man pajama pants. The dial is still turned to the station he had set up from before. (He’s not surprised to find out he was the last person to touch the old thing.)
The station is playing a song he recognizes but can’t quite pinpoint. He’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom connected to his room, occasionally inspecting his face for acne (thank you, testosterone injections), when the music fades out and a voice fills the room.
“That was ‘Roadrunner’ by the Modern Lovers,” a man says. Malcolm pauses with the toothbrush still in his mouth, listening to the new voice. It’s not the phlegmy old guy from before, thank god. “I used to listen to the Modern Lovers album on repeat throughout my freshman year in high school, right when I was getting more passionate about music. I remember saving up to buy that album and digging my dad’s old record player out of storage just to play it all the time. Drove him absolutely up the wall.” He pauses to laugh a little bit, the sound altered and crackly on the radio. “Pops, if you’re listening, that one was for you. Thought you’d finally escaped it, huh?”
The man laughs again, and Malcolm finds himself smiling along with him. He likes this new guy’s voice. Youthful. Happy. Actually interested in what he’s talking about. It’s almost familiar.
He spits into the sink and shuffles over to the radio, turning up the volume.
“For all you insomniacs out there just tuning in, I’m your host for the evening, Max Rebo,” the man says. “I’m new at the station, but don’t worry, I’ve still got all your favorites lined up for the night. And for any of you night owls who are interested in stopping by sometime tonight, you can call in at—”
Malcolm’s not sure what exactly compels him to do it, but in an instant his phone is in his hand, and he’s typing the number in as the host calls it out. His phone rings, and someone who isn’t the man on the radio answers first. He assumes it’s a screener to make sure he isn’t a troll of some sort, but the speaker doesn’t ask him any questions past his name, just boredly tells him to hold until the host is ready.
“Oh, shit,” the man on the radio mutters, a note of surprise in his voice, his professional demeanor slipping for half a moment. “Looks like we have a caller already!”
There’s a click on the phone Malcolm has pressed to his ear, and suddenly Max Rebo is right there, his voice on Malcolm’s phone as well as the radio.
“Welcome, welcome, caller,” he says, an almost nervous lilt to his voice. He sounds young, possibly close to Malcolm’s age. He did say he was new—perhaps he’s new not just to the station, but to radio entirely. The thought helps calm Malcolm’s nerves.
“Hey,” Malcolm says after a pause.
The man laughs easily, and Malcolm’s shoulders lose some of their tension at the sound. “Hello. How are we doing tonight, caller?”
Malcolm panics for a moment, wondering why exactly he called. Instead of answering the question like any sane person would, with a ‘Fine’ or maybe a ‘Not too bad, and you?’ he blurts out the first thing that he had on his mind before calling in.
“What kind of name is Max Rebo?” Malcolm says, blushing brilliantly as soon as the words have left his mouth. He grips the fabric of his pants with his free hand, fighting the urge to smack his forehead with his palm. It’s silent for several unbearable seconds.
Luckily, Rebo seems to find Malcolm’s comment more amusing than insulting. A bright laugh filters through the speaker before it’s quickly muffled, almost as if Rebo hadn’t meant to do it, and Malcolm turns down the radio so he can hear it better through his phone. Rebo’s voice is clearer than it was on the radio when he responds, “Well, that’s just not fair! I don’t even know your name and here you are trashing mine.”
“There is no way that’s your real name,” Malcolm says as his brain shouts why the fuck are you still talking!
“It’s a nickname, actually,” Rebo explains. Malcolm wonders if he’s smiling.
“Oh,” Malcolm says a bit awkwardly. He rubs his neck, eyebrows furrowing. “Hang on, is the whole thing a nickname or just the Rebo part?”
“Nuh-uh. My turn for questions, caller.” His voice is low and teasing when he asks, “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Malcolm clears his throat, standing from his bed. He’s never been good at sitting still.
“Um, well,” Malcolm falters. He stands next to his window and lets his eyes follow a pedestrian as they jaywalk, waiting until they’ve safely made it across to look away. “Is it a requirement to give my real name?”
“Absolutely not,” Rebo says. “As we’ve established, Max Rebo isn’t exactly the name I’ve got on my birth certificate.”
Malcolm murmurs, “Neither is mine.” He sputters then, remembering he’s live on the radio, and says, “Clark. You can call me Clark, if you’d like.”
“Like Clark Kent?” Rebo’s definitely smiling now. Malcolm can hear it in his voice.
“Something like that,” Malcolm says.
“Cute name.”
Cute? Malcolm purses his lips, his cheeks flushing. Is he being flirted with? Is that what’s happening?
Is he going to flirt back?
“Wish I could say the same about yours, Rebo,” Malcolm says.
Rebo laughs, and he doesn’t try to stifle it this time. “Ouch. I’ll tell you what, Clark, if you can figure out where I got the name ‘Max Rebo’—without Googling it—I’ll give you my real name. And don’t go looking up the radio station’s website, either. That’s cheating.”
“So your name isn’t actually Max?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Not even close.”
“Yeah, you don’t sound like a Max,” Malcolm says, and it makes no sense but he’s smiling anyway.
“What the hell does a Max sound like?”
“Cuter, probably.”
He can hear Rebo gasp in offense, and he smiles. “I’ll have you know, I’m incredibly handsome. Dazzling smile, sparkling eyes, the whole nine yards.”
“Is that why they stuck you on the radio?”
“Jeez, you’re full of fire tonight, Clark,” Rebo’s laughter leaks through his words, and Malcolm can’t help but laugh along with him. “You know, I’m surprised anyone actually called in. The audience for this station doesn’t actually include a whole lot of night owls—fans of classic rock are either young enough to use Spotify or old enough to be dead asleep by this hour—and being a newbie at the station and all, I didn’t really...expect anyone.”
“Well,” Malcolm hesitates, not entirely sure what to say to that. Sorry? “I’m sure there’s someone out there listening in, shouting at their radio for us to get a move on with the music.”
“Ah, they’ll just have to wait their turn.”
Malcolm bites at his pinky, the force of his smile jostling the phone. “How long am I allowed to, uh...?”
“Oh! Oh, um, hang on.” There’s a short pause and the squeaking noise of a chair turning. When his voice returns, it starts out quieter, almost as if his head was turned away from the mic before he remembered himself. “Uh, my supervisor just shrugged, so...yeah, not entirely sure what that means.”
Malcolm returns to his seat at his bed, and Lady Governor hops up into his lap. He pets her back and chews at the inside of his cheek before letting it go and saying, “If I have to go, I can always call back in. If you aren’t busy with your dozens of other callers, of course.”
The laugh Rebo lets out is short and soft. It might be Malcolm’s favorite so far. “That would be nice. You’re a pretty interesting guy, Clark.”
“All I’ve done is make fun of you,” Malcolm says. “Do you have a thing for humiliation?”
“Nah,” he says. “I just like a guy with some spark in him, that’s all.”
Malcolm licks his bottom lip, ducking his head as his cheeks flame. Lady Governor looks at him curiously, and he shields her eyes with his free hand.
Definitely flirting, then.