ichard’s spine grated against the backing of the hard, plastic chair and the pungent odor of lemon-scented cleaner stung his nose. He checked Mitzo, the online calendar again. Ainsley had deleted all her appointments and withdrawn from the account. A growl welled up inside him. Stupid woman. How long did she intend to continue this maddening game? But he couldn’t think about that now. It’d get him worked up and could potentially sabotage his interview. As insignificant as it—and the radio station it would air on—was.
He scanned the boxlike lobby of KCGW AM. Except for a handful of paper certificates and old newspaper clippings framed in plastic, the dingy, white walls remained barren. A small, wooden end table sat beside him, five-year-old magazines strewed atop it.
Across the way a woman with carrot hair and purple-framed glasses chomped on a mouthful of gum, causing her fleshy underchin to quiver. “Mr. Showtoe will be here shortly.”
Richard glanced from his watch to the window behind him. Three cars dotted the small, cracked parking lot. Why in the world had he agreed to this deal?
Because Eric couldn’t land him anything better. Maybe he needed to find a more qualified publicist.
The door beside him opened and a balding man with tufts of hair sprouting from his ears wobbled in. He held a tarnished briefcase in one hand, a partially eaten sandwich in the other. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he left a trail of mustard on his pale-blue and green-striped shirt. “You must be Mr. Hollis.” He set his briefcase on the ground and extended his hand.
Richard rose and fought against a nose-scrunching frown as the stench of garlic and onions wafted over him. “That is correct.”
A sticky hand closed around his and pumped his arm.
“I’m Frank Showtoe, host of Let’s Talk About It. Follow me.” He jerked his head toward a narrow, dimly lit hallway to their left and picked up his briefcase.
Richard rose, smoothed the front of his designer shirt, and followed. They stopped in front of a wooden door flanked by thick glass windows. Inside the room, a woman with spiked blonde hair and more lipstick than a circus clown hunched over a microphone.
Mr. Showtoe touched a finger to his lips then eased the door open. Richard followed and leaned against a pale, white wall. The woman gave Mr. Showtoe a nod and Richard a wink, then turned back to the mike. She closed her broadcast with a catcall that made Richard jump.
“Woot-woot! And you heard it here first, on Jewels Among the Junk Pile, digging through other people’s trash for pleasure and profit. Make sure to come back next Tuesday to meet Mr. Trashcan himself, Sigmund Stashaway.” She clicked a button then spun around, her lipstick cracking as her mouth slid into a toothy grin. “Frank, my man, who’s your buddy?” Her seat screeched as she stood, revealing a gaping tear extending the length of the seat cushion.
Mr. Showtoe tucked his briefcase beneath an elongated table covered in various radio gear. “This is Mr. Hollis—”
“Dr. Hollis.” Richard puffed out his chest.
“Excuse me. Dr. Hollis, author of The Schizophrenic Next Door: Societal Solutions to the Age-Old Problem of Dysfunction.”
The woman’s face scrunched. “Oh. Interesting, I’m sure.” Her voice held a nasally tone. She paused, inspecting Richard’s attire before meeting his gaze.
He lifted his chin. “It is rather complicated, based on years of research.”
“I’m sure.” She stared at him a moment longer then turned and grabbed a gigantic gold and silver sequined purse from beneath her chair. Clonking out of the room, she winked at Richard then disappeared down the hall. The rhythmic clicking of her heels grew steadily fainter.
Mr. Showtoe pulled a folding chair from the wall and flipped the seat down. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll start us off.”
Richard sat, spine erect, hands folded tightly in his lap, and waited for the rather annoying theme music to swell and fade.
Mr. Showtoe’s blaring voice followed. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Let’s Talk About It, where real life meets the airwaves. Today I’m pleased to introduce you to Mr. Halls, author of the soon to be released Your Schizophrenic Neighbor. Mr. Halls, thank you for joining us. Before we begin, why don’t you tell us a little about your book? Does it stem from personal experience?” He laughed, his jowls shaking. “Give us a glimpse of your neighborhood.”
Richard’s jaw tightened, his back molars grinding. “It’s Dr. Hollis, and the book is entitled The Schizophrenic Next Door: Societal Solutions to the Age-Old Problem of Dysfunction.”
“Right, sorry. A fascinating topic. You must live in my neighborhood.” He laughed again, sending ripples through his gut. “But seriously, tell us, why did you write a book about schizophrenic neighbors?” Richard shifted and cleared his throat. Eric and he needed to talk, as soon as this sham of an interview concluded. “This book is not about schizophrenic neighbors, per se, although studies estimate 2.2 million Americans suffer from the illness, so it is quite possible many in your audience do indeed have a schizophrenic neighbor, family member, or friend.”
The interview progressed, Mr. Showtoe continually turning it into a comedy show while Richard countered with sound data. After thirty minutes of back-and-forth banter, Richard’s self-control wore thin. Luckily, Mr. Showtoe turned the broadcast over to callers before Richard said anything he’d regret.
“Our first caller is Buddy Landers from Holt, Missouri. Hey, Buddy, thanks for listening. Do you have a question for our good doctor?”
Static crackled across the line, followed by a heavily accented, clearly slurred voice. “Not a question, more of an observation.” Laughter sounded in the background. “I’m just wondering how I can get me some of this schizophrenia.”
Richard frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean. Are you asking where you can buy the book?”
The caller snickered. “No, man. That thing would make my head hurt, and I got enough headaches as it is, but that trip—hearing voices, seeing things, jamming in my own world—that I can dig. Wild!” Laughter—from the caller and at least three others—came through the line.
Richard’s hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms. “This is not a comical matter. It’s a serious mental illness that must be addressed.” He launched into his oft-rehearsed speech, but Mr. Showtoe cut him off with another caller, a woman this time.
“Dr. Hollerk, have you researched the benefits of fish oil and iodine on the human brain?”
“It’s Dr. Hollis, and no, nor does my book discuss alternative medicine.”
The woman went on about various nutritional supplements and how they provided cures for everything from mental illness to stage four brain cancer. Richard tuned her out and watched the second hand of the clock tick by.
This was the longest, most unproductive hour of his life.
By the time the interview ended, a dull ache, birthed in his right temple, spread to every cell in his brain.
The door behind him squeaked open and a man dressed in torn jeans and a paisley shirt waltzed in wearing headphones and carrying a large fill-and-go soda. Mr. Showtoe snapped on the theme music, flicked a few switches, then rose. He and Mr. Paisley exchanged a nod.
“Let’s schedule a follow-up, for after your book launches.” Mr. Showtoe glanced at a paper calendar tacked to the wall. “When does it hit stores, again?”
Richard moved to the door. “I’ll have my publicist call you.”
Chris counted the money in the cash register while Lawrence mopped the floor. The twinsy girls huddled in a far corner smacking gum, which he told them hours ago to spit out. Candy leafed through various books lining the far window. And the customers? They hadn’t seen any in over thirty minutes. All day, maybe a dozen folks had walked through that door. Had he tried to make too many changes too fast? And what about all those advertisements he’d sent out?
He really should’ve taken some basic marketing classes before buying this place. Or maybe hired on a manager.
Was it too late? Considering how close his bank account hovered near the red, yeah. But if he didn’t figure out something soon, this place would go under.
“Guess we won’t be getting a year-end bonus this Christmas, huh, bossman?”
Lawrence propped the mop handle upright and rested against it. “Warned you this would happen. Like I always say, no sense fixin’ what’s already rockin’ and rollin’. Unless you want static, which is what you got here, my man.” He swept his arm to indicate the empty seating area.
Chris stuffed the money in the bank bag and slammed the drawer shut. “That’s really not your concern, now is it?”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. “Touchy. But hey, what do I care if you tank the place?” He dipped his mop into dirty water then plopped it onto the floor.
“You need to dump that and get clean water.” Chris scowled and stomped toward the girls who grew silent when he approached. “And you two, the glass is past clean. Tessa, make sure the napkin holders and spice shakers are full then sanitize the tables. Selena, I want you to clean the bathroom.”
The girl’s face puckered. “Nasty. How about I help Tessa with the tables?”
“How about you do what you’re told?”
Her eyes widened then narrowed into a scowl. “I don’t need this garbage, not for minimum wage and . . .” she lifted a Mason jar on the counter and let it drop with a clang, “zero tips.” She turned to her friend. “What do you say, Tessa, think Starbucks is hiring?”
Tessa ran her tongue over her lip ring and shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
Their long, jet-black hair swung across their shoulders as they waltzed out. Selena paused at the door to throw Lawrence a kiss and Candy a wave. “It’s been real, man, but you know.”
“Yeah, a real dud.” Tessa giggled and spun around. The door closed behind them.
Chris turned first to Candy then to Lawrence. “You two can take the rest of the night off. I’ll finish up here.”
“Sounds good to me.” Lawrence pushed the mop bucket aside with his foot, splashing water onto the floor.
Chris tucked his money bag under his arm and stalked off to his office. Dropping his meager proceeds onto his desk, he sank into the chair. Concerns for his mother and the upcoming guardianship hearing jumped to the forefront of his mind. Years of law practice told him what to expect if things didn’t turn around soon:
“Medicare does not pay for such a facility, Mr. Langley. How do you propose to cover the residency fee?”
Three months ago, he could have offered his savings. Twelve months ago he could’ve called his dad for advice. His dad always said his impulsive nature would do him in one of these days. Only this time, his actions could hurt his mom. Badly.
Swallowing hard against a lump lodged in his throat, he grabbed his Bible from a nearby shelf and flipped it open to his life verse, scrawled on a 3-by-5 card tucked between the pages.
Isaiah 31:1, What sorrow awaits those who look to Egypt for help, trusting their horses, chariots and charioteers and depending on the strength of human armies instead of looking to the LORD.
Closing the Bible, he bowed his head. Lord, even though everything I see points to the contrary, even though my bank account dwindles as this once thriving café struggles to stay open, I will trust in You and not my abilities or my savings account. He swallowed, unable to verbalize the words taking hold in his head. After a moment of internal struggle, he began again. Lord, I surrender to You—this shop, my finances, and . . . and . . . An image of his mother, seated at a noisy table, eyes filled with fear, came to mind, drowning out his final words.
Opening his eyes, he gathered a stack of papers and his money bag and left. His footsteps echoed in the hall. He paused at the door to scan the empty tables one more time then flicked the switch.
