Sex and the Boss Wife
"This is Station KSZX, Indianapolis, broadcasting on 870 on your FM dial." Scott Forsmo repeated the station's logo, reading it from the copy taped to his console, and then turned up the volume on his theme music. It was a funky rock tune and was supposed to project the image of a swinging, free wheeling show. Scott had chosen it himself. He wished now he had not. He hated the music. It was strident, nerve wracking, and anything but what he was interested in listening to at one o'clock in the morning. He suspected the citizens of greater Indianapolis felt the same. At least it seemed so, if the response he was getting to his new show was any indication.
He faded the theme music and switched on his mike again. "Yes sir, guys and dolls, we're here to entertain you from midnight to eight in the A.M. every night of the week. It's Night Line, boys and girls. Call in and tell us what you think about whatever's on your mind tonight. What about the world? What about beautiful Indianapolis, the star of the Midwest, the Crossroads of the Nation, the Circle City." He almost threw up at having to call Indianapolis beautiful. It was anything but that. He would never have come here had he not needed the job so badly. One thing was true. Indianapolis was the Crossroads of the Nation. At least it had been once. Its two major thoroughfares, Washington and Meridian had been part of the principal North-South route and the main East-West route across the country. That had changed with the building of the freeways, and now the intersection, in the heart of downtown, was as sleepy as the rest of the Circle City.
From where he sat at his console, he could look down on that once famous intersection. It was totally devoid of traffic, and for all he could tell by looking out at one in the morning Indianapolis was a ghost town.
"On with the show, Folks!" Scott chirped, trying to sound jaunty. "The lines are open. While we're waiting for you to call in and tell us what's on your mind, let's listen to the Bee Gee's latest hit. Remember, our number is 447-4730, and we're waiting for your call."
He turned up the volume, and the sounds of the Bee Gees filled the air waves. Scott watched the buttons on the phone with a coldness in the pit of his stomach. No one would call. No one had called all week. The equipment was all set up and waiting to operate. As soon as he picked up the receiver, the recorder would come to life, faithfully noting the call and then replaying it one minute after the caller spoke. That way he could edit out any obscenity without problem. Since Indianapolis was the headquarters of the John Birch Society and the American Legion, its citizens were staunchly opposed to dirty talk. One violation would bring a flood of angry mail. The station manager, Hal Ransberg, had warned him of that his first day on the job.
Well, Scott thought to himself ruefully, maybe he should say fuck or cunt over the air. At least if people wrote in to complain he would have some evidence that somebody was out there listening to his voice. As it was, he felt as if he were operating under a bell jar, his lips moving soundlessly as he addressed a stone deaf audience.
The light on line one lit up, followed by the official buzz announcing that someone was calling. Scott grabbed at the receiver wildly, half afraid whoever it was would hang up before he could say hello. He heard the recorder whirl into action.
"Station KSZX, the voice of nighttime Indy. You're on the air."