Rock 99 - Book Two, Part 2
By H.G. Miller
Four Hours To Midnight
Dale scans the menu behind the fast-food counter looking for the kind of artery-clogging meal that will put him into a food coma through June. Today is New Year’s Eve and he wants to get rid of the spare tire he’s begun sporting after spending the last four months sitting behind the mic during the night shift at the radio station.
Since this will be his last meal before he starts pounding salads and the low-carb chicken dinners that he bought on sale at the grocery store, Dale wants to go all-out. He can’t decide between the Ultimate Bacon Cheeseburger or the Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger, though.
He knows that he wants bacon and cheese on his burger, and he certainly wants the meal to be as ‘ultimate’ as it possibly can be, but he’s not really sure which sandwich selection will give him the degree of ultimate-ness he desires.
The decision weighs heavy on his mind as the teenage punk behind the counter with acne problems and a goatee that is probably two years in the making greets him.
“Welcome to Cheesy McGees. How may I commence your dining experience today?”
Dale asks the cashier for a recommendation, which draws a blank stare.
“They’re pretty much the same,” the kid tells him. “One’s got lettuce on it, I think.”
“Can I have the one without lettuce,” Dale asks. “I don’t want anything remotely healthy on my burger.”
“I can’t remember which one has lettuce,” the cashier says.
“Just give me the least-expensive one and say ‘no lettuce’ just in case,” Dale replies.
“Did you want to make it a giant meal for just two dollars more?”
“Na. I think I’m good.”
Dale pays the kid and steps back so the chef can attend to his order.
“Excuse me,” a girl behind him taps his shoulder. “You sound really familiar.”
Dale smiles. “I’m on the radio. You’ve probably heard me.”
“Rock 99,” she states. “I knew it!”
Dale nods. The girl is rather pretty and his mind races for something clever to say when another fast-food enthusiast interrupts them.
“Dude, you’re on The Rock?”
“Yup,” he answers. “I work the night shift. Prozac Nation.”
Ever since he started working at The Rock regularly, Dale has experienced this new sort of pseudo-fame. People will recognize his voice, or the radio station, but they have a hard time discerning who he is exactly. There isn’t a visual reference they can tie him to, so he ends up becoming an icon of the entire radio universe.
“Are you the one who made that dude masturbate for twenty-four hours to get concert tickets?”
“No, that was Zap and Andy on our morning show.”
“Are you the one who keeps playing that new Green 182 song every five minutes?”
“Actually, there’s a program director who dictates a lot of that.”
“How is that lawsuit from the Women’s League of Voters going?”
“That’s a different station than ours.”
“Who do you think is the best rapper out there today?”
“Oh, I don’t play hip-hop.”
“What’s wrong with hip-hop?”
“Nothing. Our station just doesn’t play it.”
“Are you a racist?”
“No. It’s a rock station.”
“Some hip-hop is kind of like rock.”
“Yeah, but we only play the screaming kind, instead of the poetic, lyrical stuff.”
Mercifully, the man’s food arrives and Dale is done answering questions. The girl who first noticed him smiles.
“Sorry about all of that. You had your anonymity and I took it away.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Dale smiles back at her. “I’m getting used to it. Was there anything you wanted to know?”
“Well,” she looks down to her feet sheepishly. “You’re not as old as I thought you’d be. Or as big.”
“Big?”
“Yeah. I always thought that radio DJs were fat.”
“Well, I’m working on it,” Dale motions to the fast-food menu. The girl laughs and they spend the next few minutes discussing his new diet plan for the New Year. She has one, as well. They both agree that probably half of the people in line are enjoying their ‘last meals’ before the purgatory of New Year’s Resolutions begins.
Dale’s brown bag of cardiovascular ache arrives and he stares uncomfortably at the girl. He wishes she were on one of the station call-in lines so that he could flirt with her from the safety of his empty sound booth.
“Well, um… have a good new year,” he says.
“You too.” She smiles. “Good luck with the diet.”
“Yeah, you too.”
The conversation has effectively ended, yet his feet refuse to move. “Um, if you ever want any concert tickets, let me know.”
“Oh, I only listen to hip-hop,” She tells him.
“Oh… okay.” That was ended easily enough, he thinks. Dale starts to turn away.
“But,” she stops him, “if you want to call me to discuss salad recipes, that’s okay.” She hands him her business card.
Dale smiles and thanks her. He waves good-bye and scoots out of the restaurant as quickly as he can to avoid wrecking the moment with any number of bad jokes he seems to only know for occasions such as this.
Checking his watch, he sees that he is now running late for work and that it’s about four hours before the clock strikes midnight. He takes a whiff of the ultimate meal and then pitches it into a nearby trashcan.
This may be a good year yet.