Kookshow, Chapter 4: Ringtone

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

By the end of June, I had drifted deeper into a personal funk between writing projects. Nothing seemed to hold my interest while enduring long, pointless days of household chores and sitting on my porch, with alcoholic refreshments. Each session at the desk was frustrating and fearful. I began to contemplate never again connecting with my wordsmithing muse. Something that rattled my brain. I felt sick and sorrowful, like an empty vessel, abandoned after its brief lifespan of purposeful existence had been served. When neighbors attempted to visit, I was cranky and overheated. Not just by the rising temperatures, but with friction created by opposite forces of desire and futility in eternal combat.

 

I managed to scribble out one poem, on a piece of notebook paper. That was my entire output for the week.

 

But while sitting outside, with a dollar-store fan blowing warm air, and a pair of cold cans in the holding box attached to my wooden bench, suddenly an odd bit of background noise was perceptible. A synthetic pinging that I did not immediately recognize. It repeated over and over, as if attempting to communicate some sort of important code that I needed to receive. I tried to concentrate on this ambient sound, but lingered in a haze of brewed hops and grains. My capacity to think and identify anything specific was muted by drink. Loud, diesel trucks were circling my village of mobile homes. A din of Pop Country tunes warbled from next door. Shouts of marital discord and parental discipline echoed freely. I could barely perceive the random element which had been introduced into this cacophony of blue-collar expression.

 

Then, an epiphany of sorts struck me between the eyes. What I was hearing turned out to be a ringtone delivered through the Messenger app on my cellular device. I recalled, slowly, that when my friend Janis had been unable to pay her phone bill, she could still use certain functions via social media platforms, to keep in touch. I would get video calls throughout the day and night, when she was stoned and bored at her ramshackle hovel by Lake Erie. A home that was over 100 years old, and looked to have been neglected since her grandmother passed away.

 

When I opened the application, there was a notice that someone wanted to talk in real time. After clicking on the icon, my screen lit up with the image of a youngish woman, bearing freckles, big eyes, and dyed, blonde pigtails. In my alcoholic stupor, I fumbled with the plastic wafer, almost dropping it on the floorboards.

 

“Hello? Hello? Janis? Did you get a makeover at your nursing home in Ashtabula?”

 

A giggle of disbelief crackled from the speaker.

 

“Y’all must be blitzed, Rawd! This ain’t yer chick from the funny farm, it’s me, Kookshow Baby! I got a hookup link from Tiffany DuFoe! How ‘bout that? She’s a good friend!”

 

I was stunned into silence. It took a moment to behold her pale skin, painted lips, and swelling, female curves.

 

“Umm, Kookshow? Really? This is totally unexpected...”

 

She spoke in breathy tones that tickled my ears.

 

“Y’all are silly as heck, Rawd! Of course it’s me! Didja think Tiff would forget? She said there’s an old dude out in Ohio, who was askin’ about you... not to be impolite there, cowboy, I hope y’all understand... and I thought, well, I might as well give ya a damn call!”

 

My pulse had spiked. I could feel blood pressure pounding in my temples.

 

“Okay, here’s my confession. I, umm... heard some of your Cult Radio A-Go-Go appearances, and went hunting for clues on the internet about your career. But there was nothing available. Nothing! No biography, nothing on the IMDb, or any radio website, not a single reference to your timeline. That intrigued me even more. And while searching, I happened to think that the sound of your voice, on-air, was... umm... quite appealing!”

 

More giggling came over the wireless connection.

 

“Why thank y’all, Rawd! That’s very charming to say. Yer a gentleman I think. I don’t meet enough men like that, these days!”

 

I was impulsive in letting my curiosity take over, despite trying to avoid moving too quickly.

 

“I’ve been wondering about your connection to Terry and Tiffany. Like, are you a tenant on their property? Do you have a trailer somewhere at the abandoned drive-in theater?”

 

A wordless pause elapsed before she responded. I must have accidentally breached her limit of polite banter between strangers.

 

“Y’all sure have a lot of questions in mind, Rawd...”

 

I put one hand over my mouth, feeling defensive and regretful.

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry... I’m a retired journalist. My real job was in the newspaper business. I guess that makes me inquisitive. But those escapades are long gone. I’ve been unemployed for almost nine years. Book royalties and retirement money keeps me going. Otherwise, I write and drink, and sleep. That’s my whole routine.”

 

This burst of honesty seemed to register with the California immigrant.

 

“Alrighty then, I reckon yer okay. Tiffany said she and her dad have known y’all fer several years. I like to keep my privacy, ya know? That’s how a lady lives, if she’s smart. And by God, I’m a damn sharp operator...”

 

I nodded and reached for a beer while listening.

 

“Of course! Of course! My intention wasn’t to pry into details. I’ve just wondered about the connection. I know the CRAGG hosts came from Illinois, originally. But you’re a southern belle, so to speak. How did that happen? I’ve never heard them mention anything about being below the Mason-Dixon line.”

 

Another, more dramatic pause marked the need for careful introspection. Finally, a hum of contemplation resounded. And a deep breath to steady nerves that had begun to fray.

 

“Rawd, I figure Tiff has never told y’all much about my life, or our relationship as kids. Is that right? It’s nobody’s business, after all...”

 

I was embarrassed to the point of wishing we had never engaged in conversation.

 

“No, no, no! Of course not. Not a word about anything. As you say, it is nobody’s concern.”

 

Kookshow lowered her tone to the level of a whisper.

 

“Terry DuFoe was quite a feller in his younger days. He went on a jaunt through states like Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, and Florida, talkin’ about Elvis at conventions and concerts. You know, gettin’ material fer that radio station in a cornfield, WLUV. He must’ve met dozens and dozens of women along the way. But one of those femme fatales was my mother, Harlequina Nash. She had the looks of a plantation princess, in the old south. At least that’s how I’ve heard her described by other people who weren’t so lucky to get a taste of her favor. Mom raised me on her own, but once I got old enough, I started a-lookin’ for my daddy! Even though he never knew I was born! It was one hell of a job at first, but the interweb thingy made it easier. I hunted his ass like a backwoods scout! I tracked him to the Midwest and then California, and then... bingo! I met him here at the drive-in, and realized that I had a gen-u-ine sister, for real!”

 

I was so shocked that foam dribbled from my shaggy beard. My arms hung limply, over both sides of the bench.

 

“And that’s how you ended up on the west coast? A southern kitty, who strayed far from home?”

 

She giggled until her mouth turned numb.

 

“Like ol’ Bill Murray once said in a movie, ‘That’s the fact, Jack!’”