This tale began as an attempt at one of the 750-word entries, but we just couldn’t make it fit. We had too much fun with the idea of exploring an alternate life as we approach the ages of our protagonist.
Other than It Is Quite a Challenge!, this tale, at only 2,000 words, is our smallest submission.
This was really just a fun tale written in one day. We hope you enjoy it!
“Our next caller has chosen the pseudonym Precarious Position. Go ahead— Oops, thank goodness I caught myself. I was about to use only the initials because two syllables are quicker than seven. Go ahead, Precarious. You’re on with John,” I spoke into the studio microphone.
I glanced quickly at the CRT in the broadcast booth which displayed the relevant details my screener had gathered, including the basics of the question the caller wanted to ask. It’d been months since the indicated topic had been brought up, a near-eternity in talk radio.
“Long time caller, first time— sorry, I got it backwards. Long time listener, first time caller.”
“That happens to the nervous,” I chuckled. “Relax and tell me what you would like to talk about.”
“I’m twenty-six years old. My— um… my wife— well, she just turned twenty-two, and I think she’s sleeping around on me. I don’t know what to do.”
“How long have you been married?”
“A little more than three years.”
“And what’s giving you the suspicion that she’s become unfaithful?”
“I don’t know how to say it so you won’t disconnect me.”
“Try your best to avoid the verboten, but say whatever you need to say. My screener will cut anything that’ll make the FCC blush,” I said, looking through the soundproof window to the engineering booth where my screener flashed me the okay sign.
That particularity of the job was probably more difficult than mine. A call screener listens to the call in real time in one ear, and the tape-loop machine’s added delay in the other. Every word is evaluated for “safety,” and if an inappropriate one is heard, they lay a bleep on top of the delayed utterance before it’s broadcast.
“I love giving her— um… the cee word,” the caller said. “I always have, and she’s always loved it. But the last three or four times I’ve done it to her, she— uh… she— she didn’t seem the same. I’m hoping you know what I mean.”
“I’m thinking you’re saying you are, quite literally, facing an unfamiliar bouquet or palate?”
“I’m what?”
I choked the chuckle off. “Unfamiliar scents or tastes, Precarious.”
“Oh. Yeah. What should I do?”
“First, given your delight in oral exploration, I’m presuming you’ve noticed that such piquant things change throughout your bride’s monthly rhythm. Is that a safe assumption on my part?”
“I don’t do that dur—”
“That’s fine,” I interrupted. “My suggestion is that you talk to your wife and tell her that the scents and or flavors that you’ve enjoyed and to which you’ve become intimately familiar have become unfamiliar. Ask her to visit her doctor. Your concern could certainly be due to any number of medical conditions of which she might not yet be aware.”
“You think?” the caller asked.
“Give her the benefit of the doubt,” I answered. “If she seems hesitant to visit a medical professional based on your observations, you should patiently urge it. If she becomes defensive or deflective, that might be an indication that you aren’t the only individual spending intimate moments with her, in which case you should consider voicing your suspicions. If that is, indeed, the case, there’s always marriage counseling as an avenue.”
“Thank you, John.”
“In the best of circumstances, you’ll be her hero for catching something clinical and immediately treatable. All the best, Mister Position.
“You’re listening to WCQD Baltimore. It’s 11:56pm, and you know what that means. It’s the dreaded loooong break. The stroke of midnight is upon us, right after these messages. Stay tuned.”
I looked through the window. My screener signed the hand signal indicating we were off-air while the station played ads to earn three hundred twenty dollars for the four-minute pause in programming.
“You know you called him Mister Position, John.”
“That’s what was on the screen,” I said.
“Missed her position,” the screener repeated with a humorous chuckle while making slashing motions with a hand dividing the words.
I laughed. “Well, maybe he did. Three to one odds, he’ll be back in position ‘dining at the wye’ if he does what I suggested,” I air-quoted the innuendo.
I removed my headset to take the brief opportunity to relieve myself, keeping an eye on my watch to ensure I could be back in my booth before the Fedilipac machine’s carts played out.
The voice of Maryland and our neighboring states, this is Clear Channel Sixteen Ten AM, WCQD Baltimore. You’re listening to Doctor John Clancy, registered sex therapist and relationship counselor, live and in studio. It’s time once again to… Get On With John!
“That’s right, we’re live, backed by fifty thooousand watts of broadcast power, and I am, indeed, your host, John Clancy. Give me a shout at 1-800-555-9273 with your concerns or questions,” I spoke into the mic as the station ID bumper cart completed.
Looking at the CRT on top of the console, I playfully rolled my eyes at my screener.
I unmuted my mic and said, “Our next caller has picked a fun name because I adore candy of any sort, but I have a special place in my heart for those whose name you’ve chosen. You’re on with John. How can I help you, Joo Joo Bee?”
“My husband would kill me if he knew I was calling you, but he’s been having a bit of a problem of late. He’s no longer amorous in our bedroom. I try to get things started, but he becomes frustrated and asks me to put modest clothes back on.”
I’d written with a black Sharpie a note in large words on a page of my legal pad which read, “It’s spelled Jujube!” with a smiley face underneath the words, and held it up so my screener could see.
“Juju, how long have the two of you been married to each other?”
“It’ll be twenty-nine years come February.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. Do me a favor. On a scale of one to five where one is poor and five is fantastic, how would you rate the relationship between you and your husband?”
“Huh. I’d have to give it a four, John.”
“Do you mind telling me how old he is?”
“He turned fifty-five last weekend. I wanted to celebrate that milestone with a gift… you know, that way… but it didn’t happen.”
“Okay. First, I want to remind you and all of the listeners out there that I am not licensed to practice medicine. Like the caller before the break, I would suggest you ask your husband to visit his primary care physician for a consult. My worldwide web place, doctor clancy phd dot com, has guidance on bringing such a conversation up with a doctor. Yeah, the web thing is still new to me so it might look a little rough with my weak grasp of HTML and whatnot, but—
“Sorry. I started chasing a squirrel, but I’ll begin by telling Mrs. Jujube as well as all of our other ladylike listeners some information. When the purpose-built appendage can’t rise to the occasion, when the army refuses to march, when the flag doesn’t proudly wave, it can be devastating to a man. And I do mean devastating because it’s quite often perceived as a loss of masculinity. An inability to pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd can be a tremendous, often downplayed, or cruel mocks to a man’s psyche.
“Encourage your husband to visit his doctor. Sure, it can be a bit of a sore spot for men to tell a doctor that an ability he’s had since puberty, or even before and definitely during and after, has gone AWOL. Men don’t like to admit anything even approaching a sign of wrongly perceived weakness.
“There’s a brand new drug that just was approved by the FDA. I won’t mention its name because I don’t want to be pegged for advertising it, but any qualified GP or urologist and even ordinary folks that’ve been paying attention to the news have heard about the sky-blue tablet I’m talking about.
“It’s a crazy story worth the news it’s been receiving. It began its life as an investigational treatment for pulmonary hypertension. That’s high blood pressure. Again, I’m not a medical doctor, but a statistically significant percentage of men noted a particular side effect during trials that they and their intimate partners found quite… full filling,” I said, deliberately mispronouncing and over-emphasizing the syllables.
“So… something as simple as a pill might help?”
“It very well might be that simple, though his doctor might suggest a testosterone study first. There’s new treatments for low hormone levels for men, too. Yeah, you men out there, our sugar and spicy counterparts aren’t the only ones that can have hormonal imbalances that wreck physical intimacy in yonder years. It’s a real thing, men. Manopause is, indeed, a hot topic of recent research, hence the value of new male-only pharmaceuticals.”
“Thank you John. I’m glad I got on with you,” the lady said.
“Right back at you, Juju,” I laughed.
“A quick thirty second break. Rumble Bumble, you’re next on with John,” I announced after I disconnected Juju’s call, and the first of six commercial carts I put in the machine played.
“How could you expect me to know Jujube was spelled that way?” the person on the opposite side of the glass laughed through the talk-back microphone.
“Because you, of all people, should know that’s one of my favorite candies!” I chuckled. “Never mind. You’re good.”
“I know I am,” was the response.
“Our next caller is— Well, I can’t say that. Here’s our next caller. You’re On with John. How can I guide you?”
“John? Yes! Fuck, John! I definitely want to get it on with you!” the caller spoke as I made the dump it! sign on my hands. “I want you, John! I want your—”
“Dumped. Four seconds to refill the loop,” the person in the adjacent booth said.
“That’s gotta set a record for the furthest time into these two-hour shows when a caller was tossed,” I laughed. “I’m going to whistle a few seconds to, well, no I won’t— Sorry for the unintelligible babble, my friends, but that caller got a wee bit spicy and my super-skilled screener sent the whole thing to the can.
“Our next caller to On with John is… Oh, this name has never been used before. How can I help you, Cunning Linguist?”
I think my screener and I fielded between ten to a dozen calls in the final hour which ended at 1:00am.
The host of the following program entitled “Late-night With Mother Trucker” arrived about ten minutes before I signed off at 12:56am.
My screener and I exited the building. We both climbed into the brand-new laser red 1998 Mustang SVT Cobra Convertible I’d recently been gifted.
The radio was tuned to 1610kHz.
“You’re listening to Tammy on WCQD Baltimore. It’s 1:02 AM, so let’s get America’s trailers rolling! Give me a ring at 1-800-555-xxxx you’re willing to shell out cash on mobile minutes, or whatever if you’re parked. A shout out to Big Mama Bear—”
I turned the radio off.
“People actually listen to her show?” the person in my right seat asked.
“They do! It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I answered. “I, for one, have absolutely no problem believing she’s a long-haul trucker.”
My passenger softly kissed my right cheek.
“Can I get on with John?”
“Absolutely, and as soon as the little blue pill I popped a few minutes ago goes to work.”
“I love you, Baby. I have for every one we’ve been together. Happy anniversary, John,” she said, reaching across the center console to fondle my not-yet-awakened but still-sensitive bits.
“To you, too, Sheila. The time has absolutely flown by, hasn’t it?” I asked, kissing the woman I’ve loved and been married to for thirty-five years.
“Then make this gorgeous car I bought you fly that fast so we can celebrate in our bed,” she grinned.
I left some rubber in the parking lot as I sped into the night-vacant streets of Baltimore.