Mood Swings by Bill Moody

Author:Bill Moody
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stark Raving Group
Published: 2014-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

Jazzline

“This is WJAM, your jazz spot for the valley, 105.1 on your FM dial. I’m Tim Weston, and it’s time for Round Midnight.”

Weston eased up the volume on the Duke Ellington record spinning on turntable one, waited a few seconds, then faded the music and continued his lead in announcements. “I’ll be with you till three this morning with some of the best in modern jazz, so relax, get comfortable and in the groove. If there’s anything special you’d like to hear, remember, we do take requests. Just give jazzline a call at 555-2929, and I’ll do my best to find it for you, right here on WJAM.

Weston returned the gain to normal levels and clicked off the air microphone. He removed the headphones and began searching through a stack of new CDs for the latest release from Stan Getz, glancing at the phone light as he did.

Was she going to call again, he wondered.

There were four lines into the studio, but no more that one at a time ever lit up on Weston’s shift. None of the lights glowed at the moment.

He cued up two CDs and filled in the needle drop sheet, the listing of artist, and the cut he would play next. First break was at twelve twenty, so he had time to pull the Public Service Announcements and ready the commercial cartridges.

He stretched, leaned back in the swivel chair, laced his hands behind his neck, and listened to Stan Getz glide through the changes of “Stella by Starlight.” He faced the control board of slide dials, microphone buttons, and a large clock. To his left were two turntables; to the right, stacked on top of each other, two compact disc players and the tape cartridge machines.

He always felt curiously cut off from the outside world on these late shifts, like the pilot of a space capsule. The only link to the outside was the phone. He tried to imagine callers, the listeners to his show. After six months, he had a substantial following of night owls, insomniacs, musicians, and jazz buffs. He pictured them crashed on couches, lying in bed, pacing off early morning hours in solitude, or driving around town.

When they called, he made a game of putting faces to the voices. There were a lot of regulars, and some, like Weston, were knowledgeable jazz fans. The lonely ones just wanted to talk. Weston could always tell which ones knew the music.

But her voice. She was the one he thought about most, the easiest to imagine, to put a face and a body to, even if he still didn’t know her name. Weston caught the phone light winking at him.

“Jazzline.”

“Hi, lover, you’re cooking tonight.” She’d called several times in the past few weeks, then the calls mysteriously stopped. Weston had gone crazy wondering if she’d call again, wondering what she looked like, and if he’d ever meet her.

“Where have you been?” he asked. He eyed the timer on the CD player. Still a minute and forty-seven seconds left before the next break.

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