Short Stories for Short Attention Spans

Special Request

It's actually ringing.

I had been calling into the Sammy Slimeball drivetime show for more than three years. Not every day, of course. That would be pathetic. But Tuesday nights Sammy Slimeball and company would do an hour of nothing but requests. Callers could pick out any song they wanted, and Sammy Slimeball would play it for them, let them give a dedication, and even introduce the song themselves if they really wanted. It was a glorious throwback to the early days of radio, when you had to sit by the dial in your house and tune it in juuuust right to even hear any sound.

Every time I had called in previously–which, again, hadn't been THAT many times–I was greeted with a busy signal. Sometimes I'd hang up and give it another go–after all, I understood the station was inundated with callers. You do need to try again every once in awhile in life. Other times–and this really was a rare occurrence–I simply hung up, continued on my drive home, and listened to people make their choices. Usually I dug what they selected, but sometimes...man, I bet Sammy Slimeball regretted letting some people on air with their selections.

I was going to be different, though. I had my song picked out for weeks, and knew exactly what I was going to say to Sammy Slimeball. It was so great, in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he told me to stay on the line so he could offer me a job after the show. It was going to be–

"Sammy Slimeball show, can you please hold for a minute?"

I began responding with an "of course," but hold music already started playing on the line. Well, they're busy, and this is farther than I had ever gotten before. I could barely contain my excitement, and felt my heart pounding away in my chest.

About 12 minutes later, that same voice came back on the line. "Thanks for calling into the Sammy Slimeball request hour. What do you want to hear?"

"Hi, Sammy!" I said enthusiastically. "Thanks so much for taking my call. I'd like to hear–"

"Look, kid, I'm not Sammy." It sounded like he was rolling his eyes as he said that. "I'm one of five producers on the team here. You don't think Sammy does this all by himself, do you?"

"Of course not!" I said, an indignant tone rising in my voice. "He's got Pickly Pete, Jenna Jam, Stooby in the Street..."

"Yeah, and they've got all of us working behind the scenes to make sure they don't screw things up," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "And even with all of our help, sometimes they still manage to blow it. Anyway...what song do you want to hear?"

"Well, I would love to hear 'Crazy Lover' by Edwin...Edwin...wow, this is a little embarrassing, but I seem to have forgotten his last name!" I said, throwing in a little chuckle to show how playful I could be on-air. "I really do love that song–maybe just a bit of stage fright, here."

"Yes, sir, I know what song you're talking about," the producer said. "But you'll have to pick another one. Someone else has already requested it. Ever since that guy released his new song, somebody calls in to ask for "Crazy Lover." I personally can't stand the tune, but hey, what do I know? I just push some buttons."

"Oh man, that's a real disappointment," I said. "Let me think for a minute...I don't have a backup in mind."

"Well, try and think quickly," the producer said. "We have a lot of people calling in."

"Of course," I said. "Hmm...oh! I know! How about one of MC Cemetery's early hits! I loved that duet he did with Edwin, and I checked out his whole collection of songs. They're really good!"

"Yeah, they're not bad," the producer said. "Unfortunately, ever since he retired from making music, he's actually asked radio stations to stop playing his songs. Too many bad memories, he said. We're a classy venture here, so we're going to honor his request."