Veronica, the nerve
For a time, I was a DJ at a public radio station in Kansas City. My show, “The Sound of Blues,” was on weeknights from 2-4 am. “This show is for the real suckers out there,” I’d tell radioland. “Sure it’s for anyone who likes good music, but it’s especially dedicated to all the chumps out there, all the losers and washouts, who are well aware of how lousy their luck is. I’m right here with you.” Then I’d put on a record, light a cigarette and think about Veronica.
“Hey there, Dupe,” She’d coo, “It’s your baby girl Veronica. What was that last song you just played, honey?” Or she’d make requests, usually Nina Simone or Etta James. Other times, she’d tell me about her night at the bar. “You shoulda seen this catfight tonight, Dupe. Girl pulled the other’s hair so hard, damn near took her head off. Leon, the bouncer, was too yellow to get in the middle of if.”
I can’t say when, but at some point, I got in my head to start putting our conversations on the air live. I just got such a kick out of talking to her. Until one night, she called me up and said “Listen, Dupe, I don’t love you anymore. I’m moving out. I think I’m gonna head out to San Francisco.” If radioland felt any sympathy, they never said anything, so I just kept on playing records and thinking about Veronica.
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