Jack O'Connell - Wireless

“I don’t think so. The show is more than just me. There has to be an exchange, an interplay. A caller. It’s essential. Old story. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts. It’s the big picture that the brothers like.”

“The brothers?”

She holds her mouth over the nozzle of the flask, gives him an impatient look, refuses to speak.

“What?” he says.

“Please. Let’s say you are just the neighborhood life insurance guy. Let’s say that. You don’t read the Spy ? You didn’t notice the little article about the patron saints of the city’s jammers? Why does this have to be such a bitch?”

He takes the flask from her, decides that maybe drunk is the best way to go at this point. He goes to upend it, then says, “We’re out.”

“More in the glove box.”

He pulls out a fresh pint, cracks the seal, offers her the first hit, which she takes.

“Okay, fine,” he says, “yes, I read the article. First off, it was pretty ill informed—”

“Correct my misconceptions.”

He ignores the interruption. “The point is, and you should know this better than anyone, right? The beauty of radio is the anonymity. Anybody can broadcast. And anybody can call themselves James and John—”

“Weren’t you listening tonight? They came right out and said ‘O’Zebedee.’”

“Anybody can call themselves O’Zebedee.”

“You’re saying someone’s framing them. That it’s not the real thing.”

He sighs, takes back the bottle. “I’m not even saying that, really. I guess I’m saying that’s one possibility.”

“What’s your opinion?”

He waits awhile before saying, “My opinion is that maybe we should head back to the bar.”

She slouches down in her seat. “I was going to give you a tour of the terminal.”

He looks out at the decayed building. “You make a habit of coming up here?”

“When I need to think.”

“Could be a little dangerous, couldn’t it?”

“I’ve never had a problem. It’s a great place. It’s like walking around in a dream.”

“You’re nuts. There are probably rats in there.”

She laughs. “There are no rats.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Flynn says, and reaches to the dash and turns on the radio. But instead of tuning in QSG, he slides down the band until he comes to some subdued, bluesy sax music, just an old-fashioned kind of tenor melody with a strong bass line, no strings or orchestra crap. Very simple. Two people in a dark room, hunched into their instruments.

They both sit back in silence for a few minutes. The tune goes on and on and finally Ronnie says, in spite of herself, “This is great,” and then, coming forward, adds, “I’ve got an even better idea.”

She rolls her window all the way down, turns the volume up slightly, snaps on the headlights, then pulls up the door latch and climbs outside. Flynn watches her motion to him through the windshield, gets out of the Jeep, and joins her in the shine of the headlights. She faces him, bites down on a smile, takes him by the wrists, and directs his hands around her waist. She starts to dance, this slow, unstructured sway, mostly hip movement. He goes along with it and they fall into the rhythm of the song, pick up some pace, join their bodies closer together. They begin to experiment, laughing slightly, more surprised than embarrassed.

She leans into him, brings her head up near his ear, and says, “It’s true, you know, you concentrate on the music and it just gets easier.”

He indulges himself, gives her a mobile hug, runs a hand up into her hair.

“It’s weird,” he says, “in the headlights.”

“We could use some fog.”

“Maybe a little rain. Little drizzle.”

She rests her head against his shoulder. He turns her and she looks out at the landing strip. The Jeep’s headlights screen their shadows onto the tarmac, elongated giants swaying, long waves of spectral nomads blowing over the desert. Some wind starts up, moves scrap along the lot, makes a gushing noise through the terminal that adds something to the saxophone.

She says, “I used to watch that movie all the time when I was young. Sidney Poitier and Lulu. Remember the scene where they danced? I always wanted to dance like that.”

“With Poitier?”

“Or someone like him.”

Flynn leans in, puts his lips to her neck.

“But this is pretty good. This is okay.”

She begins to slow-dance him backward in the direction of the Jeep until he’s backed against the hood and the dancing fades into a tight, full-body embrace. His mouth moves around her neck, sucking and licking, and he feels her buck a little, her back arch out and her arms press into him. The pace of their hands and mouths speeds up as if their fingers and lips can’t decide where to land. She’s pushing into him, his back is against the grille, the Jeep taking his weight, his ass sliding down toward the bumper. He’s in a crouched, almost-sitting position, slightly below her. Ronnie shifts position, moves her legs outside his. She reaches down, starts to rub him, and hears his breathing immediately go shallow, almost as if she’s hurt him. She hesitates and he says, “No,” in a clipped, too-high pitch. She starts to fumble with his belt buckle and zipper, too anxious. He runs his hands up her thighs, lifting her skirt, coming around and squeezing her behind. He rises up slightly off the bumper and she manages to pull his pants free with a series of clumsy yanks. He pushes his face into the crook of her neck, slides into her, and the noises begin, clogged moans from an adamantly sealed mouth. She rocks backward, holding onto his shoulders, finds a rhythm, a midtempo wave that can build. His arms are locked around her waist and she can feel his feet sliding a bit in the gravel. She starts to blow out quick breaths, trying for control, typical, not wanting to give away any sound. It goes on like this for a couple of minutes, Flynn getting slightly louder, easing his head back finally, his eyes closed, his bottom lip held down by his upper teeth.

Then he shocks her by jumping up into a standing position, still managing to stay in her, bear-hugging her below her belt line. He’s frantic, dipping at his waist until her legs, locked around his back, tilt to the sky. It’s like some old 1950s sodashop dance move, poodle skirts sent sailing to a Buddy Holly tune. He does it again and again, bending, bowing in a sweeping plunge, then reversing, coming upright, actually tilting backward a bit.

Ronnie locks in, tightens her legs around him, closes her eyes, holds close to his chest. And begins a low-throated, rumbling moan, a keening kind of suppressed wail. She catches herself, goes into some shallow breaths, but it doesn’t matter, he’s drowning her out with this final series of dream-like yips, a speedy litany of identical monotones that sounds like an Oriental parrot.

When he finishes, he maneuvers a slow fall to the ground and they lie there for a while, still interlocked and breathing heavy just underneath the smoky beams of the headlights.

After a while, when he catches his breath, Flynn says, “So, would I make it on Libido Liveline ?”

Ronnie laughs and runs a hand over his face, feels the sweat cooling in the November air.

“I’ll tell you, Flynn,” she says, “you’re going to need some private practice.”

Wallace pulls the Volvo into the garage and as the door comes down behind them, Olga says, “It just wasn’t our night, honey. It wasn’t meant to be.”

He shakes off her consolation. “Entirely my fault. I couldn’t concentrate.” He cuts the engine and adds, “Though, God knows, the band’s been better.”