don’t tell Dinah.”
Bobby let Elton John’s “A Candle in the Wind” drown him out while he shuffled bits of lined notebook paper, most of them scribbled in his own hand in scrawling black Sharpie. Elton muted, Bobby back at full volume. “Herbie Topkok needs a mechanic. Someone versed in the mysteries of everything from Evinrude to Honda to Ski-Doo to Fix Or Repair Daily. Full-time, hourly wage to be negotiated, and if you’re any good, that includes straight through the winter, Herbie’s word on it. Method of payment also negotiable, cash, check, or money order.” Bobby laughed, a laugh that lived up in every timbre to the bass profundo voice. Kate was sure she would have heard it in the fillings in her teeth, if she’d had any fillings.
“Apply in person, preferably not loaded, last house on the left but one on your way to Ahtna.
“Okay,” he said, looking down and shuffling more paper, “Boris Balluta wants to sell his Honda Rancher ATV. Four years old, been to the river and back a few times but in good shape overall. Yeah, I’ve see Boris running that four-wheeler hell-for-leather through town. She does look rode hard and put away wet, but she sounds sweet, and while Boris may always be looking for the easiest out in a room filled with bill collectors, he knows his way around an engine. He should be banging down Herbie’s front door, and if he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty with actual work, he would be, but we all know that’s not happening, don’t we?
“Ruthe Bauman is looking for a print of Machetanz’s Eighty Winters. A print, she says, not the original, doesn’t have to be matted and framed, but she’ll pay more if it is, save her doing it herself. Leave a message for her at the Roadhouse.”
He pushed a slider over an inch, pulled another one back two inches. “Couple of personals now.”
This was what the Park rats really tuned in for, or did before cell phones. Kate wondered how many were listening now.
“‘Carol Sweeney, we’re in Anchorage, due in on George tomorrow on the nine A.M. flight. Love you, see you soon.’ Ha. Must be Carol’s folks in from West Virginia. Welcome almost back, Sadie and Bert. Showing me something, coming back after last time and that whole moose collision incident.
“‘J, I’ll be at the usual place this afternoon and I’ll wait.’ Hmm. Short, to the point, sure hope J knows where ‘the usual place’ is.” Bobby sat up, his back still to Kate, and popped his neck. “Okay, going out on a piece of big juicy gossip. Kermit the Clark here, with Park Air News, deet-te-deet-deet-deet. Listen up, folks.” The sound of typewriter keys clicked and clacked over the speakers. Kate wondered how many of Bobby’s listeners even knew what a typewriter was. “You know that new film incentive law they wished on us down in Juneau? Well, your intrepid reporter has heard a rumor that the Park—yes, our very own Park—is being scouted as a film location.”
Kate’s heart skipped a beat.
“No, no names, we don’t know yet if it’s Robert Downey, Jr., Hugh Jackman, or Gabe McGuire who will be starring in our very own personal Park epic, but I’m holding out for Denzel to play me, and I’m kinda hoping Zoe Saldana plays the love interest.” He dropped his voice. “Just don’t tell Dinah.”
He reached for a knob. “Okay, that’s it for now. Might be back on tonight, might not, but right now let’s go out on somebody who knew their way around a song.”
He flipped a switch, turned another knob, ran some sliders in opposite directions, and the first bars of the Beatles’ “Please Mr. Postman” rocked out of the speakers.
Mutt couldn’t stand it one minute longer and took the intervening space between the door and the man in one smooth leap and reared up to rest her paws lightly on the back of the wheelchair and swipe a long, agile tongue right up Bobby’s bare spine, ending with a loving tickle behind his right ear that took the
Bobby let Elton John’s “A Candle in the Wind” drown him out while he shuffled bits of lined notebook paper, most of them scribbled in his own hand in scrawling black Sharpie. Elton muted, Bobby back at full volume. “Herbie Topkok needs a mechanic. Someone versed in the mysteries of everything from Evinrude to Honda to Ski-Doo to Fix Or Repair Daily. Full-time, hourly wage to be negotiated, and if you’re any good, that includes straight through the winter, Herbie’s word on it. Method of payment also negotiable, cash, check, or money order.” Bobby laughed, a laugh that lived up in every timbre to the bass profundo voice. Kate was sure she would have heard it in the fillings in her teeth, if she’d had any fillings.
“Apply in person, preferably not loaded, last house on the left but one on your way to Ahtna.
“Okay,” he said, looking down and shuffling more paper, “Boris Balluta wants to sell his Honda Rancher ATV. Four years old, been to the river and back a few times but in good shape overall. Yeah, I’ve see Boris running that four-wheeler hell-for-leather through town. She does look rode hard and put away wet, but she sounds sweet, and while Boris may always be looking for the easiest out in a room filled with bill collectors, he knows his way around an engine. He should be banging down Herbie’s front door, and if he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty with actual work, he would be, but we all know that’s not happening, don’t we?
“Ruthe Bauman is looking for a print of Machetanz’s Eighty Winters. A print, she says, not the original, doesn’t have to be matted and framed, but she’ll pay more if it is, save her doing it herself. Leave a message for her at the Roadhouse.”
He pushed a slider over an inch, pulled another one back two inches. “Couple of personals now.”
This was what the Park rats really tuned in for, or did before cell phones. Kate wondered how many were listening now.
“‘Carol Sweeney, we’re in Anchorage, due in on George tomorrow on the nine A.M. flight. Love you, see you soon.’ Ha. Must be Carol’s folks in from West Virginia. Welcome almost back, Sadie and Bert. Showing me something, coming back after last time and that whole moose collision incident.
“‘J, I’ll be at the usual place this afternoon and I’ll wait.’ Hmm. Short, to the point, sure hope J knows where ‘the usual place’ is.” Bobby sat up, his back still to Kate, and popped his neck. “Okay, going out on a piece of big juicy gossip. Kermit the Clark here, with Park Air News, deet-te-deet-deet-deet. Listen up, folks.” The sound of typewriter keys clicked and clacked over the speakers. Kate wondered how many of Bobby’s listeners even knew what a typewriter was. “You know that new film incentive law they wished on us down in Juneau? Well, your intrepid reporter has heard a rumor that the Park—yes, our very own Park—is being scouted as a film location.”
Kate’s heart skipped a beat.
“No, no names, we don’t know yet if it’s Robert Downey, Jr., Hugh Jackman, or Gabe McGuire who will be starring in our very own personal Park epic, but I’m holding out for Denzel to play me, and I’m kinda hoping Zoe Saldana plays the love interest.” He dropped his voice. “Just don’t tell Dinah.”
He reached for a knob. “Okay, that’s it for now. Might be back on tonight, might not, but right now let’s go out on somebody who knew their way around a song.”
He flipped a switch, turned another knob, ran some sliders in opposite directions, and the first bars of the Beatles’ “Please Mr. Postman” rocked out of the speakers.
Mutt couldn’t stand it one minute longer and took the intervening space between the door and the man in one smooth leap and reared up to rest her paws lightly on the back of the wheelchair and swipe a long, agile tongue right up Bobby’s bare spine, ending with a loving tickle behind his right ear that took the
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