thanks for calling.” I hang up from her and spend the next thirty minutes talking with more callers about the loose panda bears. It’s hard to imagine the zoo would be so neglectful, I can’t help thinking.
A guy strolls by my office and glances inside, whistling as he walks. We briefly catch eyes. He gets a few feet past my door before taking a few steps backward. “Hellooo, gorgeous,” he says.
“Hi,” I say shyly. Oh dear.
“And you must be the new Sallie,” he says, with a wink. I’ll admit his voice is captivating, although I’m not so sure about his personality.
“Was she the old assistant?”
“That she was.” After stepping into my office he holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Stan. Stan Stallone. Midday jock.” He winks again and nods his head deliberately, like he’s sure I already know exactly who he is—which unfortunately I do, though thankfully never this up close and personal.
“Nice to meet you,” I say out of habit.
Stan leans in closer till he’s right in my personal space, so close I can smell his coffee breath when he talks. It’s black and it’s nasty. “And you are?”
An involuntary jerk of my head causes me to hit the album cabinet behind me. “Leelee.” I reach up and rub the back of my head. “Satterfield.”
“Careful there. Are you okay?” Now his nose is almost touching mine.
I plop down in my chair to escape the odor. “I’m fine,” I say, although it sounds more like a squeak, and I decide to breathe through my mouth only.
“Well, welcome aboard, Leelee Satterfield.”
“Thanks.”
His eyes travel from my face down to my feet, with a pause at my chest. Double nasty . I’d heard his voice on the radio for years and had conjured up an image of what he might look like. Gorgeous voice, gorgeous man, I’d always believed. Not Stan, bless his heart. A large bottom on a woman is fine but it’s a different story altogether when it’s on a man, especially when his waist is much smaller. “Ever worked in radio before?” he asks and squats down level with my face.
There’s not much room in the tiny office, but I drop my pen on the floor and use my feet to “accidentally” push my chair back as far as it will go. “No. But, I love music,” I tell him.
“A top prerequisite for the job.”
“My girlfriends and I have seen just about every artist who’s come to Memphis for the last twenty-five years. We know a lot about music.”
Stan’s eyes are focused right on me as he pushes the stapler and tape holder out of the way and makes his large self at home on top of my desk. “ Really? ” He crinkles his mouth to the side and nods his head. “Hang on. I’m good at this. Who holds the record for the most number ones in the seventies?”
“Oh, I’m not good at that kind of music trivia. I just mean I’m good at recognizing songs and knowing who sings them.” I nod my head.
“All right then. Who sang ‘Diamond Girl’?”
“Seals and Croft.” Duh, duh, duh.
“‘Nights Are Forever Without You’?”
“England Dan and John Ford Coley.”
“Not bad, not bad.”
Ask me about a good song why don’t you, Stan the Man?
“Okay. Hit me up. I like the obscure ones. Nothing too easy,” he says, and honks the mucus in his nose way back inside before swallowing it.
I’m so grossed out by what he just did that I’m having a hard time concentrating. “Let’s see, ‘Gimme Shelter’?” I say. It’s not obscure, but the first one that comes to my repulsed mind.
“Was it in the sixties or seventies?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve got this one.” He’s nodding his head up and down. “You were trying to stump me, weren’t you?” He points his finger straight at me. “Duran Duran.”
“No. That’s not it.”
“Yes. It is. ‘Shelter.’ It’s a Duran Duran song.”
“It may be, but I’m talking about ‘Gimme Shelter.’ By the Stones. I don’t know all that much about Duran Duran.”
“What? They
A guy strolls by my office and glances inside, whistling as he walks. We briefly catch eyes. He gets a few feet past my door before taking a few steps backward. “Hellooo, gorgeous,” he says.
“Hi,” I say shyly. Oh dear.
“And you must be the new Sallie,” he says, with a wink. I’ll admit his voice is captivating, although I’m not so sure about his personality.
“Was she the old assistant?”
“That she was.” After stepping into my office he holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Stan. Stan Stallone. Midday jock.” He winks again and nods his head deliberately, like he’s sure I already know exactly who he is—which unfortunately I do, though thankfully never this up close and personal.
“Nice to meet you,” I say out of habit.
Stan leans in closer till he’s right in my personal space, so close I can smell his coffee breath when he talks. It’s black and it’s nasty. “And you are?”
An involuntary jerk of my head causes me to hit the album cabinet behind me. “Leelee.” I reach up and rub the back of my head. “Satterfield.”
“Careful there. Are you okay?” Now his nose is almost touching mine.
I plop down in my chair to escape the odor. “I’m fine,” I say, although it sounds more like a squeak, and I decide to breathe through my mouth only.
“Well, welcome aboard, Leelee Satterfield.”
“Thanks.”
His eyes travel from my face down to my feet, with a pause at my chest. Double nasty . I’d heard his voice on the radio for years and had conjured up an image of what he might look like. Gorgeous voice, gorgeous man, I’d always believed. Not Stan, bless his heart. A large bottom on a woman is fine but it’s a different story altogether when it’s on a man, especially when his waist is much smaller. “Ever worked in radio before?” he asks and squats down level with my face.
There’s not much room in the tiny office, but I drop my pen on the floor and use my feet to “accidentally” push my chair back as far as it will go. “No. But, I love music,” I tell him.
“A top prerequisite for the job.”
“My girlfriends and I have seen just about every artist who’s come to Memphis for the last twenty-five years. We know a lot about music.”
Stan’s eyes are focused right on me as he pushes the stapler and tape holder out of the way and makes his large self at home on top of my desk. “ Really? ” He crinkles his mouth to the side and nods his head. “Hang on. I’m good at this. Who holds the record for the most number ones in the seventies?”
“Oh, I’m not good at that kind of music trivia. I just mean I’m good at recognizing songs and knowing who sings them.” I nod my head.
“All right then. Who sang ‘Diamond Girl’?”
“Seals and Croft.” Duh, duh, duh.
“‘Nights Are Forever Without You’?”
“England Dan and John Ford Coley.”
“Not bad, not bad.”
Ask me about a good song why don’t you, Stan the Man?
“Okay. Hit me up. I like the obscure ones. Nothing too easy,” he says, and honks the mucus in his nose way back inside before swallowing it.
I’m so grossed out by what he just did that I’m having a hard time concentrating. “Let’s see, ‘Gimme Shelter’?” I say. It’s not obscure, but the first one that comes to my repulsed mind.
“Was it in the sixties or seventies?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve got this one.” He’s nodding his head up and down. “You were trying to stump me, weren’t you?” He points his finger straight at me. “Duran Duran.”
“No. That’s not it.”
“Yes. It is. ‘Shelter.’ It’s a Duran Duran song.”
“It may be, but I’m talking about ‘Gimme Shelter.’ By the Stones. I don’t know all that much about Duran Duran.”
“What? They
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