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the rest of it?”
    To the world, or to the part of it that was listening, I’m certain that it sounded as if Mad Matt was interviewing a mental defective just to get laughs—which would not be out of line with what he normally does on his show. But to me, inside my headphones, which were acting like corks to trap all the desperate thoughts in my skull, it was more like this:
    Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. What? Shit? Huh? Howdidithappen, howdidithappen, howdidithappen? He knew. Sonofabitch. Set me up. Sonofabitch. What works best? If I shut up I look stupid. If I run... no. What if I cry? That diddler cop who cried on the show got a lot of sympathy afterward. ...
    “Just a name, Gordie? I mean, is it one of those obscene-sounding names with no vowels in it?”
    “F-F-Foley.” I spat all over my microphone.
    “ There you go, boys and girls. Gordie Foley. Now, should I tell you who his granddad is? Nope. Lines are open, you all tell me.”
    Matt punched a button, Sol pushed a couple of levers, and music filled the air.
    I keeled over onto the console.
    Sol pulled me back up by my shirt collar so I could see the boss grinning at me, winking, and circling his fingers into the okeydokey sign, as if we were all in on this terrific cool joke. Except, of course, that I wasn’t in on it. I was it.
    “Hello, you’re on the air.”
    “Ya, hi. I know who he is. Is his grandfather *@#%-face Foley?”
    The station operated on a seven-second delay. Being an insider now, I was privileged to here the pre-beep filth.
    “Yes, you are absolutely right, Gordie’s granddad is none other than famous felon *@#%-face Foley himself.”
    “Hey, Matt. Come on...” I finally spoke up. More or less.
    “No, no, no, Gordie, we’re just having a little fun here. I love old Fins. Everybody does. I even voted for him. I had to; his goons came to my house.”
    “Well,” I said, by way of defending the Foley family honor, “I don’t know about that. But I don’t have any goons, I can assure you.”
    “Oh, that’s sad. Hell, buck up, kid, maybe you’ll get some goons of your own for your birthday.”
    “My birthday’s already passed.”
    Great, Gord. Sharp. I was for sure going to have to work on this repartee business if I was going to last in either of my new endeavors. Sol was openly laughing at me now. Oddly this cheered me, seeing him loosen up finally.
    “On second thought, why wait? My listeners have always been generous to needies in the past. Let’s get on the phones, kids. Crack open those piggy banks. The drive starts here. Get Gordie some goons—call in your pledges and suggestions now.”
    He threw on some music, rolled his chair back from his desk, and made his way toward me. I was dripping with sweat, exhausted, slumped in my chair, my nose resting on my knee. It was seven fifteen.
    Matt sat up on the edge of the control deck in front of me. He slapped my shoulder.
    I made a move to slap him back. Caught myself.
    “So, Gordie, you want to quit?”
    “*@#% yes!” I yelled.
    “Don’t.”
    “Ya? That’s it, ‘Don’t’? Pretty persuasive there, Mr. Matt.”
    “What did you come here for?”
    “I’m a senior. I want girls to want me, and I want guys to be jealous of me.”
    Matt nodded, stared off wistfully. “I hear you. I wouldn’t trade my senior experience for anything. Those two years were hotter than all the rest combined.”
    “Ya. Well, song’s running down, Matt. You better get back out there and start zooing me and my family again.”
    “Gordie, you knew the kind of show I do. You wanted to be a part of it.” He leaned in closer now, put his small smooth hand on my shoulder. “And you were right to want to. Tell me, what’s in your future? You gonna be... mayor?” Matt laughed, Sol laughed, I laughed. “Or would you maybe like to get in The Show somewhere?”
    I didn’t have to answer. He knew. I knew. I don’t know if Sol knew, but it didn’t matter since he didn’t give a *@#%.
    Matt was all