Dial.  Busy signal.  Hang up.  Redial.  Busy signal.  Hang up.  Redial.  Busy signal.  Hang up.  Redial.  Busy signal.  Hang up. 

How does anybody ever get through to these things?  Redial.  Busy signal.  Darn it.  Hang up. 

Redial.  Busy signal.  Hang up.  Redial.  Ring. 

Ring? 

She answers with her trademark bubbly, “Hello, you’re caller number ninety-nine!”

“Holy crap!”  I swerve my Nova to avoid running under the Escalade’s bumper in front of me.  Come to think of it, the shoulder’s probably a good place to be right now.

The deejay’s plays a drum roll and asks, “What’s your favorite station that plays the hits?”  Of course she does.  And here I am, an accountant, someone who fills his head with numbers for eight hours a day, and I blank out on the station until I check the digital read-out on my stereo. 

“Ninety-nine?”

She must have heard the trepidation in my voice, because she supplies, “WINR!  Where every song is a winner!  And so are you!  What’s your name?” 

“Mitchell.”  Why’d I give her my last name? 

“Congratulations, Mitchell!  And now, Kenny Loggins!”

As “I’m Free” begins, I hear feedback over the phone.  The voice on the other end, who I now remember goes by Barnum Bailey, asks me to turn off my radio and I comply.  Her enthusiasm notches down several degrees as she inquires, “Mitchell?  Have you won anything from us within the last thirty days?”

“I’ve never won anything in my life,” I admit.  Nothing, at least, that wasn’t given to everyone, like my trophies for little league soccer.  Oh, and a March Madness pool at the office a couple years ago.  Not that Barnum cares.

“Do you know where our broadcast tower is?”

I nod, then I realize she can’t see me.  My “uh-huh” is hurried and I think my voice cracked. 

“Great!  The sooner you get down here, the sooner you can start your day.  When you enter the building, ask for Milo.”

She hangs up before I have a chance to thank her.  Not that she’s giving me the prize.  In fact, the only thing she’s done so far is embarrassed me on the air.  And, now that I need to backtrack to get to WINR, I can credit her with making me late for work.  I wonder if it’s worth it, or if this is one of those morning radio pranks waiting for a new rube.  I loosen my tie.  Jonah would tell me to call in sick and have an adventure.  None of the starched shirts at the office listen to pop music, so I don’t need to worry about this getting to them. 

Actually, no.  Jonah would tell me to go straight to the station and bang Barnum Bailey until she screamed for mercy on the air.  Then he would tell me about his latest tryst which somehow escalated into an orgy.  “Isn’t that what friends are for?” he’d say.  And when I’d say “I don’t think so,” he’d say, “Then who needs friends?”

Oh dear.  My relationships are so monotonous, I already know the conversation before we replay it.  This radio contest is just the thing I need.

After every driver in line ignores my turn signal, I ease my way back into morning traffic and bear right at the next intersection.  Twenty-two minutes later, I see the station with its call letters prominently displayed in red neon.  I roll up the window, unlatch my seatbelt and collect my courage in the parking lot. 

Obstacle number one: the front door is locked.  I follow the instructions on a sticker and buzz the call button.  Why am I nervous?  The voice on the intercom sounds like a tracheotomy patient at a fast food drive through.  My chances at deciphering the squawk are zero, so I say, “I’m supposed to ask for Milo.  I won the contest on the radio this morning.”

The ensuing beep-and-click combo invites me inside.