Free At End of Day by George V. Higgins Page B

thinking about
painting
, sprucing up the inside of their
homes
, mean so much to them and all, most money most of them’re ever gonna spend on any one thing their whole
lives, that’s
when they’ll be thinkin’, kind of paint they ought to get.” She listened for a while and then said, “Well, yes, why don’t youdo that. Think it over, and then call me, and we’ll see what we can set up.”
    She hung up the phone. “Mister Roth,” she said, “True Value Store over Cobb’s Corner. Calls every week or two, ’ever things get slow. Always the same set of questions. And I give him the same answers, pretty nearly, like I know what I’m talking about. Which I know I do with pret’ nearly
all
the people who own stores and stuff that call in here about askin’ about doin’ ads—sound like I know more about their businesses’n they do. But with most of them I only have to do it
once
—must be Mister Roth doesn’t write down what I say. Or else he just gets lonesome.”
    “Doesn’t have Tim’s show on in the store?” Rascob said.
    “Not so I can hear it when he calls here,” she said. “Of course maybe he does—I never go
in
his store. When I need something from the hardware store, I go the Home Depot in Avon. He could have it on out in front or something. Where the people who’re shopping can hear it. We always suggest that, and then stress it to new sponsors when we’re selling air time. How many of our advertisers tell us they keep us on all day, in their places of business. How much it helps.”
    She frowned. “I don’t know’s it actually
does
help that much, though—people actually pay attention to it. I never listen the radio, it’s on in someplace where I’m shopping. Besides, if it
is
on when you’re already
in
there shopping, and you hear it, how’s it do them any good? Doesn’t get
you
in there, which I think is what they
want
when they advertise. You’re
already
in there, knew what they had to offer, if you hear us in their store—that’s why you’re there.”
    The speaker broadcast a male voice loudly praising a Subaru dealership in Sharon. “I hate that ad,” she said, and shuddered. “He’s the guy that owns the place. Sounds just like that in person, too. Not too many of our advertisers do, but he does. ‘Thepersonal touch.’ That’s what he calls it. Thinks if he hollers enough at you, and laughs all the time, you’ll like him and do what he says.” She paused and frowned again, then looked at the watch on her left wrist and folded her hands on the blotter. “Tim’s almost through,” she said. “Off in less’n two minutes.”
    “You’re both doing okay?” Rascob said.
    “Oh … yeah,” she said. “I guess so. It’s … you know how it is. Same-old same-old, one day after another. You think, ‘Jeez, I wish something’d happen.’ And then something does, to someone you know, like their kid gets diagnosed with multiple sclerosis or something. Then you think, ‘Jeez, if that happened to us …’ So yeah, I guess we’re doin’ okay.”
    She smiled sadly. “Still not makin’ any kinda living this thing here though, that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” she said. “Not that I’m knockin’ it or anything—it’s a godsend to him, this thing. His handle on the world; how he makes himself matter. He goes around and gives his talks, school auditoriums, church basements, and he says his life’s the support group, Missing Cords Bind Tighter. That makes everybody feel real good, that they’re doing good, and when you’re facing every day the kind of stuff folks in their position hafta, morale is darn important.
    “But what he tells them isn’t true. MCBT’s important to him, but WCTN—this station’s what keeps him alive and sane. Don’t know where he’d be, what on earth he’d do without it.”
    Tim’s resonating artificial voice came through the speaker, over the sound of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” building in the