Free Talk by Michael A Smerconish

our first real dialogue. We mostly talked about the bar. She wanted to know how long I’d been there, why the guys called her Envy, and whether Willy had ever said anything about walking in on us.
    â€œNever a word,” I told her.
    We goofed on some of the regulars, and continued to get high.
    â€œYou ought to be playing songs for more than a barroom, Stan,” she said.
    â€œYou mean like a club DJ?”
    â€œNo, I was thinking radio DJ.”
    The thought had never occurred to me. She said that she thought I had a real talent for knowing what people liked to hear.
    â€œYou make them happy.”
    â€œI think watching you in a suede skirt while getting shit-faced makes them happy,” I said.
    â€œDon’t let yourself get stuck at Shooter’s. You’re too talented for that.”
    Her comment was both an endorsement of my skill and an affirmation of what separated us. She wasn’t getting stuck at Shooter’s. In another month, she would be heading back to college, a few grand richer for having spent a summer waitressing, and I’d still be spinning classic rock for a bunch of rednecks. It was a more effective wakeup call about my situation in life than any speech I’d ever heard from my parents or a guidance counselor.
    As the summer wore on, I dreaded September. I knew that once she went back to FSU I was doomed. I kept trying to come up with ideas that would keep me relevant when her semester began, but nothing seemed plausible. And then just like that, we were done. One night as we were closing up, she mentioned that it was her last night at Shooter’s, and before I could pull her aside to say goodbye, she disappeared. She returned to FSU and I never saw her again. Nor did I stop thinking about her. The one the locals called Envy.
    Susan Miller.
    I certainly knew what had become of her—the entire state of Florida knew her bio, and soon, so would the entire nation. She had met Bob Tobias during her junior year at FSU and, as the press releases and magazine profiles told it, fallen head over heels in love. In those days, Tobias was the antithesis of me. A total stud, he was a football phenom with a 4.0 who had the world by the balls. While I was still clutching a bong in my bedroom upstairs in my parents’ place or pouring drafts at Shooter’s, he was throwing touchdowns on national TV. They married soon after graduation in a wedding that was featured in all the Florida papers. She became a lobbyist in Tallahassee, bore him three daughters, and as his political career ascended, became a poster girl for everything right about the Sunshine State. Now, she was possibly poised to become the nation’s first lady.
    As the years went by, it was almost impossible for me to avoid hearing about her. Even after I’d left Florida, I would spot her and her husband in the local press whenever I returned home to visit my parents. I charted her path as best I could and wondered if she’d ever taken an interest in mine. I had come a long way since she’d known me at Shooter’s. Stanislaw Pawlowsky hadn’t been in a position to influence much ofanything, let alone her husband’s presidential aspirations. But Stan Powers could throw up a roadblock or two if he followed Phil Dean’s advice. That seemed unfair given that Susan Miller had done more than just about anyone else to put me on the career path to where I was today.
    After Susan returned to college, I’d realized I had to get out of Shooter’s. For one thing, going to work was pure agony. I couldn’t unload a beer truck without thinking about her. It seemed that every song I played would conjure up some memory of what had apparently been only a summer fling. Everything in the bar reminded me of her. Of us. It was time for me to get my shit together and find the next thing, and the only idea I had was the one she’d given me.
    My mission was to find a job that paid me to do