Gary Stevens, enjoying his lonely mandatory glass of whiskey in the evening in a smoky bar after yet another difficult day at work, when another man sits down at the bar and orders a whiskey. The voice sounds familiar, and Gary cannot quite put his finger on it, but he surely must have heard that voice somewhere, The man notices him staring, and reacts a bit unpleasantly.
“I’m sorry, mister. Is there something on my face?”
“Apologies, no. It’s just - “ Gary is not a man to start conversations with people he doesn’t know in bars - he’s spent the last ten years trying to avoid that, but he feels extremely lonely tonight. “You look familiar. Or, I should rather say, sound familiar.”
The man smirks. “Really?”
“Yes. Is it possible that I have heard you on the radio?”
The man actually chuckled now, raising his glass. “You don’t look like a typical listener of the station.”
“I’m sorry, which station?”
And the man takes a sip of his drink, his lips curl into a smile, and he finally turns to Gary, extending his hand. “I’m Ricky Fox.”
Gary’s first reaction is to yank his hand away. Ricky Fox. Even the stupid infantilizing nickname. Ricky. But led by his good manners and education, Gary accepted the hand and replied. “Gary Stevens.”
Ricky’s smile fully bloomed on his face. “Well, look at us.”
“Look at us,” Gary said, retreating his hand.
“We might not be so different,” Ricky says, nodding to Gary’s drink. “It can get lonely in the studio, am I right?”
“It’s a difficult job.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be sitting in a bar though.”
Stevens’ eyebrows furrowed as he wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.
“I thought you’d be,” Ricky continued, “having dinner with your wife and two kids, right after pledging to the American flag and praying at the table.”
Gary actually chuckled at that. He’d be damned if he hadn’t thought that as well, some years ago.