I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

The Grindstone and The Duke

The problem was, nobody was hiring.

Small towns like Brandon didn't have extra money . . .

". . . part-time but that's about all I can do for you. I'm sure sorry. I like Jimmy and all but times is tough."

. . . to go around.

Annabel was in on it too.

"Maybe I could get a job."

And Patrick was offended.

Again.

"But I'm your husband. I'm supposed to provide for you."

She rolled her heterchromiated eyes at him.

"We're supposed to provide for each other, Patrick. I'm not some trophy wife that sits around the house in diamond earrings and tiara waiting to be catered to."

"I know."

"Unless I'm naked."

"What?"

Brandon didn't have a radio station.

Neither did Valrico. Or Dover.

Or Riverview.

Tampa did.

". . . Sorry."

But they weren't hiring.

Sarasota did.

". . . hour away!"

But it was a little far.

And . . .

". . . experience."

. . . didn't seem very impressed with her resume.

". . . some college do-wap."

Who the hell even says that anymore?

But they gave her a shot . . .

". . . four nights a week."

"That's not even worth the gas money."

. . . anyways.

"Yeah. But it's a foot in the door. And that's something."

While Patrick worked days . . .

". . . mufflers?"

"No, but I can learn."

. . . at the local Brandon auto shop.

After that . . .

". . . favorites all night for your listening pleasure . . ."

. . . Annabel kind of lost track of her life.

She went to work until the early hours of the morning.

". . . for you all night, Night Shift People . . ."

Came home and spent time with her son.

"Ma, Ma, look, Ma -"

Dropped him off with her mothers and newly retired daddy in the mid afternoon . . .

"Whaddya think about moving that flower bed over near the side of the house?"

"Jimmy, leave our flower beds alone please!"

"Well, that's the first time you've ever said that in thirty years."

"Jimmy!"

. . . and slept until almost time to hop on the road.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Almost got a Chrysler dropped on my foot at work today."

"Oh god! Are you okay?!"

"Yeah. Good boots."

Spent a few scant minutes with her grease-and-oil husband.

"Little Jimmy hasn't pooped today."

"Okay."

"Neither has Scruffy Sam."

"Okay."

And powered down the road to Sarasota.

So there she was.

". . . listening pleasure, it's Ana Darling . . ."

Once more.

". . . Night Shift."

And it wasn't that she didn't like it.

The radio.

". . . Commodores?"

It was familiar.

"You got it, man."

It was relatively comfortable.

"Comin' in ten."

It was just that her life had so significantly changed since the last time she had spun tunes in the midnight hours.

And even though Patrick still called in from time to time . . .

"Hey."

"Hey."

"It's a little late. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. The Baby woke up with a fever. I gave him some infant Tylenol. He should be okay."

"Oh."

. . . it just wasn't the same.

"Do you want me to come home early so you can sleep?"

"No. I'll be fine. I just wanted to hear your voice."

And she realized that it was not . . .

". . . long term."

. . . something she wanted to do forever.

"That's okay. Something better will come along."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do."

And it did.

Finally.

In the summer of 1986, word came to Annabel that the station was going to be looking for a new daytime disc jockey.

The problem?

". . . interview experience."

Shit.

And Annabel didn't have any.

Oh. Well.

Night shift, it is then.

Forever.

"Not necessarily."

She looked at Ma-Da.

Is she going to really tell me to lie?

Ma-Da? No way.

What do I tell them? I interviewed David Bowie?

"You can interview us."

She goggled.

"What?!"

Ma-Da's expression was reminiscent of the time Patrick had taken them to tour the chocolate factory.

And Annabel's double-headed mothers had bewildered . . .

And flirted a little, I think.

. . . with the poor guy attempting to count twos in the candy room.

"What? You don't think an interview with conjoined twins would be interesting enough in the world of technology?"

"You think we don't compare to Max Headroom?"

And Annabel couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"-joined twins? As in, Siamese?"

Annabel nodded affirmation she did not have confidence in.

"Yep. Two heads, one body. They're the only living pair in the world."

I think.

"They've already agreed and everything."

Doubtful consideration.

"Well. I don't know. You bring 'em in and we'll see how the interview goes. You nail it and I'll bring you in on a probationary period, okay?"

"You got it, man."

Pause.

"I mean, yes, sir."

And then she, of course, got nervous.

Oh god.

What if I blow it?

Embarrass them and everything?

Ma-Ba has one of her slightly lost spells she doesn't think I notice?

What if the sound equipment goes down?

What if I throw up?

What if-

She stopped at the seven-eleven on the side of the road.

Little nothing place.

Get a soda. A Coke. A Tab.

Anything to calm down her nerves on the drive home before she ran into a semi.

There was a big, dark bus parked outside and she had to . . .

Come on, dude. You're taking up the entire parking lot.

. . . angle around it.

And just as she reached the gas station door, it opened.

A tall, impossibly skinny man with short blond hair pushed it open, carrying a soda bottle and a pack of smokes.

Stopped.

And seemed to peruse her . . .

Whoa. Deja vu. Do I know this guy?

. . . for a fraction of a second.

"Bloody beautiful orbs there, love."

Before speaking.

Wait.

Then he lowered his shades just a touch.

Ziggy?

And winked a heterchromiated eye at her.

Oh . . .

Before strolling right on.

. . . my . . .

And leaving Annabel gawking in his wake.

. . . god.

"Okay! Let's do it!"

What?

What is she talking about?

I don't know but look at her.

I think she's on drugs. I haven't seen her look so up in ages.

"Annabel?"

"Let's do the interview! It's gonna be awesome!"

Dot smiled.

"We're all in, darling."

Bette agreed.

"And we expect the hard-hitting questions too."

And together, always together, they watched their daughter practically bounce from the room.

Are you sure she's not on drugs?

No.

Her guardian angel known as The Thin, White Duke had appeared to her.

Her.

He had blessed her life.

Blessed her.

Reminded her who she was.

Annabel Freaking Walker, baby.

Okay, well, not really.

It had just been another tall, lanky dude buying a coke and a pack of smokes.

Even heterchromiated eyes too.

People had them.

And even if it was David Freaking Bowie, . . .

Oh my goooooodddddddd-

. . . he didn't have a clue as to who she was or what she was going through.

And thus all of her feelings . . .

AHHHHHHH . . . .

. . . were null and void.

The possibility also remained that she had just hallucinated the entire thing.

She had been prone to vivid daydreams . . .

"Better get to swimmin', girl-"

. . . in the past.

But either way, whatever had or had not happened on the road from Sarasota to Brandon, the fact remained . . .

Bowwwiieeeeee . . .

. . . that Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

Oh . . . my . . . gooooossssshhhhh-

. . . felt really, really good.

This interview is going to rock!

I'll just let you decide if Annabel's developing full-blown schizophrenia or if she actually had a chance encounter with her longtime idol. ;)

Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing!

The interview is coming up next, though it may be a few days.

See you then, wonderful readers!