College radio guy
The song would end and he'd let the dead air in. I'd listen and there'd be dead air hanging, hanging, static silence mounting until I'd be looking at the radio and wondering if he was coming back at all and then he'd come in low and slow saying, yes indeedy.
Yes indeedy, yes indeedy, he'd say. It was his catch phrase, his trademark and he'd say it in every space until you wondered did he say it at home, picking up the newspaper in the morning, brushing his teeth at night. He'd say it and say it until the college radio guy with his Sunday night Jazz program and long dead-air punctuations became, to me, the yes-indeedy guy.
I listened to him on the slow spaced Sundays at the Texaco while the whole town went home for the 'Igles' game and I'd stock shelves a little for Monday or put my feet up on the counter, pushing back my chair to read my novel appointed for the evening and put him on the radio, un huh, yes indeedy.
Maybe I listened as much for him as the music, his mellow fad of one, to his easy haphazard cool. My radio propped in the window with the dial turned down way way low to his show, I'd start to pick it up, it was catchy, saying along, yes indeedy, yes indeedy, yes indeed.