KBRW & The Morning "Bell"

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Cliff Bellweather was once the most famous voice on the planet. Not just a DJ, but the DJ—the kind whose morning shows could make or break a song, a career, or your day, depending on which side of his quick wit you landed. But that was before the infamous fallout with his last employer, a tycoon more interested in ad revenue than art. Their philosophical disagreement—broadcast live, no less—had ended with Cliff dramatically signing off mid-show. “This is Cliff Bellweather,” he had said, removing his headphones with deliberate flair, “and you can take this station and shove it right up your top 40.”

That mic drop was both his swan song and his swan dive. No one wanted to hire the “uncontrollable” Cliff Bellweather after that. He spent years adrift, popping up on the occasional podcast or college station, his legend growing more eccentric with each town he passed through.

Now, here he was—rolling into Brewtonia, population 420, where the air smelled faintly of cedar and something sweeter, and even the traffic lights seemed to change in rhythm with the trolley bells. This was not just a fresh start. This was destiny dressed in a flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, driving a Ford Bronco older than most of the songs on his playlists.

The town unfolded in front of him like a painting that couldn’t decide on a single mood. The colors were bold and unapologetic: storefronts in burnt orange, teal, and a green so bright it practically shouted its existence. Murals climbed the sides of buildings—geometric explosions, swirling constellations, and one particularly striking piece featuring a phoenix rising from a steaming coffee cup.

And there, at the end of the street, was his reason for coming. KBRW. The radio station had been a local fixture since the 1970s, but it had spent the last decade as little more than a glorified jukebox. Now, under city ownership, the station was poised for a comeback, and the mayor wanted Cliff to lead the charge. No playlists dictated by algorithms. No corporate overlords micromanaging his segues. Just Cliff, the community and the airwaves.

But first, coffee.

He pulled into a parking spot outside The Coffee Queer Café, its neon sign glowing cheerfully in the early light. Through the window, he could see tables filled with what could only be described as characters—an older couple in matching fedoras debating over a crossword puzzle, a young man sketching furiously in a leather-bound notebook, and a toddler in a tie-dye onesie holding court at a table of amused adults. It was the kind of place where, if you didn’t belong, you still felt like you did.

Cliff grabbed his bag and stepped inside. The door rattled as it swung shut, and the scent of deep coffee hit him like a warm hug from an old friend. The barista behind the counter greeted him with a bright smile, her hair a shock of electric purple.

“Welcome to The Coffee Queer Café!” Jasmine said, her voice bubbly enough to make Cliff wonder if the beans here had caffeine levels strong enough to be illegal.

He nodded, surprised at the customer service. “Mexican Chiapas with a drop of cream” he said, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.

“Coming right up!” Jasmine chirped, grabbing a cup. Cliff stepped back, scanning the café. If anyone recognized him, they weren’t letting on. Perfect. He didn’t need a scene. He needed caffeine.

But something felt… off. There was an energy in the room that he couldn’t quite place. It was in the way a couple of patrons glanced his way, quickly looking down at their phones or cups when he noticed. And then there was the chalkboard on the far wall. He squinted at it, trying to make out the writing amidst the brightly colored doodles of coffee cups and hearts.

WELCOME HOME, CLIFF BELLWEATHER!

The letters stretched across the board like a headline. His mouth opened, then closed. For a man who made his career on knowing exactly what to say, he was suddenly at a loss.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, unable to keep the grin off his face. “They know.”

Cliff shook his head, his grin growing wider as he walked to the counter. Mack Gustavsen, who had been lurking just out of sight behind a tower of to-go cups, froze like a deer in headlights when Cliff’s gaze landed on him.

“Nice chalkboard,” Cliff said, leaning one elbow on the counter. His voice was light, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Yours?”

Mack swallowed so hard it was audible. “Uh, not mine! Definitely not mine. Could’ve been… anyone’s, really.” His attempt at nonchalance was betrayed by the way he clutched the nearest coffee mug like it was a life preserver.

Zach, Mack’s visiting twin, who had been casually leaning against the back counter, popped his gum and snarked. “Relax, Mack. You’re frothing harder than the milk.”

“Am not!” Mack shot back, his face a deep shade of crimson.

“Easy, you two,” Betty Boldbrew said as she emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a well-worn apron. Her jet-black hair was tied back, and her knowing grin was impossible to miss. “Mr. Bellweather, welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

Cliff raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Really? Oh my.”

Betty laughed, gesturing toward the chalkboard. “That was Mack’s idea. He’s been a fan of yours since… well, since forever.”

Mack groaned, burying his face in his hands. “B-e-t-t-y!”

“What?” Betty said with a shrug. “It’s true.”

Cliff let out a laugh, the sound deep and easy. “A fan, huh? That’s flattering. And here I thought I was just some washed-up radio guy.”

“Washed-up?” Mack said, his face snapping up in alarm. “No way! You’re a legend. That on-air resignation? Iconic. Zach and I listened to it live. Twenty-seven times.”

Zach nodded. “It was all he talked about for weeks. You’d think he was the one who’d quit.”

Cliff leaned back, studying the pair. “Twins, huh?”

“Unfortunately,” they said in unison, their tone matching perfectly.

Betty rolled her eyes with a good-natured sigh. “As you can see, Brewtonia’s not just a town. It’s a stage.”

Cliff took a sip of his Mexican Chiapas, nodding thoughtfully. “If this is the warm-up act, I can’t wait to see the headliners.”

“You’re one of them now,” Betty said, her voice welcoming but firm. “KBRW is yours to shape. Just don’t forget the little people when you’re making radio history again.”

Cliff grinned, lifting his cup in a toast. “To Brewtonia—and to making some noise.”

He leaned casually against the side of the counter, his grin still firmly in place as he surveyed the eclectic crew that had so warmly embraced him. If this was what Brewtonia had to offer, he figured he’d made the right choice.

“So,” he said, turning to Betty with a raised eyebrow. “Do you welcome all your newcomers with chalkboard headlines, or is this a special treatment?”

Betty beamed, wiping her hands on her apron. “We save the chalkboard for the ones we really like. Everyone else just gets a smile and directions to the nearest gas station.”

Greta, sipping her tea at a nearby table, piped in. “Betty’s being modest. She once threw a ‘Welcome to Brewtonia’ party for a new librarian, complete with pinatas, balloons, streamers, and a parade float shaped like a book.”

“It was a statement piece,” Betty shot back, her tone faux defensive with her eyes twinkling. “Besides, that giant hardcover would have made Harry Potter jealous.”

“Yeah, until Mack fell off it and made half the kids cry,” Zach added, not looking up from the napkin he was methodically shredding. “Remember that? Kid chaos. Took forever to sort out.”

“Not my fault!” Mack protested, his ears turning pink. “That float wasn’t regulation AND that wizard costume was too tight. It practically fell apart when I danced in it.”

“Sure, Mack,” Zach said, popping his gum. “Blame the wizard costume. Classic.”

Cliff chortled, the sound deep and easy. “I’m starting to see why this town’s got a reputation. You don’t just welcome people; you make sure they never forget they’ve arrived.”

“We aim to please,” Betty said, giving him a mock curtsy. “Now, are you ready to take on KBRW, or do we need to marshal another parade to get you in the zone?”

Cliff raised a hand in surrender. “No parades, please. I think I can handle it. Maybe.”

“You think?” Greta teased, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe? We don’t do half-measures here, Cliff. You either breathe new life into that station or you’ll be the one hitting the punch bowl at your farewell party.”

Mack groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can we please stop talking about the parades?”

“Nope,” Zach replied smoothly. “It’s part of your legacy now. Like Cliff’s top 40 mic drop, but way more embarrassing.”

Cliff let out a throaty laugh, finishing the last of his coffee. “Sounds like I’ve got some competition for most dramatic exit.”

“Oh, you’ve got us beat,” Betty said, her smile softening. “That resignation? Iconic. But here in Brewtonia, it’s not about how you leave—it’s about what you build when you stay.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the sincerity of her words settling over everyone like a cozy blanket. Even Zach stopped shredding his napkin long enough to nod in agreement.

Cliff brushed a few crumbs off his hands from the half-eaten blueberry scone he’d been picking at. “Well, if that’s the case, I guess I’d better make it count.”

He picked up his half empty cup, his grin still lingering as the comfort of Betty’s words continued to reverberate around the group. The café vibed softly around them, the kind of ambient noise that made a place feel lived-in.

Betty grabbed a clean coffee mug and held it up like a makeshift chalice. “Alright, everyone,” she called, her voice cutting through the gentle clatter. “I think this moment deserves a toast.”

Greta, flying solo while Marjorie enjoys a spa day, raised her tea without hesitation, her eyes alight with mischief. “To Cliff Bellweather, who gave corporate radio the finger in the classiest way possible.”

“To making radio fun again,” Mack interjected, raising the nearest sugar jar when he realized he didn’t have a drink.

“To Mack,” Zach added dryly, lifting his own cup, “for managing not to faint in front of his hero. Barely.”

The group giggled, and Mack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for that, Zach. Real heartfelt.”

Betty broke into a grin, tilting her mug toward Cliff. “To new beginnings,” she said, her tone softer now. “And to proving that sometimes the best things happen after you walk away from what doesn’t fit anymore.”

Cliff felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. He picked up a nearby water glass and raised it to meet hers. “To Brewtonia,” he said. “And to making some noise.”

Their mugs clinked together in a satisfying chorus, and the café crew erupted into cheers, a mix of laughter and applause filling the space. For the first time in years, Cliff felt more than just welcomed. He felt “at home".”

The door pinged softly as Cliff Bellweather stepped out of the Coffee Queer Café, his boots crunching against the gravel as he paused on the sidewalk. He turned back for a moment, glancing at the neon glow of the sign above the door and the laughter still spilling out into the mid morning air.

This wasn’t just a café, he realized. It was a heartbeat—a place where people connected, found belonging, and became part of something larger than themselves. And now, somehow, it felt like his place too.

Betty appeared at the window, wiping her hands on her apron as she watched him with a knowing smile. She gave him a small wave, mouthing the words, “We’ll be listening.”

Cliff chuckled, tipping an invisible hat in her direction before turning back toward his Bronco. The engine roared to life, an old sound that somehow felt right against the backdrop of Brewtonia’s quirky streets. He took one last look at the town, the Red Line trolley gliding past, the murals glowing faintly in the golden light. It wasn’t perfect, maybe even a little “country”, but it was honest—and that was more than enough.

As he pulled away, the café’s chalkboard message stayed fixed in his rearview mirror: WELCOME HOME, CLIFF BELLWEATHER! The gigantic chalk words stuck with him, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

Tomorrow, he’d step into the booth at KBRW. Tomorrow, he’d turn the mic back on and let the music—and the conversations—flow. But today, he let the town fill the quiet, knowing that for the first time in years, his voice had a home.

And so did he.