W-DED FM

 

        Jake took his headphones off and hung them from the hook that he had fashioned one day out of an old coat hanger that he had found hanging from the coat-rack by the door to the studio. They swayed back and forth for a moment and then stilled. The cord was still plugged in to the board, so that he could put them back on in time before the next song.

        He ran a hand through his hair, and scrubbed it back and forth, making the small, thinning patch in the center stand up wildly. He leaned back in his chair at a forty-five-degree angle, and it squeaked in protest. WD-40, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. It was one of those things that he knew he would never get around to doing, but it was always good to pretend. It made him feel more responsible than he actually was.

        He clasped his hands behind his head, always hating the feel of his bald spot, and sighed deeply. He couldn't shake the image that had filled his head ever since he had left the hospital last night. God, he had looked so weak. He guessed that when your heart nearly explodes, it doesn't leave much in the way of strength.

        It just wasn't like his dad to be so… so feeble. He had always been the one with the ropy arms, and the big barrel chest. The stocky legs that always filled out a pair of jeans. And dark black hair everywhere. Even on his back, and the tops of his feet. Heck, he even had to shave twice a day sometimes, and high up on his cheekbones, too. Almost up to his eyes. And his head was thick with a shock of oily black hair that twisted in and out of itself, criss-crossing into a wonderful mess.

        Sometimes Jake wondered how he had come from such a natural mountain man. After all, Jake was the polar opposite of his father. Thin and pale. Balding. The only other remnant of hair being a small puff of blonde hair in the middle of his chest that he had always thought made him look like a pussy at pool parties. It was more plausible that his mom had had an affair with Bert, the mailman. Now there was a pussy among pussies… always wearing those short shorts, and striped socks pulled up to his knees.

        The doctor had told him that his dad's heart was functioning at twenty percent. Jake could picture that old, used up muscle barely pumping at all. Just enough to get by. In his mind's eye it looked like a worn out balloon, blowing up to half mast, and then sputtering back limp with a half-assed farting noise. It made him sick to think about it.

        The digital readout on the computer screen was counting down from ten seconds, and Jake quickly scooped the headphones from the hook and slipped them on just in time to hear the end of the McDonald's jingle… I'm lovin' it!!

        "And… we're back here at W-DED, west Kansas, where even the dead dance. It's a chilly willy out there today… getting up to only the high teens. It's seven right now. You know, I almost had to get the warm bucket of water out there today to un-freeze my car door. Aint that a bummer! My nose hairs are just now defrosting. Do me a favor out there, will ya, people? Pack your car with a blanket, and please, please, wear a pair of gloves and a stocking hat. You'll thank me when you come home from work with all ten digits and a healthy pair of ears, eh? OK, here's Pink Floyd with 'Wish You Were Here.' Smashing Pumpkins and Metallica coming up!"

        Jake pressed the "Play" icon, and Roger Waters coughed. Soon after that, a tinny guitar came in.

        A healthy pair of ears. He should have taken his own advice. But he was never one to wear a hat in the winter. Not because of anything to do with fashion. He just never wore one. He never had, even as a kid. He supposed, with the cold air and the loud music, his ears had borne the biggest brunt of abuse out of all of his body parts. "You're gonna go deaf listening to all that hard metal music!" his dad had always said, pronouncing the word "deaf" "deef." "What?" Jake had always responded, always the smartass. But that had gotten a smile from Dad every time.

        And now he was lying in a hospital bed, dressed in a polka dotted "johnny" with tubes going up his nose. Twenty percent. That number kept going through Jake's mind. Twenty percent. If you got twenty percent on a test that meant you were a dumb shit. If there was a twenty percent chance of rain, that meant that you could leave your umbrella at home. Twenty percent chance you were going to live meant that you better start pricing headstones. And your heart functioning at twenty percent. Well, Jake knew what that meant.

        But he pushed the thought from his mind. His dad was only seventy-one years old. He should be kickin' around this Earth for at least ten more years. At least! He shouldn't be drinking milk from a carton with a little red straw and eating a sphere of mashed potatoes and a cube of Jell-O from a tray, while watching QVC on a mounted television. He should be out in the snow, shoveling the drive, getting himself in shape for a long golf season. He should be taking Viagra and bonking his wife, for God's sake! Anything but what he had been subjected to. It was not only depressing, but degrading, too.

        "Wish You Were Here" faded into "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins, and Jake rubbed his temples. He was beginning to get a headache from all of this. And he was here for… he looked at the "Three Stooges" clock—a gift from his dad—and it was only 8:50am. He was here in this stuffy little room until 4:00pm. Hell, that sucked.

        He looked back up at the black and white picture of Larry, Moe, and Curly, and gave the clock a half-hearted, "Nnnyaaaaaa… whoop, whoop, whoop," and then had to laugh a little at that. He always was pretty good with his Curly impression. It had cracked his dad up every time. Shit, his dad. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his throat began to burn. He swallowed hard, and blinked the tears away. It wasn't fair.

        "Disarm" was a short song, and it was over before he knew it.

        "That group, getting back together and putting out a new cd in July. Their first in about seven years. I didn't think that they would get back together, but here we are, and, I, for one, am looking forward to it."

        His voice had sounded a little rough and shaky at first, but now it was returning to its deep, honey coated drawl. The voice that had probably had more to do with him getting the DJ job than his talent.

        "Hey, for all you kids out there… Why don't you do something nice for your dad today? You know, mow the lawn without being asked, or wash his car. Heck, make him a turkey sandwich and bring it out to him with a cold beer. Just do something. Let him know how much he means to you. You won't have that chance forever... OK, let's get things rolling again with some metal that'll make your ears bleed it's so good! This one is called "Fade to Black," and we all know this one is by Metallica..."

        He stretched out the word "Metallica" and growled it so that he sounded like James Hetfield. Another impression that was better than average. The swell of sound crescendoed, and then the melodic guitar kicked in. Jake turned his headphones up a tad. This one had always been one of his favorites. He could still remember listening to the cassette tape in his childhood bedroom, cranked at top volume, and how his dad would come stomping down the hall and tell him to turn that dog-shit the hell down! But Jake would laugh when he heard his dad say something like "dog-shit" and they would both smile, and his dad would shake his head, but it would be in good humor and love, and they would both know that they were OK with each other, even though they had different interests, and didn't resemble each other one iota. And it would do Jake's heart good to see his dad smile because it was a sweet smile and it looked so strange coming from a man's man like him. And he knew that he was the only one that could make his pop smile like that, and that was something golden.

        Metallica rattled on, "Yesterday seems as though it never existed..."

        Jake banged his head with the music, and he supposed that he would look pretty foolish if someone like Jane from the front desk came by and looked through the window, but, then again, he was never one to care much what other people thought when it came to music and his love for it. If they couldn't get into it, then it was their loss, and anybody that made fun of someone that did, was an unfortunate dolt.

        The crunching guitar went on and on into the amazing solo, and then that went on for a while, and finally faded into nothing. Jake raised his hand in the air and lifted his fingers in the "devil horns" position purely for his own benefit, and then brought it back down and pressed a button that made the seamless transition to a commercial. An annoying voice began jawing about auto glass, and Jake turned the headphones down.

        It was silent in his head now, and the Metallica had eased his headache some (a concept that anyone over the age of fifty wouldn't understand). He snatched a half empty can of Coke from the counter and drained it. It was from the day before and flat as hell, but the liquid felt good just the same. He thought of his dad drinking that carton of milk again. God, the poor guy would probably never swill another can of Budweiser. He thought maybe he would smuggle one in for him when he went to visit him tonight. Hide it in his inside coat pocket like he and his buddies used to do at the movies. Yeah, his dad would like that. Anything to see that sweet smile again.

        The auto glass commercial led into an ad about Joe's crab shack on the river, and then back into McDonald's again… I'm lovin' it!! And then Jake was back on the air.

        "OK folks, it's 9:10 in the AM, and that means it's time for our top o' the morning quiz. Today's question is..." Jake rustled some papers for a cheap sound effect. "Back in the 1980s—yes, some of us were alive then—there was a TV show on called 'The Wonder Years.' What I want to know from you is: what was Kevin Arnold's girlfriend's name? Now, I need a first and last name to win, kiddies. Put those thinking caps and those Member's Only jackets on… maybe a pair of aviator sunglasses, and call in with the correct answer. The winner today gets two free passes to the Copperfield Theatre. Good luck! Meanwhile, to keep you hungry sharks happy, here's some Van Halen with "Hot for Teacher." Dig that opening solo!"

        Jake listened to the beginning of the song and then took the headphones off and looped them around his neck so that he could still hear the tinny buzz of the music, but so that it wasn't blaring in his ears.

        He watched as the board lit up with calls. He answered a few off the air, and got a couple of answers. Both of them were wrong. The first girl had said, "Oh… Jenny something… Am I on the air?" and the second one, a guy, had said, "Winnie Crawford." Close but no cigar. It wasn't until the third caller that Jake heard the familiar voice. He knew that voice better than he knew the wrinkles in his own face, only now it was a shadow of what it used to be. It was weak, and sounded raspy as the wind blowing a pile of dried out leaves. It cracked and sputtered.

        "Hey boy," it said. "Is the answer 'Winnie Cooper'?"

        "Dad!?" Jake sat up like a bolt, and turned the volume of his headphones up to maximum.

        "Yeah, Jakey. It's me." There was a cough that sounded like sandpaper. "Well, am I right? Is it Winnie Cooper?"

        "Uhhh. Yeah , but... how are you… I mean..."

        "Nurse told me," the worn out voice said with some humor. "She's just a young thing. Told me she used to watch that show you were spoutin' about. Gotcha, didn't I?" His dad gave out a wheezing laugh that ended in a coughing fit.

        "Gosh, Dad. You really should be resting. I'll come see you after work, but for now you should be—"

        "Won't be here, son."

        "What? What are you talking..." Jake's brow furrowed in confusion.

        "I'm going now, son. When you come…" Another cough. "When you come, you give those movie tickets to that nurse. She's the one that answered your quiz question."

        "Dad?" Jake said hopelessly. He was beginning to cry now, not even realizing it. "You just wait there. I'll be right over."

        "No, son. It's time. I love ya. Now, you don't listen to that music too loud. You'll ruin your ears."

        "What?" was all that Jake could say through his tears. He knew that it was the only response his father wanted to hear.

        There was laughter then. That sweet, tired, somehow, final laughter. And then a click and dial tone.

        Jake burst into a crying jag that was so violent that it almost sounded like laughter. He took off his headphones and threw them at the wall. He buried his head in his hands. It wasn't fair.

        Twenty minutes later, after getting word of the "dead air," Ted, Jake's boss, came in and began to do the show himself. Jake thanked him and walked out into the cold winter air. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and lowered his head against the frigid wind. A tear froze on its way down his cheek as he thought about his dad. In his hand were the two tickets to the Copperfield Theatre, as promised.

        And then a thought came into his head, and he had the sense that it had come from far away. It came in six words, and it came in his dad's voice. Only now the voice sounded deep and strong. It said: "The show must go on, kid."

        "Right," Jake said aloud, and the biting wind tore his words away. He smiled.