Radiotruck

Radio Truck
By Ralph Rice




My partner for this trip had just slammed shut the rear door on the
truck. I sat behind the wheel thinking about cigarettes. He opens
the passenger door, then doesn't just sit in it, he flops into it. I
swear, the whole truck rocks from side to side. This guy, he's too fat.
I do not care how smart or brave, he is too fat. What we had put in back of
the vehicle was not big, just a few pounds. I put the truck in gear, then
backed out of the driveway. By the front door stood a very somber young
couple beside their doctor. As I put the truck in drive, the physician
gave a little wave goodbye. The woman standing next to him turned to hug
her husband. It was early evening, just around the end of rush hour. This
drive would take about twenty five minutes one way.

At first I was just silent. This was a fairly new truck with a good
sound system. I went right for my favorite rock station, found a good
song, turned it up too loud. Then, remembering procedure, I turned the volume
back down in order to call in that we were en route on the other radio. Then
it was back up to what I consider a normal listening level on the F.M stereo.
There were two six inch speakers mounted in the doors. To many, that is
nothing. My car had twice the sound. It could make you jump even if you
were used to it. I accelerated the truck to around twenty over the speed
limit, flipped on the headlights, checked to make certain the other lights
were off. I would have lit a cigarette if it were not for this guy sitting
there next to me. Against company policy. Most of the time, one of us
would be riding in the back.

This guy would talk my ear off. Oh no. Sure enough, he reached over
to turn down the volume on the radio, then started yapping. We did have
one thing in common, he was on his way to becoming a radio dispatcher and
I had gotten an F.C.C. license back in college. Heck, what a great disk
jockey I'd make. Imagine, nothing but my selections all day. No request
line, nearly no talk at all. Zepplin, Procol Harem, Creem, Hendrix.
Maybe somebody thinks it's too loud? Yer too old!

Yea, I'd skip the ads whenever possible. I reached for the volume knob
and gave it a twist back to where it was. This guy was on his way out. Just
a matter of time. He looked kinda hurt, but he did not reach back for the
radio knob. Polite? Me? Nah, not with this guy. A wash out. A gossip
who did not belong on this job. He couldn't take it. I did not see him
as competition or feel threatened by him. I did not like him. There, if I
ever screwed up, or lost my nerve, is where I would be.

The song playing was "When The Levee Breaks" by Zepplin. The guy
say's, "We might miss something." I just remind him that we will not
be available for at least half an hour. He rolled his eyes. I passed a
couple cars. Didn't really have to, just felt like it.

There is this circumstance that arises when you are around someone who
is on their way out. It could be that whomever is nice. No matter. Why,
they may or may not even know the truth. They may know, and wonder if you
do. It's embarrassing for everyone.

So, the F.C.C. test was tough. A couple hours to finish. I honestly
didn't know if I'd passed till the license came in the mail. God, it was
beautiful. In time, I'd own my own station. No ads at all unless I needed
them. Remember Herb Tarlik, the sales sleaze on WKRP in Cincinatti? Sure,
ads pay the bills. I might hire a guy like this just to make fun of him.
By golly, I would not need a lot of ads. Overhead would be low. A radio
station that stuck with the art form. No selling out. The other jocks
would play what I told them. The request line would not even exist. If the
phone in the studio rang, if it was somebody wanting me to play their
favorite, if I didn't like the song...

"Hahahahaha." I still got a kick just thinking about it.

The lump next to me says, "What's so funny?"

I knew, this guy must. When he started to question me, I realized that
he still held some fragment of hope. Around midway to our destination he did
indeed begin to grill me for whatever I'd heard about his status. I gave
the completely ignorant response. He started filling me in and asking me
what I thought about his chances. He reminded me of the incidents we had
both seen together in the past while in training.

"Nothing, never mind."

Sure, I'd had a shot. A classic music station downtown. Put taped ads
on, listen to the "greats". My father had liked this music. The only time
I spoke was the emergency broadcast warning or a brief run down on what was
played. I kept the volume in the booth at just enough to cue myself for
the next song. I was in radio. It was not at all what I had expected.

Voodoo child by Hendrix came on. The guy sitting next to me started
in on the time he had been injured on the job. I just nodded at the right
intervals. He'd been hit by lightening when no-one was around to help.
The rest of us mighta doubted this, except there is no faking those burns.
I think he lasted a bit longer just because of that lightening and the
pity we all felt. His heart was in the right place. Then again, he could
have about fifty hearts stuffed in that bloated carcass. He still seemed
to be slurping soda pop every time you saw him.

We had descended into the valley from the community where we were
stationed. The traffic was pretty thick this time of day. As the traffic
and this guy's sorrowful situation began to eat at me, the cigarette craving
really kicked in. I was just about to ask this guy if he'd rat on me if I
lit a smoke. Didn't get a word out, didn't have to.

"Let's stop for a coke." he said.

Oh no, this fat-ass never missed a chance. That was the main reason he
would wash out of this job. Sure, I wanted to light a cig, but that was
different. At the radio station, I could smoke all I wanted. Heck, the boss
smoked. What I also did was play whatever was on the list, then turn that
crap down while I turned another reciever to the station I liked. Ok, I'll
admit, when he caught me doing this a few times, I did not really understand
the program manager's reaction. A mild mannered guy who never said much to
me. "Could you turn that down?" Then he'd ask about an ad we were running
or the station log. Every now and then, when I asked him about current
music or audience demographics, he just got this blank look. I did try to
fill this man in on some of my ideas, plans. What is the best way to get
ahead in radio? I mean, sure, you start at the bottom. After a while,
people can see that you have some talent for it. Once you are a
"personality", you begin calling some of the shots. Eventually, you can get
the capital to buy a station. Doesn't have to be a big city at first, a
small town maybe.


"I thought you were afraid we would miss something." I responded.


As I said this, I twisted Hendrix a little louder on the radio. He
shifted around in his seat to stare out the passenger window of the truck.
Man, this would be one of the first guitar licks I'd learn if I could. When
it came to sitting there listening to my kind of music in the studio while
I just went through the play list like a robot, I didn't think much of it.
If the song I was playing ended while I listened to Hendrix, ok, there may
have been just a few seconds of dead air. This timid little station
manager made the warnings he gave sound a lot like friendly reminders. I was
younger, oblivious.


One day I got a bit bold; asked the boss if he really liked this stuff we
played. Oh man, the look on that guy's face. I was stunned when he fired
me. A real shock. He explained that my remarks were not in the least bit
funny. He said it was clear to him that I did not belong here, then he
wished me luck in the purchase of my future radio station. I tried a few
other stations, but had no luck. Back to school I went.

"Just be patient and we'll be back before you know it." I said.

He looked at me, then rolled his eyes. No way I'd risk lighting a cig
in the vehicle with this guy sitting there. I concentrated on the last part
of the drive downtown. Quite a few of us at this job smoked. The only fat
guy? There he sat, next to me. This was not the only reason he'd be gone
soon. There was also the mental aspect. Heck, maybe we could coach him
into some wieght loss, but the other? My gosh, you study, study, pass the
tests, then lets face it, all you know is classroom. Nothing else.

Although I had only been to this place a couple times, it is one you
do not forget. I pulled into the underground parking garage and wheeled the
truck over to the entrance. As I put the truck into park, this guy says,

"Could you do it?

I just look at him and mutter, "Ok."

I get out and go to the rear of the truck thinking mostly about cigarettes.
I open the rear door, climb in, unstrap my bundle and head for the door of
the building. This place is quiet and spotless. I set the bundle down on
a stainless steel table. The guy on duty snapped off a rubber glove in
order to do the paperwork involved. I thanked him and headed back out the
door. I was just a few seconds from a cigarette! My gosh, this guy was
playing jazz music in this place. Poor sap. He saw bundles like I had
delivered almost every day.

Instead of going straight to the drivers door and climbing in, I lite up,
then stroll over to the passenger side of the truck. My passenger had my
sympathy, sure. He was a washout and he knew it; or worse yet, maybe he
really had no clue. When he spotted me alongside the truck, he rolled down
his window and said,

"How do you unload a truck full of dead babies?"

I just stared at him.

He says, "With a pitchfork!"

He starts laughing like a hyena.

I looked over at the door that I'd just come out of in order to see if
anyone else had heard what he'd said. This door had the county seal stamped
on it. Just above that, in big black letters, Medical Examiner.



THE END