Lost in the Static
The following short story by Damon Stewart first appeared in Hobart (2004). It later appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).
The day after I heard that Ray and Rachael had broken up, I stopped by his apartment to see if he was ok. He’s my older brother, but for a long time I’ve been the one who looks out for him. I didn’t expect him to be a total mess or anything, but still, they had been pretty tight.
I found him in the living room, sitting on the floor by the stereo staring into space. He was holding a pair of black headphones—the kind with the really big earpieces, like soup cans—in his lap. He saw me and grunted, then, “Dave, you ever heard of a radio station called ‘Radio for the Land of the Heart?’”
“No.”
“What?”
“No,” with emphasis.
He sighed, put the headphones back on and hunched over the stereo, an old one that was top of the line twenty years ago, fiddling with the dial. I noticed a stack of empty beer cans next to him, a Leaning Tower of Genesee with some smaller administrative beer structures surrounding it.
“Heartland Radio?” I asked. I could see that we would ease into the topic of Rachael; no going there straight away.
“Radio for the Land of the Heart.”
“Yeah, whatever. Why are you looking for it?”
“It’s … it’s just a great station. Gotta find it.”
“What’s so great about it?” I hoped I kept the annoyance out of my voice. Ray was quick to take offense, even with me. But I wanted to know if he was ok; we could listen to the radio later.
Except for the time he spent with Rachael, his job was pretty much his life. He had been working for a local contractor as a carpenter for the past ten years; he was kept on, despite his temper, because he was so good. Even if a project was finished and they had moved on to the next, Ray would come back after work to get a cabinet just right; maybe a door wasn’t fitted to his satisfaction or the kitchen molding was a little off. Whatever it was, he’d work for free and keep at it ‘til it was perfect. We both live in the same small town, Delhi, New York, and he had a reputation as a good worker, temper or no. So even if people avoided him socially, he was still considered a good man to have on the job.
He sat back, lifted the ‘phones off his head and took a long pull from his beer. “I heard it the first night with Rachael. I’d asked her out at the Great American Grocery, right there in line with three people behind me. I figured for sure she’d heard about me and would say no, but what the hell, right?” —this was a shock, since it was the first time I’d heard that Ray was aware that people thought anything about him—“But she said, ‘sure.’ We went to Pizza Hut, then to the movies, saw ‘Fight Club.’”
“That didn’t have a ‘Land of the Heart’ radio station in it.”
“I know Dave, that was later. But we had such a great time, she was just ….” He paused and looked up at me, hands in front of him, palms up.
“Yeah,” I said. In some ways we understood each other at a pretty basic level. He was the one who told me to marry Beth, “She’s the one for you man, I never seen you so happy.” And he said it like he was looking right into me and could see that she was It. He just knew.
“So on the way back, we went parking.” He laughed, then took another swig. “Yeah, like a couple of goddamn kids, about a mile up Federal Hill Road. I pulled the car into some hayfield.”
I was surprised again. About the only thing other than work that Ray gave a shit about was his car. It was a 1979 Buick Century, metallic red and big as a house. He bought it for $300, painted it, rebuilt the motor and added chrome wheels. He washed it regularly and fretted about parking it in public places for fear of someone scratching it. The thought of Ray driving that car in a field—he must have been smitten with lust.
“So, you know, we ….”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning.
“Afterwards we hung out, just lying in the back seat. Radio playing, drank a few beers, burned one, you know. Rachael fell asleep against me and I finished the joint, was sort of zoning, and next thing I know the radio’s playing all these great tunes, ones from back when I was a kid.”
Well shoot, I thought to myself, he was just stoned and listening to some oldies station.
“And?”
“I listened for about half an hour, then it faded out.”
“Faded out?”
“Yeah, just got all static and went away. I tried to get it back but Rachael woke up and had to get home.”
“So let’s hear it,” and I nodded at the stereo.
“That’s just fucking it; I can’t find it. I don’t remember where it was on the dial. Christ, I don’t even know if it was AM or FM. It sounded a little too rough for FM, but I never have it on AM. I don’t know; Rach and I were kickin’ around in the front seat for a while, maybe it got switched.”
“So let’s hear it,” and I nodded at the stereo.
“That’s just fucking it; I can’t find it. I don’t remember where it was on the dial. Christ, I don’t even know if it was AM or FM. It sounded a little too rough for FM, but I never have it on AM. I don’t know; Rach and I were kickin’ around in the front seat for a while, maybe it got switched.”
“Yeah, maybe. Listen Ray, I’m just making sure you’re, you know … things are cool. Want to come over and have dinner with us? Danny and Little Ray have been asking about you. They want to wrestle.” Before Rachael, he probably spent more time with my sons than anyone else; they had something together. Almost like the two of us when we were kids.
But he wasn’t listening anymore. He had put the headphones back on and cracked another beer. I watched for a minute as he slowly ran the dial up and down the band, and then, “Bye Ray.”
He didn’t answer.
***
I didn’t talk to him for about two weeks after that. Danny, my youngest, got sick and Beth had some important project to finish at work, so I had to stay home for a few days. The following weekend I had to fix a leaky pipe in the basement, then some catching up to do on my job, then … you know, all that stuff. The older you get the faster time goes, and one day you suddenly realize this isn’t just a saying from people older than you.
Then one night, about 3:30 am, the phone rang. It scared the hell out of me and I picked it up, my heart thudding in my chest. I could feel Beth sitting up behind me.
“Hello?”
“Hey man, it’s me. You got a radio there?”
“What?”
“You got a radio there?”
“Ray?”
There was a silence, as both of us processed the state of mind of the other. He started again, this time slowly.
“Is-there-a-radio-there?”
“Ray, what is—” But I realized that this needed to be continued somewhere else. I turned around and addressed the figure in the darkness—“It’s ok, it’s just Ray. I think he’s been drinking.”
Beth settled back under the covers with an annoyed sigh and I took the cordless phone downstairs, out to the front porch.
“Ray, what’s going on? Where are you? Is everything ok? Have you been—”
“DAVE! Just get to a radio! Please!”
That scared me more than the phone ringing, the pleading tone in his voice. Never in my life did I imagine I’d hear my brother beg for anything, and sure as fucking hell not with that sound in his voice.
I ran into the kitchen where we had one of those clock-radios screwed underneath a cabinet.
“Ok, Ray, I’m at a radio.”
“Turn it on, AM, 1320.”
I did, but all I got was static. “Ray, there’s nothing but noise.”
“Listen carefully.”
I leaned my head close to the radio, my ear almost touching the speaker. The hiss was punctuated only by sharp crackles and pops. Then, just for a moment, something came through, barely. I think I heard music. It was possible anyway.
“I’m not sure Ray, maybe something for a second there, but—”
“You don’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
He mumbled something, then, “Try this.” Suddenly a blast of white noise made me pull the phone away from my ear. It lasted for about ten seconds, then, “Dave, you hear it?”
“All I heard was static. What’s going on?”
“I think I found it. I think Radio for the Land of the Heart is at AM 1320.”
“Ok.” I had that neutral tone just perfect.
“Yeah, I know there’s some noise, but if you listen real careful, you can hear the tune. I think that was ‘Dancing in the Moonlight.’ Man, I love that song.”
“Ray.”
“Um?”
“Ray, you ok? Have you been drinking?”
“No, I just thought I found the goddamn radio station Dave. I thought fucking maybe you’d want to hear it.”
“Ray, I just—”
“Fuck you, bro, when I find it I won’t tell you. Then it’ll be your tough shit.”
***
It happened at least four more times over the next couple of weeks; Ray would call and say that he had found the station, put the phone up to his stereo speaker and explain what song could be teased out of the hiss. I never actually heard any of it, but he believed he heard something. It didn’t matter though. Sooner or later, whether by finally hearing the station identification or realizing that it was just noise, Ray would conclude that it wasn’t “Land of the Heart” radio and try again.
He must have been trying a little too hard. I was in the grocery store one night after work, buying some ketchup so the boys wouldn’t set up a howl at dinner. Bottle of Heinz in hand, I was walking towards the checkout when I ran into Ray’s boss, Sandy.
“Hey Sandy, what’s up?”
He was holding two large bags full of groceries and heading for the door, but when he saw me he stopped, put the bags on a nearby bench and turned to me with a serious look.
“Dave, you’ve got to talk to your brother.”
“Hmm?” I’ve heard this before. Many times, actually. Usually the person I’m talking to goes on to tell me how they saw Ray the night before at the Mirkwood Inn or Dell’s or some other bar, how Ray started out in a good mood, “but he was just throwing back those drinks, shots, beer, Christ Dave, he can down ‘em,” or something to that effect. I just nod and let them get on with it. Then they follow up with, “all of the sudden he got mad.” Then the story devolves into how Ray, “went right after me Dave, and all I said was that he spilled something on my shirt,” or “he tried to take on the whole bar Dave, I swear he wanted to fight five guys, and they weren’t small guys, either …” sort of thing. No one is mad at me, not usually. All the locals understand that I have no control over him, but they always fill me in on the latest.
But this time it wasn’t anything like that. Sandy just said, “Ray hasn’t shown up for work in two weeks. ‘Cept to pick up his check, last Thursday.”
“Shoot Sandy, I don’t know what’s going on. I haven’t seen him in a while; Beth and I have been real busy lately and—”
“I was there when he came into the office to get his check, Dave. He looked like hell. Pale, skinnier than usual, hadn’t taken a shower in awhile.” Sandy glanced around, then took a step closer. “I think you need to get him some help. Rehab maybe. He’s on something.”
I looked out the window.
“I haven’t fired him yet. I can’t do that; he’s a fuc—He’s a character, Dave, but I like the guy. He’s one of the best I got.” Sandy put his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you get him in a program somewhere and you let me know. I’ll do what I can to help you out. Your brother’s a good man, we need him around.”
I don’t know if I ever heard anyone say that before. The measure of Sandy’s decency wasn’t just what he said, but also the fact that he walked away, pretending to check his watch while I pretended to scratch something around my eye.
Dinner was waiting, but instead of heading home I drove over to Ray’s apartment. Walking up the staircase, I remember this particular feeling of dread, one that I always associate with Ray. It’s hard to explain, but for years now, late at night or sometimes when I am focused on a job or fixing something in the basement, suddenly Ray will pop into my head and I’ll be worried about him. No particular reason, but it’s like there’s this hole in my heart, waiting to be lined with a pain I’ve yet to discover. And it’s got something to do with Ray. I’ll feel bad, for him and for me. Like I have just an inkling of his sorrow, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
He was inside. The place wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t any worse by Ray standards. He was lying on the couch, face pale, dark circles under his eyes. But I wasn’t thinking drugs or drinking. I mean, he’s my brother, and I could always tell when the guy wasn’t straight. Although I wasn’t exactly relieved either: it was clear that he hadn’t slept for Lord knows how long. A long while. But before I could ask him what was going on with Sandy, he launched right into it.
“Dave, listen, did you know that radio waves can bounce off the atmosphere? Especially the AM waves; they can travel halfway across the country if conditions are right.”
“Huh. Anyway, how are you feeling? You look a little tired.”
“So I’m thinking that ‘Land of the Heart’ radio is coming from the Midwest. Makes sense, y’know? ‘Heartland’ and all that. I’m only getting it late at night when the conditions are right.”
He saw the look on my face.
“It’s not me Dave, it’s true, there’s lots of AM stations you can only get at night. Listen.”
He got up and walked over to the stereo. It was already on and he turned up the volume, the speakers discharging a now-familiar scraping noise.
“It’s just crap now, but around midnight, one o’clock, that’s a classical music station out of Binghamton. That must be what, fifty, seventy miles from here? And this—“a twist of the dial, more of the same noise—“this is a heavy metal station, I’m pretty sure it’s from Philly. You gotta wait until at least two a.m. to hear it. Heavy metal on AM radio. That’s weird.”
“Right. Ray, I ran into Sandy today and—”
“Yeah, yeah, where have I been.” He turned the stereo off. “I got some vacation time coming. He’ll just charge it against that.”
“Yeah, but Ray, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why aren’t you working?”
He looked at me as if I’d asked him whether he considered breathing important to daily living.
“You wouldn’t get it.” He turned back to the stereo, switching it back on and peering intently at the dial.
“C’mon Ray—what’s going on?”
“I have to find that station. I know it’s taking a lot of time but I only need a few more days. I’ve been keeping this chart—“He reached behind the stereo and pulled out a pad of lined yellow paper, thick with blue ink, a handmade grid covering the entire page and tiny handwriting filling each block—“I’ve been pretty methodical about it. I’m keeping this chart so I don’t keep finding the same stations. Whenever I get something I listen to it for a while, make sure that’s not it, then move on to the next one. I’m keeping track of both AM and FM.”
“All that just to find a radio station? You just go up and down the dial, right?”
“It’s not that easy. At night you might get two different stations on the same spot, depending on the time. ‘Specially on AM. They fade in and out, so you have to keep the dial in one place for hours just to be sure. Like here, 590?” He turned and pointed at the stereo, near the lower end of the band. “Last night I got two different stations. WBZX during the day, plays oldies. They sign off at midnight, then I get this country station out of Wilkes-Barre. Around four in the morning WBZX starts up again.”
Well, I thought to myself, that explained the lack of sleep.
“Hey,” and he suddenly turned to me, “I’ve been meaning to ask—can you check the internet? The fucker might be on there, right? Most stations are. Look for—”
“—Radio for the Land of the Heart. Got it. Will do.”
“Thanks, Dave,” and I saw a smile crack his face. It was a little scary, like he was trying to be gracious. Ray did not have a computer and didn’t give a damn about the internet. Ray was not gracious. Things were getting strange, and I should have had a clue right then and there what was coming.
“This is taking longer than I thought, you know?” he continued, scratching the stubble on his jaw and looking again at his chart. “’Course, as soon as I find that station ….”
I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he just stared down at the chart. After a few moments of silence I said goodbye and walked out, split between relief and worry. Relief, because Ray wasn’t doing drugs or drinking (I mean Drinking; everything is relative). He was going through the standard girlfriend crisis, I told myself, just trying to deal with Rachael leaving. Maybe he thought the station would bring back memories or something. But eventually he’d find the station, nothing would happen, and he’d get over it.
Probably. That was the worry part.
So I tried to help; after dinner I spent an hour online, looking for “Radio for the Land of the Heart,” “radio 1320,” “radio 590,” and so on. I tried every combination I could think of, but no luck. No radio station, anyway. “Land of the Heart” got me hundreds of hits, including a Mother’s Day site, three travel agencies, a fantasy novel and several evangelical links. But no radio station.
That night, in bed, I told Beth about it. She said that we should spend more time with him, “invite him over for dinner, see if he wants to spend the night.” That’s when I knew it sounded bad to her too, because she never offered to have him stay over. Whenever he’d visit and dinner was through or when the movie ended, she’d wish him a good night and a safe walk home, the hint clear, regardless of the weather or late hour.
I went over to his place the next day after work. He was sleeping on the living room floor, headphones on and emanating a faint hiss. I shook him awake, waited for him to stagger back from the bathroom, and asked him over for dinner.
“Nah, I got to keep looking,” he said, jerking his elbow towards the stereo.
The whole radio thing was getting to be a bit much, so I figured it was as good a time as any to bring up the other subject. “Seen Rachael lately?”
“She called me the other day. Wanted to go out.”
I waited as Ray began picking up the empty beer cans and food wrappers scattered throughout the room.
“And?”
He went into the kitchen, his arms full of greasy paper and dripping aluminum. I heard the muffled crunch of the mess getting wedged into his overflowing wastebasket, and he walked back into the room.
“And what? I said no. It wasn’t working out. She’s nice, but … I dunno. Kept trying to tell me what to do.”
“But I thought you really like her. I mean—”
“—I do, Dave. We’re still friends. I’m going to meet her for coffee the day after tomorrow.”
“Then I don’t get it. Why is it you want to find that radio station? I mean, I thought it had something to do with Rachael, getting her back, that sort of thing.”
“Well shit, even if I wanted her back, what does the radio station have to do with it?”
“Well Christ, what is it about the station then? You’re way too into this, Ray. I’m getting, you know, kinda worried.”
He grimaced and turned his back to me, looking out the window at the streetlight illuminating the empty Main Street. “I don’t know if I can explain it, Dave. There’s just something about it, those songs the DJ was playing. It brought it all back. Like when I was a kid; those summers I used to hang out at Jim Coffey’s house. We’d sit around on his front porch and watch the cars go by, just shooting the breeze. He’d play his brother’s records and we’d spend all afternoon there; me, Jim, Ed Leno and Janice Strickland. Remember her? I had such a crush on her. Damn. Those were the days, man. Before things got all … you know. I know I’ve—it was like the good times coming back over the radio.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah.”
Ray was silent for a moment; I thought he’d forgotten about me and was about to clear my throat when he continued:
“It’s not that big a deal, really. I just want to listen to that station, see if they play more songs from those days. Get that feeling back. Maybe I can figure out how I’m going to …” He shook his head then turned back around to face me. “Want a beer?”
I wish I had gotten him to finish that sentence. I don’t know what he was going to say, but still I think it might have helped me find a way to reach in and bring him back from wherever he’d gone for the past decade or so. But I just let it go.
“No thanks. When are you going back to work?”
“Next Monday. I spoke to Sandy this afternoon, everything is cool. He needs me back and Sandy’s a good guy anyway.”
Walking out the door, I told myself that maybe the whole Rachael episode was good for Ray. “I am going to meet her for coffee,” and “Sandy’s a good guy,” were just the sort of nice, well-adjusted things we’d all been hoping for years that he would start saying. When I told Beth, she said, “Maybe Ray’s starting to figure out his priorities. Maybe he just needs a friend right now, he said he still got along with Rachael. He’s a good man, Dave, he just needs to settle down and focus. Let’s try again; invite him over sometime next week.”
***
The next several days flew by with no word from him. I work for the county paper, a weekly, doing some graphic design, a little editing, a little sales, whatever needs to be done between me, three other employees and the owner. It pays well enough and I can lose myself in the job, trying to make the deadline and no mistakes, and everyone I work with is pretty calm under pressure. So I managed to forget about Ray, until one evening when Beth reminded me to invite him over.
Ray didn’t answer the phone, but half the time he just ignores it so I figured I’d go ask in person. Pulling into his driveway, it took about two seconds to figure out he wasn’t there. Car gone, lights out, mail piled up outside his door. I went back and told Beth.
“Maybe he’s visiting some old friends. Maybe he went on vacation. After all Dave, it’s not like he has to check in with you.” But she didn’t believe any of it either.
The next night, 12:15 am, the phone rang. I felt a twinge of fear. Thinking of Ray and his car crumpled around a tree. Flames.
“Dave.”
“Ray, man, where are you?”
“Missouri; just a few miles north of Joplin. Rt. 71 I think.”
“Jesus Christ Ray, what the fuck are you doing in Missouri?” I could feel Beth sitting up behind me. “Missouri?” I heard her ask.
“Still trying to find Radio for the Land of the Heart, Dave.”
Then I noticed how tired he sounded. And something else too, not quite like he was drunk, but there was an odd quality to his voice, a strain.
“Ray, listen to me, why don’t you get to a motel and sit tight. I can—” I had to think; driving would take a couple of days, no way he’d be able to sit still for that long. We’d just about paid the credit cards off, but this was serious—“I’ll get a plane to Joplin or wherever, and get you. We’ll fly back together, I got it covered—”
“Dave, I don’t need anyone to come and get me. That station’s got to be around here somewhere.”
“Ray—” I whispered through clenched teeth, “you got to—”
“Ahh shit Dave,” his voice got tight, like he was starting to cry, “I been looking around for a week now, and I just can’ find it. It’s got to be here somewhere. Got to be.”
“Ray, why didn’t you tell me you were going to take off and go looking for it?”
“What the fuck were you gonna do? You think I’m crazy like everyone else. Screw you all. I have to find that station. I figured if I drove out here, look in person, I’d find it. I mean it reached all the way to goddamn Delhi, Dave. It’s got to be some huge station. I haven’t heard it but I will. And when I do, I’m going to find that DJ, sit in the booth with him and drink a beer and listen to the old days.”
“Ray, please—”
A mechanical voice interrupted, informing us that Ray had to add two dollars within the next thirty seconds.
“Ray, listen, you got to stay where you are. I’ll help you find the station, I’ll—”
“Thanks Dave.” He sounded different now, like he suddenly cheered up. “I’ll be alright. I got some cash saved up, it’s not like I been living high on the hog, know what I mean?” He laughed, a little too hard.
“Ray, please, man, please—”
“Twenty seconds,” said the voice.
“Ray, call me back, collect.”
“OK, I’ll talk to you later.”
I sat there for about half an hour, waiting for him to call. Eventually Beth said, “I don’t think he’s calling back David,” and she gave me a hug. “Can you sleep? Want me to get you anything?”
I couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t get me anything, so I went downstairs and turned on the TV. There was nothing on so I walked out on the front porch and sat on the couch. It was one of those hot, humid summer nights, the kind where you’d better have air-conditioning or little need for sleep. We had AC in our bedroom as did the kids, but the rest of the place was a sauna. I got up and walked back into the house, crept upstairs and grabbed my jeans and a t-shirt. On my way out, Beth asked, “where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“Don’t do anything … silly, Dave. Please.”
“Don’t worry.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs to open the door and peek into the boys’ room. Danny and Little Ray were sound asleep. Danny was clutching a plastic fire truck; Ray was sprawled on the floor, his sheet wrapped around his body and neck. I unwrapped the sheet and put him back in bed. I gave them both a kiss, went downstairs to put on my clothes and walked out.
The Mirkwood Inn was only two blocks away from the house. It was almost empty, just the bartender and a lone customer, watching a “Star Trek” rerun. I got a seat with a good view of the TV, ordered a cold one, then another, and by the time I left I had managed to make myself tired.
***
I floated through the next day, worried and hung over, trying to figure out what to do. That night, tired as I was, I still couldn’t sleep, wondering if I should call the police, maybe try to find some sort of help line that Ray could call, something, anything. When I finally dozed off, it wasn’t for long; the phone rang around 4:30 am.
“Dave!” He sounded positively joyful.
“Where are you?”
“Um … Guthrie, Oklahoma. I think. Least that’s what the sign at the liquor store says. Listen, I got some time on a phone card, so we have a few minutes.”
Oh Jesus, I thought, he’s getting further away. “Ray, please, please listen to me. Why can’t you just wait and let me come out there? I’ll help you find that station.”
“That’s why I called, buddy! I found the fucker! Hold on!”
The phone clanked down and a moment later I heard the clack and groan of a car door opening, then a blast of static, a faint beat just noticeable. He grabbed the phone again. “You hear it? Hear it Dave? Dave?”
“Maybe something. It’s kind of rough though.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, and the phone smacked down again, dangling I assumed, by the cord in some godforsaken phone booth in Guthrie, Oklahoma.
He must have adjusted the dial, because it got clearer. There was a DJ talking, listing the last few songs that had been played, all of them sounding vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t specifically recall any of the tunes. Then he started playing “Waterloo Sunset,” by the Kinks, a song I swear I haven’t heard since I was a teenager.
And it hit me. Like the way I think it must have hit Ray: the music brought back these memories, not of anything in particular, but a collage of those days when we were kids and everyone listened to AM radio. Long hours on the road during a family vacation and the miles passing by. Man-made beaches on Adirondack lakes, the thin layer of sand giving way to dirt in two plastic shovelfuls. Small amusement parks, the worn-out rides creaking their burden to screams and laughter. Gas stations illuminated by neon lights. Sitting in a diner, the sun blinding me through a window, ordering pancakes. I saw myself playing kick-the-can out behind the school, Ray running ahead of me and laughing. Then I’m throwing snowballs at cars. Dusk in winter, the cold, and the stillness.
“Dave? What’s going on? Is Ray alright?” Beth asked, jerking me out of my reverie.
“Yeah, hold on,” and I held up a finger.
The song ended, and the static increased again. I could barely hear the DJ, could just make out him saying, “This is radio … at … ‘teen twenty, the music for the … of the Heart.”
Ray was right.
“See? See?” Ray demanded. “It’s around here somewhere, it’s gotta be. I’m close Dave, might take me a day or two, but I’ll track it down.”
“Ray, that station could be anywhere. You heard it from here, remember?”
“Yeah, right. Still. I must be getting close. Listen, I got to go. Station’s fading, I got to drive around ‘til it picks up again. Hang in there kid, say hi to Beth and the boys, and I’ll call you from the station.” He laughed, then, “Hey, maybe I’ll get the DJ to dedicate a song to you. How about “Kung Fu Fighting? You used to dance around to that song, it was a riot. You were so serious.”
“Ray, I can be there in—”
“Ok, little bro, gotta go. Later.”
“Ray, wait!” I yelled as it hit me, the one thing he didn’t say. “Where is it on the dial?”
But he hung up.
The next day I called the FCC—they never heard of it. I went back on the ‘net and got the phone numbers for a bunch of radio stations in Oklahoma, called to ask them if they heard of the station. But I only got the same, “Radio what?”
I called stations in surrounding states, places selected at random, stations in cities and college towns in Kansas, Arkansas, Texas. No luck. But the Midwest is huge, right? I couldn’t call every city, every town; I couldn’t cover them all. It could be some desolate, on-the-edge-of-nowhere plains radio, their “Best of the ‘70’s” hour-long special every third Tuesday of the month, and how would I find it?
A friend told me about pirate radio—guys who will set up their own small-wattage station out of their garage. Told me about these operations that set up on boats sailing up and down the Mississippi, trying to keep one step ahead of the FCC. But he doubted any pirate radio in the Midwest, even under the best conditions, would get as far as New York. But who knows? Ray definitely found something.
***
That was all about three weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since.
I stayed up every night since that last phone call, crouched by the radio in the living room, trying to find the station. I went to Ray’s apartment to get his chart, so I could pick up where he left off, but he must have taken it with him.
Last week I started staying home; I needed to catch up on my sleep. Beth didn’t say anything, even though I was burning up vacation time that we had planned to use on a trip to the Finger Lakes. I could tell she was getting worried about me, though.
A few days ago I bought a bunch of maps of the Midwest, trying to figure out where Ray had been, where he might be going. He was methodical by nature; he must have some system for driving around and looking, listening. I was just guessing of course, but I had some ideas on how he might do it; he’s my brother after all.
It was Beth’s folks, Bud and Stacy, who got the show on the road, so to speak. Three days ago they stopped by for dinner and offered me money, “to help you find him,” Stacy said. “To be honest, David, I don’t know if I approve of him, but family is family.”
I thanked Bud as he handed over a wad of cash, and I knew they were thinking it would go to a private detective, but I also knew there was only one way to do this.
The next morning, after Beth left with the boys for school and work, I took off.
***
So here I am—driving north on the Interstate, heading out of Oklahoma into Kansas. My right arm is sore from holding it out and turning the radio dial all day.
Guthrie consisted of a post office, about a dozen homes, a general store, a diner and a liquor store. It took all of five minutes to learn from a waitress at the diner that Ray had been there (it’s that small; they remember the strangers). He had left the same night he called me, after asking for directions to I-35.
I think I know what Ray was trying to find. It’s like the rapid, scurrying movement at twilight that you see out of the corner of your eye when you’re a kid. You turn to chase it and it’s gone—but you know something was there. You stop seeing it when things like girls, the price of gas, new appliances, become important. Or maybe you make yourself stop seeing it. But I remember, back then, thinking that if I could only follow that thing, it would lead me to some secret passageway, a hidden door at the back of my parents’ closet or the entrance to a small cave, covered by a bush out behind the barn. And if you could get through the door or inside the cave, you’d find … I don’t know. Another world, I guess; like those stories your folks read to you when you were little and they seemed as real as anything else. Back then I could just feel it out there, lurking at the edge of perception. Listening to that station, I got that feeling again, only stronger, like it crawled out of that cave and grabbed me by the throat.
I have a plan. I know the station exists, and Ray’s right, it is probably in the Midwest. And he knows it exists, of course, and like the saying goes, he might be crazy but he’s not stupid. He’ll find it eventually and he’ll drink that beer with the DJ. You could just tell by the DJ’s voice that he was the kind of guy who’d let visitors hang out.
So if I find that station, I find my brother. If I find it first, I’ll just wait for him. The kids can come out with their mother and stay with me until he shows up. Either way, I’ll get him, take him home, and make him better. Or try to, anyway.
The exit is coming up, just a few miles to go and I’m in Wichita. The teenage cashier at the last gas station told me there was a public radio station there that plays “really old stuff.”
Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart