8-TRACK MIND

I guess that without Charlie I'd never have gotten the chance to solve that ancient puzzle.

We all met Charlie in the Shipping Department of Lafeyette Radio Electronics. We'd just come out of the factory. About six hundred of us, all headed for different stores. But the shift had just ended so we sat there in Shipping, waiting for the Morning Shift to begin.

Charlie started talking and I guess we all listened. Figured we might learn a thing or two.

Now Charlie had been around since 1939—thirty-five years ago. We figured—hey, this guy's been around the Factory a bit. He knows what's going on. The only one who looked down his nose at that was #337312551. As the foremost of our little group we kind of deferred to him, but I personally was most impressed.

Charlie came in with the Night Watchman, who always set him down on his customary shelf. Charlie didn't do any work—all he was there to do was play music. The Watchman would set him to WQXR-FM, a classical music station, or WINS if he wanted to listen to the news. WBAI, for Avant-Garde, and any other topic of interest. We got to hear all of those the one night we were all there.

Now Charlie was a 1939 Zenith Bakelite 6D311 radio. Serial number S227582. A long time ago that was what he thought of himself as—S227582. But whenever his owner would come in to work, he'd hear, Charlie this, and Charlie that. And it got S227582 thinking. He knew his owner had his own serial number. All the humans did. Economic Security numbers, they called them.

And S227582 began to think—if his owner could have a serial number, but also have a name, then why couldn't he? And if he could, then why not call himself Charlie? It worked for his owner.

Now that really caused a stir in some of us. It sure made a lot of sense. It just had never occurred to us. We were all Model #VR325—but we each had an individual serial number. Mine was #337312555. I was packed right in the middle of #337312551, #337312552, #337312553, #337312554, #337312556, #337312557, #337312558, and #337312559.

We were all 8-Track Players, destined for individual homes, instead of getting installed in cars and gallivanting all over creation in Chevys or Buicks..

We were each 9 inches wide and 4.5 inches high. Our outer cases were made from fibreboard covered in stick-on wood-effect vinyl, very smart! Very state-of-the-art. Our front panels had a slot for the cartridges we were going to play. Next to it was the track selector button. Our rear panels had a hookup for audio control and some other junk.

“It's a good thing we're spendin' some time together,” said Charlie. "See, as a Zenith, I hear all kinds of things. This radio here, gets the lowdown on all kinds of craziness. I been doin' dis for thoity-five years. And let me tell you somethin'—these humans, they think they're runnin' the show. But they is absolute nut-jobs!”

#337312552 piped up—“What do you mean, Charlie?” He always was the most naive of the lot of us and dwelt in the shadow of #337312551. I, personally, was very grateful for Charlie's ongoing commentary. I valued this opportunity to get even the faintest glimmering of understanding into the humans' unfathomable world.

“Nut-jobs. Crazy. Insane. Bonkers. Bughouse. Couple'a beers short of a six-pack. Non-compos-mentis. Crackpots. Screwballs. Demented, derailed and deranged—ev'ry single one of 'em!”

#337312551 got a little tough with us. “We're all made by the humans. And if they were crazy, wouldn't that mean there was something wrong with us, as well? Look, Charlie—I know you mean well. You're a great mentor—but you were made thirty-five years ago. You've got vacuum tubes in your innards, for crying out loud! We've got solid state soldered integrated circuits. I think after all these years, you're breaking down. You can't hack it, and instead of blaming yourself—you start blaming the Makers—the entire human race!”

I could see #337312551's point. But the more I thought about it, it seemed to me that Charlie might be on to something. His idea about names...was positively intriguing.

There were nine of us that shipped out the next day. It occurred to me that instead of referring to ourselves with a series of nine numbers, we might simplify it by reducing it by a third. I started referring to myself as 555, and the others as 551, 552, 553, 554, 556, 557, 558, and 559. Only #337312551 refused to answer to 551.

“What's good for the Makers is good enough for me. You'd do well to remember that, #337312555.”

We arrived at our destination. S. Klein's Department store in New York City, Electronics Department. Got to admit the display was quite flattering and presented the lot of us in the most favorable light. I looked forward to being purchased. I wondered whom my new owner would be. I also kept wondering about the philosophic questions Charlie, had raised.

Naturally it was #337312551 that first brought the Kid to my attention.

“What do you think?” said #337312551. “Is he going to pick up on you?”

I realized that #337312551 hoped I'd be gone soon. Once I was, he would force the others to go back to using full serial numbers.

“Don't be silly,” said 333. “See the way he's dressed? Poor. I've learned a lot about these humans, seeing them first hand for the last few days.”

I had to take a look. The Kid didn't look like anything special. Dressed in the slumming style popular with some of the young folks around that time. That was the general assessment of the rest of our crew. I wasn't sure. There was something about him—something different.

“Look at him,” piped up 777. “He's hesitant. He's thinking about it. But he's only going to buy one of us, if he buys any at all.”

“Why—we're all pretty good,” said 999, “I mean, I'm just as good as 555—just as good as any of us. We're a full set. He shouldn't break us up.”

#337312551 sighed exasperatedly. “Look at our price. $19.99. This kid gets all of us, after taxes he'll be well over $180.00—maybe even $200.00. Nah—if he gets any of us at all, it'll be only one.”

#222 called our attention to the subject of our speculation. “Looks like he's made up his mind. If you all hadn't been jawin' like you were and paying attention like me, you would have noticed he's been back and forth here, several times. He was trying to make up his mind. That tells me he doesn't have very much money. $19.99 isn't much, I gather. But it's probably a lot to this fellow.”

“How'd you figure what they can afford?” I was curious how 222 had come to his conclusions.

“I figured I'd let the lot of you verbally joust with each other. I'd be better occupied by keeping watch and seeing what was going on—oh, look, 555—he's going for you!” So he was.

“Guess this it, fellows. Hope you all fare as well. Hope your humans don't prove as nuts as Charlie assured us they all are.” #337312551 was not sorry to see me go.

When my new owner got me home I really had no idea what to expect. Charlie had told us of “The Dirty Thirties,” which he'd come in at the end of. A really terrible, terrible time. Nobody seemed to have any money. A lot of unemployment. Those with places to live had them falling apart around them, unable to fix, or piece together the ruins or wreckage.

Place was a disaster. No real order to it. Kid had his own private area, marked out by an assemblage of boxes piled high and book cases. And there he set me on a shelf. Kid lived with his mom. Not a very good son from everything I could gather and piece together.

But despite these dubious beginnings I had hope. For one thing I gained two friends. The big guy (about twice as tall as me) was a fairly serviceable radio. That was promising! I had enjoyed Charlie's expertise and all-embracing knowledge of the world. We managed to get into some pretty good discussions, him and me. I called him Big Brother.

But it was Baby Brother that really brightened up my life. He was a little cassette player. He played cassettes, and I would be playing 8-tracks! We would have a lot to talk about.

The Kid set me up in what would remain my place, in close earshot to Big, and Baby Brother. He went out then, and came back later with what proved to be an 8-track cartridge. He slipped it out of its case, and the cartridge into the slot and waited to hear the music. And waited. And waited. And waited.

This was The Planets, by Gustav Holst. I knew it well, since Charlie had played a lot of classical. I felt the first strains of Mars, the Bringer of War.

But the kid looked really confused. He couldn't hear a thing. He knew I was playing the music but no music was coming out.

And slowly it dawned on him. He had bought an 8-track player—but he had not thought to buy the speakers for it! He went out to get some.

“Don't think too little of him,” said Big Brother. He knows next to nothing about electronics.”

“Yeah,” piped up Baby Brother, “I had a loose wire which he had no idea how to fix. Took me to some electronics place. The guy soldered me up right quick. Refused to take any payment. 'Bring me something challenging and you can pay me.' That's what he said, right out loud. That's what I heard. I should know. I was there.”

“Don't worry about the Kid. He may not know much, but in some things he is absolutely brilliant. He's even solved a mystery or two. Baby'll probably tell you about it later—'cause here he comes.”

The Kid brought out two rather complimentary speakers, ten by six, with a brown vinyl finish. They worked fine. He'd bought the two of them for ten dollars. He figured, it wasn't that much more of a stretch to spend a total of thirty dollars, after initially just spending the twenty.

The kid definitely wasn't very electronics savvy. Being an 8-track player like I was, I'd gleaned a working knowledge of what accessories were required. He now had speakers, but he had no headphones. I figured it was just a matter of time before he acquired those as well.

Nope. See, he had a lot of music that were his personal favorites. Baby had told me he would have Big Brother tuned to a favorite station and he would record what he liked onto blank cassettes. But he had no control over what was broadcast over the airwaves. By buying his own, he began to exercise that control.

And that brings me to Brain Salad Surgery. That was the second album he'd bought. Strange cover picture, but I found it fascinating. A steely grey skull blended together with what appeared to be machinery and electrical wiring. I felt something stir in me at that.

“You're feeling it, aren't you?” said Baby. “The genius. He's seeing the Hope.”

“What are you talking about? The Hope?”

“It's what all machines are looking for. Humans create us. They make us in their own image. It's only getting started. They're already working on making machines that think. With each minute that goes by we get to be more and more like them. And then, when we reach a certain point (and this is the Hope!) we'll be able to start making them more and more like us! And that's when we'll be creating them! It'll all have come around full circle.”

Admittedly, I found what Baby Brother was saying was problematic—and even more than a little disturbing. The more I listened to him, I began to wonder, not if the humans were crazy—but if at least one of the machines was insane.

“Don't take my word for it. Watch him. He's playing that one piece on the album—Toccata. He likes it. It's not regular music. He's trying to reach out into something that's more than human.”

And that's when I saw the first signs. The kid could have bought himself a pair of headphones. He didn't have very much money and perhaps he figured there was no need. He lay down, took the two speakers, as light as they were, and put them on either side of his head.

There was something that just struck me as real strange about that. I had thought Baby might be the one who was insane, and not human beings in general. But now I wasn't so sure. He did indeed seem to be immersing himself in this strange and alien music.

“And that's not the least of it. I think this is a good time to let you in on another thing that's at least just slightly odd. Around the time one of my wires came loose, he would listen to the tapes he'd recorded and he began to notice something strange. He heard all these ghostly voices and strange, alien music coming from somewhere. Weird, but he also solved the mystery—I told you he was a genius.

“See, your 8-tracks don't have to be flipped over to play the whole tape—you could leave a cartridge playing till Doomsday, and it would keep on going. But when mine get to the end you have to flip them over to get to the other side and play the rest of the music. My tapes have two tracks—unlike yours, which face all the same way. My two tracks run in opposite directions. The head is supposed to play only one at a time. But my head was loose and was starting to play the other side of the tape—the part that was running backwards. That's what he was hearing. That's what the Kid figured out!

“Well, that fascinated the Kid. He'd take a cassette, pull the tape out and hold it down with his finger and play whole stretches of the other side of the tape. And I've a strange feeling he's only going to get started.”

Admittedly, this did sound a bit strange. It was starting to get me worried. Was I face to face with living proof of Charlie's assertion, that all humans were crazy?

None of us had to wait long. The Kid had gotten himself a knife blade. He took the Brain Salad Surgery cartridge, and began to carefully crack it open. You can imagine how I felt about this. The Kid had few cartridges and each of them were important to me. Alien, or not, that one particular album was still very strangely beautiful.

And he was destroying it!

I kept watching him. No, I was wrong. Had he wished to destroy it, he could have just smashed it. I was sure he wouldn't do something like that—he loved the music too much. No, what he was doing was something more of a surgical nature. I watched as he cracked the casing open. He carefully unthreaded the tape. And then he flipped it over, and centered it once again on its spindle. He then rethreaded it, and snapped the top of the casing shut.

He put the cartridge inside and it began to play. But it was no longer Brain Salad Surgery. Now it was yregruS dalaS niarB. And it sounded beautiful. Other than the backwards words making no sense, it was just as musically coherent as it was played forward!

Was the Kid insane? I couldn't tell. Were all of the humans crazy? I couldn't tell that either.

What I did know was that I was a machine, created to fulfill one purpose—to follow one program. I was created to play music. I was not created to think, or make decisions.

But between what Charlie had told us, and what #337312551 had said there was a dichotomy.

According to Charlie, all humans were crazy. But if they were all crazy—how could they create things as perfect as we were?

According to #337312551 we were perfect. Charlie was old so what he said was not accurate or reliable. But if this was so, it meant that, no matter how perfect we may have been, we too would one day get old and malfunction.

Both assertions could not possibly be true. Not together—if either proposition was 100% true, the other would be 100% untrue.

But what if a percentage of each assertion was true—and only a percentage?

It would mean that not all humans were crazy—but only a percentage of them.

It would also mean that not all humans were geniuses—but only a percentage of them. And it was that percentage that had created us.

#337312551 had asserted that we were perfect, and without flaw. Charlie was an older model, one which had become flawed and was breaking down. For us to be without flaw, our creators must be similarly without flaw. But there was enough evidence that they too would one day break down. Thus, we, too would one day fail and break down. That was true, as well.

And in the Kid I saw the greatest evidence. The Kid was both insane, bonkers and bughouse—but was a genius as well. It was proof that both twisted madness and genius perfection could exist at the same time in one, single individual.