Radio and Silence

The night sky seems to be endless, only broken by the occasional set of headlights blinding me for a few seconds in an odd version of vehicular Morse Code in a very slow rhythm. It wouldn’t be an efficient way to pass messages at all.

This stretch of the highway is smooth, something somewhat unusual for this area; they must have fixed it a few months ago. My car hummed along the asphalt, the tires producing a comforting two-note harmony that rises when I pass a slower driver, and lowers when I stop for gas. The only time the notes become a full chord is when the roads are prepared to resurface, a sound that runs through my body and shakes my soul.

What I wouldn’t give for that sound again, just to break the monotony; the same notes in silence for long stretches is enough to drive many people to insanity, even more so at this insomniac hour.

Driving at night is difficult at the best of times, but worse when you have a decrepit vehicle and a personal emergency pushing your buttons. At least it’s not foggy or raining on this pilgrimage to my parents’ home; that could be a disaster.

My car has depreciated so much that no one would buy it except for parts. There’s no money whatsoever for a new model, which means I’m stuck with a vehicle that I can’t hook my smart phone to because there are no available adaptors for Bluetooth or charging; I don’t even have a working CD player either, but knowing my luck, they’d all turn into Best of Queen albums because I’d forget they’re in here.

The silence is deafening me; the radio doesn’t quite work, but I need something to fill the void. After a bit of volume control and cajoling, the familiar static and high-pitched whine winds its way through age-dampened speakers.

It’s all static as I turn the knob without looking at it, as staying in my lane is more important to me than winding up distracted and dead. There’s something coming in, very faint, but I can’t quite catch it; it must be too out of range. I come to a French-language station, but dismiss that option. I may be bilingual, but the concentration needed to keep up with the rapid-fire speech would be greater than what I require staying on the road.

High-pitched frequency squeals give way, and a foreign language shows up. The music sounds interesting, but it’s unfamiliar; if the fuzz gathering in my brain lets me remember, I’ll try to come back to find out what it is.

Another possibility makes itself known, but all that comes through is a droning voice, almost mechanical in its Ben Stein-styled inflection saying “…source for regional updates. On the thirteenth of this month, the Farmers Market opens. On the fifteenth, the annual outdoor flower show will be-”

“Completely ignored,” I finished for him in a low mutter, not wanting to be lulled to sleep. “All right, I need a rest stop and some freaking coffee. Then, I’ll figure out the radio problem. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Almost twenty minutes later, I pull into a gas station and get a refill while I can; it would be in my best interests to fill now and not regret it later. I paid at the pump and moved into a free parking space. 

There’s little to differentiate the interiors of convenience stores, save for their corporate colours used in the advertisements and the shelf stickers. Two workers stood inside, one bleary-eyed and trying to mop the generic white floor, the other cheerful and wide-awake; all I can think is that Dozy needs more caffeine, Buzzy less considering how shaky he seemed. The toilet is clean and I’m grateful for it being available. I set myself up an extra large double double and grab some meals for the road, sandwiches and baked goods that contain plenty of chocolate.

Hey, when you’re in the “driving home in the dark for an emergency” heightened state of anxiety that’s clawing at me, you’ll eat whatever is a comfort to you.

I bring my selections up to the till, and Buzzy gives me a cheerful, “How are you doing today?” as he rings up everything.

My best silent blinking owl impression came out, and I told him, “I’m driving down the highway, it’s almost two am, my phone is dead, I have a good six to eight hours left in order to get to my family emergency which will probably turn into my grandfather’s funeral, so not well,” I blurt out, my politeness filter deciding to go on a smoke break when I needed it most.

His expression dropped to one of sympathy, and it made my eyes sting. “I’m so sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. He bagged up my food, and ducked under the counter for a moment, then rustled my bag before passing it to me. “Here you are. Take care of yourself out there.”

“I will. Thank you so much,” I told him, my face going into that painful “don’t cry” muscle seizure. I stumbled a bit in the night despite the adequate lighting in the area, but reached my car, locking the doors as soon as I got in.

The key made its usual resistance to being turned in the ignition known. At least it didn’t bend this time, as it had on other occasions. I should get that looked at someday.

Irritated, I munched on a pastry while playing with the radio. I feel like a cryptographer or something, turning the dial with deliberate slowness, attempting to find a secret transmission to fill the void in my car.

Well, I could have done without being startled out of my wits by obnoxious dance music that didn’t quite drown out the yelled “-and that’s why you need to wake up with THE EXTREME TEAM in the mornings here on-”. The knob just about came off of the radio as I wrenched it away from the noise.

The adjacent one has more promise, with a quieter, yet still upbeat, melody. “You’re listening to The Weather Station: all weather, all the time. Coming up next, the forecast for every city in-”

No. Although knowing upcoming weather trends is important, I need to stay awake. A New Age station came up, but that will put me into a trance. I’m not interested in contemporary religious songs in the least, thanks to some over-zealous family members. Country feels far too melodramatic for my current mood, and there is only so much whine and steel guitar I can handle. Hard rock and metal would put my nerves into raging volcano territory, making that choice not viable.

Too happy. Too sad. More melodrama. More anxiety-inducing drums and guitars. This popular Dub-Step noise isn’t music no matter who tells me otherwise. Languages I can’t understand. Too manufactured. Too over-produced. Over-played into obscurity.

I shut the radio off and bumped my head on the steering wheel a couple of times. “Gotta get back on the road. Let’s go with silence until the next rest stop; I might sleep an hour or two then,” I sigh, and sit up.

My bladder granted me just over three hours of driving time, before it insisted on stopping as soon as it’s safe to. Another clean bathroom, one more extra-large double double, but this one made with chocolate and vanilla-flavoured syrups. That combination brings up a memory of my grandparents’ house, where there was always the scent of coffee in the air, the warm bitterness tempered with something sweet for us kids to drink.

The threat of tears caused my throat to close up, making it so that I choked and sprayed my coffee everywhere on the dashboard, steering wheel and me. “Crap, crap, crap,” I cough out, frantic to find something to wipe up the mess with. I dive into the bag, hopeful that I remembered to grab something to wipe my hands with. 

No napkin, but a colourful package peeks out from behind my sandwich. I take a closer look, trying to place it. My eyes won’t stop blurring now that I know what it is. Buzzy gave me two packets of facial tissue to use when I first stopped for gas.

That awful, foul-tasting knot made me dive into my bag to have something to chew and swallow. I read somewhere that drinking liquids stops people from crying, but my coffee is too hot for that right now.

My scalded, emotion-killed tongue tasted nothing as I fiddled with the radio yet again. You know what? Just for the hell of it, I’ll go through the AM band. There might be tolerable songs on there, or at the very least, an interesting conversation to listen to.

More country melodrama, but of the nineteen thirties grassroots variety. Nothing but depressing news at this hour. Ugh, sports. More clichéd folk-ish songs. Well, classical is nice, but has a time and place; this isn’t anywhere close to my mood. Hmm. Maybe this Golden Oldies station could fit the bill; I’ll try to remember where it is if I can’t find anything.

Oh, talk radio. This one didn’t want to be found, but I can be stubborn. My dedication to dialling it in failed me when I heard “…you…exper…so tell me in detail about your alien abduction.” Nope, nope, nope, not conspiracy theory crap.

“There has to be something to listen to,” I groan, frustrated beyond the norm. Giggles echoed on the next station, and I jumped at the abrupt clattering of things falling to a wooden floor. “Gotta straighten out that closet one of these days,” a male voice said to loud, mirthful laughter.

That line… I’ve heard it before. I feel my head wobbling, my eyes darting around, both trying to shake out a particular memory filed away in my mind. It took some time, but it came back to me, projecting onto my inner theatre screen.

A common sound in my grandparents’ house was something falling; a basket, a shelf, books, but never anything breakable as my grandmother kept them behind locked glass. When that happened, my grandfather would say that odd phrase, to which she would respond by chuckling and pecking a kiss on his forehead.

I have no idea what kind of station this could be, but all I can do is listen to the rest of the episode; I laughed at the stories and jokes being told while trying not to choke on my meal or coffee.

The show ended, and the Disk Jockey announced the name and call letters with pride. “You just listened to a classic episode of Fibber McGee and Molly. This is your way-back machine to the golden age of radio, the original dramatic podcasts of their era! Next up is our Crime Time, featuring Sam Spade, The Shadow, and Richard Diamond, Private Detective. After that, we have an amazing story from Mystery Theatre, then we’re back into comedy with Danny Kaye, Bob Hope and many things to tickle your funny bone.”

No, I can’t just sit here listening. I need to be on the road. Time returned to its usual pace as the shows hold me enthralled with the glimpse into aural story-telling history they gave me. 

This is amazing to me just how funny and well written the scripts had been for the most part, the multi-talented performers, the insane amount of effects the foley pioneers came up with. 

 Although, as I listened, I realised just how many concepts that were “normal” back then are now labelled archaic, xenophobic and misogynistic, not to mention flat-out implausible in modern science. The cigarette advertisements had my jaw dropping in incredulity, while the sketches for other products made me laugh. It’s also incredible how some brand jingles haven’t changed in almost a century.

As my car hummed along the highway, I couldn’t help thinking about how music had failed for the first time to fill the empty silence around me. On a normal day, various playlists would be in the background: fast-paced rock and metal to get through chores; lo-fi hip-hop while having an evening bath; ambient piano when reading or studying; a nostalgic mix to shake my hips to while making a meal.

Ever since I got that call yesterday, I’ve been numb to almost everything. Music I loved irritated me to no end, and I couldn’t land on anything to listen to; it grated at me, picking at my emotion-sensitive nerves.

But this? This is human speech, something I realised I missed far too much in the past twenty-four hours. Sure, I had podcasts on my dead, needs-a-defibrillator phone, but this…

This somehow made me feel better. It calms me, and imparts a sense of not quite peace, but a blanket of verbal comfort, even for a short while. Some references went over my head because I didn’t live in the era, while others had me laughing almost to hysterics, or gripping my steering wheel, anticipating what would happen next.

It gave me a reconnection to one person that died two years ago, and the other who… It hurts to think this, but who is dying, or may have already passed away. I get more of the references, those little in-jokes, and can laugh at them as much as they did when they were young.

The voices of actors, most long passed on, filled my car with warmth, laughter, and if I’m feeling metaphysical, the sensation of my grandparents sitting in the back seat, holding hands, laughing and grinning along with the memories the words, songs and sounds held.

Hours later, I turned onto the street where my parents live, and parked in front of their house. The car went silent, and I couldn’t sense my grandparents any longer. However, all I have to do is find this radio station again; for a short time I’ll be with them, if only in spirit.