Good morning. Goodbye.

“Good Morning. Goodbye.” he whispers and lets Wild Horses by Rolling Stones take his place. For a moment he stops, closes his eyes, and lets music cuddle him. Afterward, he hangs the headphones on the microphone in front of him and winks at the sound supervisor behind the fingerprinted glass.

“Great job as usual Dan.” Says the young new lever as Dan walks out of the recording area.

“Bye Jack.” Dan smiles warmly, the boy always greets him this way out of politeness. In reality, he only listens to his radio show for the last half-hour, from 6 to 6.30 am, when he arrives at the radio station to prepare the field for the early morning broadcasts. The boy, tall, slender as a locust, gold chain at his neck too big for his figure, low waist jeans, wouldn't be the type of person to actually listen and enjoy his program, Memory Motel, anyway, even if it aired at 12 pm. It doesn’t matter, old music is a treasure that needs to be preserved and only a few have that honor.

Dan leaves the building and drives his pink Cadillac to the supermarket a couple of blocks down, where he buys his groceries, some beers, and a pre-cooked meal for dinner. 

Once home, he closes the shutters, heats his Spaghetti Alla Bolognese, and in the meantime plays his Creedence Clearwater Revival vinyl to have good company while eating.

He washes the dishes and finally goes to bed. It’s almost 8.15 am.

Dan was born in 1957, the same year Little Richard released Tutti Frutti, and he always devoted his entire life to rock’n’roll. He started playing the guitar at 7, at 12 his parents brought him at Woodstock and gifted him with a little sister. At thirteen he formed his first band and, by the time he was 20, he traveled the country as a supporting act for the greatest artists of those years.

He fucked many women, some men too, gave his genes to a couple of children that always avoided a relationship with their father, and went to rehab twice.

At sixty-three he’s had quite a turbulent life but he had found a good way to stay out of trouble. 

The night had always been the weakest moment of the day for a night owl like him. He could stay awake without tiring for many nights in a row and while everyone else slept he wrote good music but also drank and fucked and drank again.

Fifteen years prior, a friend of a friend offered him a job at a radio station for a night program to be aired Tuesday to Sunday from 11.30 pm to 6.30 am. Memory Motel had nothing to do with what the radio played during the day. It was a trip down the past, to the glorious days of rock’n’roll when music was created with real instruments, brainstorming, and lots of drugs. Regular listeners of his program, and there were many despite the unlikely hours the program aired, rode with him on an imaginary Harley Davidson along the dirty roads of the United States, with only rock and run-down motels as a refuge.

Strangely enough, working for most of the night, allowed Dan to have the first routine of his life. He slept for most of the day, in the late afternoon he did his duties, whether it was cleaning the house, meet some friends, play the guitar and then, in the thick of the night, while everyone else prepared for bed, he arrived at the empty radio station, set up his own sound direction and played on,  talked on with his deep, soothing and scratchy voice that had many wondering about his past.

The phone is ringing.

Dan wakes up in a halt. It’s 12.45 pm. Something bad must have happened because everyone knows that he sleeps during the day.

Dan picks up. “Hello?”

“Dan? Hi Dan, it’s Cameron, from the radio, I’m Mr. Spencer's assistant. He asked me to schedule a meeting with you. Are you free this afternoon at 6 pm sharp?”

Dan rubs his eyes and wonders what the hell the radio manager needs to talk about. “Yeah.” He whispers. “Count me in.”

“Perfect.” Says Cameron with her pink-chewing-gum California accent.

Dan goes back to sleep, but his rest is anguished and when he wakes up, he’s left with a terrible headache and sore mind.

At 5.55 pm he stands in front of the radio, nervous as he’s never been, not even before his first gig. He’s tempted not to walk in but then finds the courage and when the elevator lands on the radio’s floor, the manager Derek Spencer is already waiting for him.

Dan knows that Derek is equal his age, but they couldn’t look more different. Derek is short, bald, over-muscled, and wears a tight tailor-made light grey suit. Dan, on the other hand, is tall, wears his long ash-colored hair in a ponytail, wears a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, leather pants and jacket, and black cowboy boots.

“The great Dan Chapman.” Greets him, Derek. “Please, sit.” Mr. Spencer walks to the window and stares out at the city colored in sunset.

“There’s no sweet way to put it.” Bursts out. “We decided to cut Memory Motel. Advertisements don’t pay much for the night and our listeners don’t dig much the old stuff you play. We’ll replace the program with random music that kids like more, like Ariana Grande’s.”

Dan wears is best poker face, but his hands are sweaty against the leather pants, and his heart thuds rhythmically.

“When?”

“Tonight is the last night.”

Dan stands up and towers Derek. His hands are closed in fists and he can see the fear in the eyes of the pen-pusher that only thinks about money in front of him. The old him, that abused alcohol and drugs, would have crushed that fake smirk on the manager’s face, but the new him, the new him, knew better. The best revenge is no revenge.

Dan walks out of the radio and goes to the pub down the road, waiting for the last Memory Motel. While walking he thinks about his beloved broadcast and feels an ache in his chest at the thought of saying goodbye. 

After many hours spent staring at his Budwiser, he eavesdrops the conversation that a young fellow nearby is having with the bartender. 

“I’m furious. I hate modern music. How can people enjoy that shit? How can the music industry prefer dudes that don’t even know how to play an instrument to people who still have blisters from guitar strings?”

He glimpses at the boy and for a moment shock has the best of him. The folk looks like a young version of him. Same outfit except for the Black Sabbath t-shirt and the drum sticks in his back pocket.

“One more listen to the radio and I think I might throw up.”

“Amen.” Admits Dan.

The boy looks at him. “You’re cool bro.”

“Apparently not cool enough for the radio.”

“What does it mean?” asks Chris, the bartender.

Dan grunts. “They just fired me. Tonight will be the last time Memory Motel fills the ether.”

“You’re Dan Chapman?” the boy screams. “You’re Memory Motel’s Dan Chapman! Your show is the only decent stuff that plays on the radio.”

Dan frowns. “Not anymore.”

“But they can’t do that.”

“They just did. They’re going to play Ariana Grande instead.”

“Motherfu… listen I refuse to keep playing to their rules. Memory Motel can’t die, we’ll find a way to keep it alive. Online radios, podcasts, there sure is a way.”

Dan stands and pays for his beers and the boy’s drink. “I have to go.”

The boy steps between him and the door. “Listen, I want to help. Let’s meet here tomorrow night, I’ll bring my band, we’ll figure something out. My best friend is a computer nerd, I promise.”

Dan smiles and smudges the boy away. “Thanks…”

“Winston Keller.”

“Thank you, Winston. I have to go now.”

For the last time, Dan enters the doors of the empty radio. He smells the usual odor of cigarettes and sweat and says goodbye. He sets his own direction, goes to the microphone, looks around, takes a deep breath, and silently mourns at the death of his beloved broadcast that saved his life.

Dan puts on the headphones and speaks. He plays the best music he can think of and his mind focuses on nothing else until morning. 

Before he even realizes it, it’s almost time to go.

With the corner of his eyes sees the sound supervisor arrive and wave at him. He couldn’t be more distant than the Winston Keller he met last night.

Maybe the boy is right, maybe Memory Motel doesn’t have to die, but only change shape. 

Dan wanted to end his last show with Jimi Hendrix’s version of All along the watchtower but finally decides to add one more song to the playlist: Black Sabbath’s Electric Funeral.

As the last instrumental part of the songs starts to fade, Dan nears the microphone and, for the last time, whispers.

“Good Morning. Goodbye”