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The God of Radio Ten days later, after the ferns and the pilasters come undone and give in to glove-handed men, after dust takes the shades and the light sockets cool, a great enduring messlessness settles itself in the halls. The absolute solidity of a thing full of empty—hinges unbelabored, walls without secrets, polished floors subdued with chalk—replaces all the buzzing and heat of uncertain charioteers, all the sweet whipping to speed of flights of waveform with vigor and calculant sympathy, and no sadness shows on the building’s face; only sleep. Mello Rixby comes to the mic: “Here we are, citizens. Here we are, writing on walls. Here we are pushing ourselves out through ourselves, here we are laughing and cheering and hoping that it all never ends. Ain’t nothing forever but forever, citizens. You just go on, sit back and breathe.” The song: Karma Toothbrush, “Do you do”, Mickenstick Records, 1965. The lunch: coffee, cigarettes. The business: as usual. The producer: Dan Persentayt. “Rix!” Persentayt peeks into the studio. “Rix, step back a second.” Mello Rixby rolls in his chair over to the crack in the door. “Talk, daddy.” “They got a deal in the works.” Persentayt keeps the door cracked. “What kind of deal?” “Whole nine.” The segment of visible brow makes a crinkle. Mello Rixby nods, slow. “Dig.” “Format too,” Persentayt says. “They insisted.” “Who they?” Mello puts his cigarette down. “Us they or them they?” “Them they,” says Persentayt. “KOPA.” “I don’t play no calypso.” “That was discussed.” Mello Rixby pushes the door open wide. The face of Dan Persentayt—his monastery jaw, his ditchy eyes and callow hairline—comes into the studio light. Mello turns full to him. “You in on this?” “In but out. I saw it happen but I can’t stop it. Forces of nature.” “Nature my ass. In on is in on. You ain’t fightin’.” “I tried, Rix. The bigwigs don’t listen to me.” "They gon’ have to,” Mello says. “I don’t play no damn calypso.” “I told you, Rix. That was discussed.” The producer points his eyes at the floor. Mello Rixby pinches his cigarette between his thumb and first finger and nods. “Dig,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to some things. Come by after the show.” Karma Toothbrush winds up for their big finish. Mello Rixby shuts the door. “Yes, yes, yes, citizens. Send a thank-you note to your grandmother, you know you need to. Ole Mello got to pay the bills for a second but you sit tight, don’t let them spots scare you straight to the store. More sound to keep your soles connected to the ground, right after these words.” ## A doctor in an airport bar. A pilot, drinking club soda. “I love when the schedule brings me home,” the pilot says. He sits halfway on his stool, one leg loose and bent and touching the floor. “No jocks like Mel Rixby anywhere else in the country.” The doctor, not willing to seem proud, looks away toward the stairs. “He’s a patient of mine, actually.” The doctor drinks scotch. He has a plane to catch. “I’ll be,” the pilot says. “What’s he look like?” “He wears a beard.” “I knew it!” A woman in an American hat walks down the concourse. “I took out his appendix,” the doctor says. The pilot’s eyes widen. “You bring it?” The airport does not bustle. The doctor’s attention finds its way back to the conversation and the doctor says, “No.” “I’d keep it on my mantle, too.” The pilot sips his fizzy water through a straw. “Imagine that,” he says. “Wait’ll I tell Iris I met a man who had Mel Rixby’s blood on his hands. She’ll forget her manners.” A loudspeaker crackles. Boarding call. “Oh, well,” the doctor says, “nice talking to you.” He collects his briefcase and positions himself to nod goodbye. “A’right, pal. You have a safe one. Tell Mel Rixby he’s got a fan in the sky.” “You have a safe one too,” the doctor says, moving away. The pilot pokes at the wedge of lime in his glass. “I’ll be,” he says, to himself as much as anyone. ## These men are institutions. They walk around with men’s names on their chests, other men’s names, young and dead men’s names, each man no less an unintentional construction than the agents of his architecture. These are company men. Stars. These men wear suits the way most men hold hammers. A black table sits in the middle of the room. Men sit around it like sawhorses. “It is a big market,” says Smith-Kline. “Untested,” says Reynolds. “Regardless,” says Chase. “The kids love to dance,” says Kellog. Sid Orsten, chief demographic analyst for Futura Properties. “The numbers are there.” He folds his hands in front of him. “People will respond.” “Well, as long as the numbers are there,” says Johnson. “We tend to follow the numbers,” says Johnson. “Why can’t we keep the format?” says Hasbro. “Isn’t the station doing well?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Mars, “too many variables. Besides, what’s important is the consumer dynamic. It’s a different ballgame out in the Pacific sector. How do we know they’ll be faithful to the numbers?” Sid Orsten steps back from his paper profit graph. “The numbers don’t lie,” he says. “Faith is not in question.” “As long as the numbers are there.” “We follow the numbers.” “Amen.” ## Mello Rixby comes to the mic: “Well, well, well, citizens, here we are, back again, coming to you through your radio to turn your gray skies blue and your troubles to taillights. Ten and two, drivers, ten and two.” The song: Blueberry Engine Room, “Looks Like Love (From Where I’m Sitting)”, Moon Balcony Records, 1965. The mood: halting. “You hear?” Chas Haley, Marketing. “We’re sold.” Linda Gunderson, Accounting, takes the first sip of her second cup of coffee. “Don’t josh me, Chas.” “Scout’s honor.” He chases steam from his own cup. “Came down the wire, buyer’s locked in. It’s all over but the shouting.” Linda wraps both hands around her mug. “Do we still have jobs?” “No telling. Probably they’ll bring in some mercenaries to thin things out.” “They could at least have warned us.” “It’s been no secret. I’ve got a couple résumés out floating around.” “Just in case, huh.” Chas shrugs and smiles. “You know me. Prepare for the worst.” Linda lets her posture slacken, droops a few degrees in her chair. “Come on, kid. We’re OK.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “No matter what.” Linda’s face, lily-eyed, turns up at him. Chas gives the shoulder a squeeze. “Besides, maybe it’s all a big wash. Just the brass making noise. You know? Nothing’s for certain as long as they still sweep the floors.” Linda rests her hand on top of his and turns to unfocus at her coffee. “We could move north,” she says. “I’ve got family in Port St. Lucas.” “Sure, kid.” “Open a bookshop or something. I’ve always liked the way books smell.” “I could get some tweed, some reading glasses. Go grey up top.” She returns the smile and has another sip. The coffee is already getting cold. ## And up and up and outward; up beyond the awnings and rain-guttered roofs; up past the smoke and the seagulls and songbirds; out beyond the oaks and orchards, the hills and the valley, the mesas and vegas (¡Hermanos de Dios, qué vegas terrestres! ¡Qué ciegas vegas, construidas encima de sepulturas y descansando meras pulgadas del cielo y el cielo!); out beyond the playas and the aguas, beyond the box-jawed sons of football heroes, beyond diurnal daughters of mothers and wives; out and out; beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond. Waves (radial, perpetual waves!) weave their tracks and sing to their shores, crashing, hushing, sinking back; singing! Waves arrive and roll forever after, backward up and outward, every one an ocean, a gasp, a drop, terminal forever after, up and up and out beyond. The waves don’t move but the waves don’t stop but the waves don’t stop so close so close so close to the ground to the clouds, to the clear bright dead to the clear bright dead bright air and the god behind it all, thinking, knowing that surely no man has come as close as close enough, no man of human brain in span of human ears, no man of human brain and woman born would dare to reach to touch the high invisible throne, the tony throne, the high invisible tony rolling throne. The god of radio, thinking, praying. Every one an ocean, terminal, every one forever after. Echo and echo amen. ## Mello Rixby comes to the mic: “Here we are, little women and boys, here we are in another all-wonderful love-loving after-twelve in the gateway to the golden galaxy. Don’t mean to make you smile, it just happens sometimes. Here’s one more drop of sunlight for your sacred skin.” The song: The Natts, “Melody Be My Girl,” Silver Lake Records, 1964. Outdoors: Tran’s Grocery, produce display, summer afternoon. “I hate this song.” A pit-stone lands in the gutter. Albert Tran pops another cherry into his mouth. Second sons in simple haircuts crowd the transistor. “Shut up, Albert.” “You love this song.” “I used to,” Albert wipes his hands on American bluejeans, “when I was a kid.” “You’re not so old.” “Yeah, Albert, you’re not so grown up.” “This is a good song.” Albert Tran hunches narrow shoulders, fills his pockets with fingers, hooks his thumbs in the loops for his belt. His teeth find the cherry and split the skin, cleave meat clear from the stone. “It’s a dumb song.” Chewing, chewing. “It’s a kid’s song.” “You’re full of it, Albert.” “Yeah.” Albert frees the pit with his pink tongue and spits it into the street. A car rolls by, reflecting light and faces that take on its color. “Oh yeah?” Albert leans into the cloud of boys, folds his top lip over his teeth. “Look at this.” Silence. They look. “Wow!” “Holy cow!” “Yeah,” Albert says, “it’s been growing for a couple days now.” One more cherry meets his teeth and Albert leans back against the fruit stand, chewing. “You’re lucky, Albert.” “Albert has a dirty lip, so what?” “That ain’t dirt!” “Sure it is, look. It’s just dirt.” Albert smirks. “You’ll catch up.” “It is kind of a dumb song, Albert.” “Yeah, gee whiz.” “What kind of stuff you like now, Albert?” Albert watches the car move forward from a stop sign and into the distance. “Oh, all kinds of stuff. Just not this stuff.” A pit-stone, glistening with bits of untaken fruit, lands in the gutter. “This stuff is kid stuff.” “Yeah.” “Kid stuff.” Little hands—hairless, greedy hands—troop into the cherry bin. Soon the street is filled with stones. ## Dan Persentayt, producer, takes the bottle from his desk drawer. Forces of nature, what can I do? It’s only a matter of time. The bottle unscrews, wets the producer’s hands. He rubs the tonic into his scalp. “All right, citizens.” The speaker on Persentayt’s desk. “Time again for Ole Mello to leave your eardrums to their own. You be what you know how to be, now. Don’t go fakin’ for fakin’s sake. Stay connected for the messages and don’t you forget, the world don’t owe you nothing and you owe the world your lives. Be grateful and multiply, citizens. Adios until the good sun spins.” Echo, and echo, and echo. Amen.
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