RADIO

Written by Rob C. Bartlett

“That was Queen with ‘I Want to Break Free’. Coming up, we’ll have some Lynard Skynard and the Bay City Rollers.”

The studio was quiet at this time of night and Phil was bored. Hardly anyone listened to the graveyard show save a few desperate insomniacs and the occasional taxi driver; even then, podcasts were all the rage now. He let out a long, frustrated sigh and took off his headphones.  

What Phil didn’t know about radio wasn’t worth knowing. After 20 years in the industry, he’d witnessed all the tricks. Hell, he invented some of them. After a quick glance at the studio clock he flicked on the album version of Freebird and zipped up his faded leather jacket: seven minutes of guitar solo was ample time for a nicotine fix. Phil lowered his mic and slipped out; the neon red ‘On Air’ light flickered as the door nestled back into its tired hinges.

He whistled tunelessly as he walked down the corridor that led outside to the ‘smoke pit’, a weary old plastic shack which stood like a disused bus shelter. Marty Carlisle’s phone number was still scrawled on the inside wall, offering services that would make his mother blush. A fox rustled through the bins of the kebab shop across the road. Somehow, Phil thought as he sparked up, life had more to offer than this.

He took a drag and immediately felt calmer about things; Marty’s dealer had got this latest batch from the Netherlands, he had been told. He throat-farted a burp of middle-aged halitosis and cheap microwave dinners. Tranquility gently washed over him: he might play some Pink Floyd later. Phil took another drag and noticed there was a hole in his jeans.

Roach firmly extinguished and hidden in the sandbox, Phil made his way back indoors and detoured to the kitchen. The coffee machine’s warm glow greeted him like an old comrade, and he selected his usual ‘Hot Chocolate’. Great band, Phil chuckled, the old ones were the best. They always were.

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his Dad’s old hip flask. A little nip to keep the foreigners at bay, his father used to say. Daddy wasn’t much use in the war. Phil poured the whiskey into the hot chocolate and took a long, deep gulp. Maybe the studio had caught fire, he hoped.

It hadn’t. It lay just as he left it and the disappointment that he would have to keep himself alert and entertained for the next two hours sank in. He set his hot chocolate down on the mixing desk, which whirred like an old laptop struggling to keep up with modern life. Time to play the news, he remembered. Maybe the strike was off. Maybe there was a gas shortage. Maybe they’d finally found that poor girl’s killer.

“And now the news,” Phil interjected as Freebird faded out. He wondered if the fox had found anything in the bins, for he knew a few stories about that place.

An hour passed and nothing had changed except that the empty hot chocolate mug had been refilled, this time with more whiskey than cocoa. Nobody had called in, nobody had emailed or Tweeted and, Phil thought, nobody was even aware of his futile existence. “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall” blurted through his headphones. Phil let out a sad fart and his stomach gurgled.

That was it! He thought. Why hadn’t it come to him sooner? A pulse of excitement surged through his veins and he hadn’t felt this alive since his wife left all those years ago. He grinned at the thought and wondered if he would get away with it.

In a flash, with Pink Floyd still banging on about teachers and kids, Phil stood up. He lowered the mic stand and moved the slider up. ON AIR. He was shaking. The anticipation was almost too much. The train was pulling out of the station: he had to be quick. Now or never, he exhaled. Deep breath. Damn! His belt buckle was stuck! A-ha! Got you, little bastard! Phil whipped his jeans and boxer shorts down to his ankles and swivelled on a six-pence. Face down and backside pointed to the mic, his arse cheeks rippled as he unleashed a long, howling gut honk across the town and surrounding areas. The desk shook from his arse tremor and a putrid, hot stank filled the studio. He put one hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter; don’t give the game away! He grasped around for the mic slider and, as the song began to fade, he composed himself.

“That was Pink Floyd with Another Brick In The Wall. Up next, we’ll have some Fleetwood Mac.”

Phil sat back and his kicked his boots in time with the music. Nobody called in, nobody emailed or Tweeted and nobody knew of his futile existence. But Phil was bored no more.