By Melody Dunn
Alrighty, how should I start?
“From the start, I suppose. Maybe give the world your motive first.”
Motive? Hm …
Well, I have eight siblings. I haven’t seen seven of them in 13 years, after we all left home to strike out on our own and try a chance at life, love, and (in my little sister’s case) lexicography, the study of alphabets and words.
She sent me a letter recently from the East Coast university where she’s been working as a live-in maid while reading every book she can get her hands on:
Dear Jess,
Eloquence abounds! Per this occasion, I will possess a comprehensive establishment of an assemblage of appellations and vocables in the millions! Oodles of words! There are bijou instances to effectuate moil upon my extensive tome, of which I know your faith is incalculable. Best wishes and Tallyho!
Jasmine
Her “tome” is an epic, roughly 100 pages all written in meter and rhyme like the old books of ancient times. The reason the two of us kept in touch is because, of all nine of us, we two dreamed of becoming artists. Her poetry, and my passionate music. The main difference between us is that she’s studying at a university to improve her craft while I’m a sewer worker.
Although it was great to hear from her, this letter is presumably the “motive” for my … snap, that night.
I read it after arriving at my apartment after a long, hard day. Three of my coworkers—Herric, Brian, and Yukko—all apparently found lovers the night before after playing their music at this joint called the Swervin’ Club, so I had spent the entirety of a 14-hour workshift with pictures of new girlfriends shoved in my face and wondering how three tough old men in an out-of-tune “jazz” band managed to catch such lovely ladies!
Already defeated and weary, I came home to my sister’s letter, and let me tell you, it did not lift my spirits to hear from her. Her advancements in research (and extensive library of “vocables” as she calls them) drew anything sanguine out of my body. My mind had gone dark with depression, and I needed some evidence, some proof that life had more to it than what I’d been served.
“And that’s when you got the idea to break into the radio station?”
Well, yes, mostly. My first idea was that I would quit my job and strike out on my own to become a professional fiddler. I’ve been fiddling since I was born, copying and building upon the many songs I’ve heard over the radio. Ever heard of the old bluegrass group The Chicories? That band was my entire childhood from 10 and up. Inherited my grandad’s fiddle for Christmas and learned to play my favorite song of theirs, “Ol’ Marmot Mountain,” within a month. My parents hated that song so much because of that, and they still probably do to this day!
Anyways, back to the subject.
I’m not a lucky person. Never have been. Not in my genes, I suppose. I was staring out my window, right, and watching this big black cloud roll over the stars and Moon Man’s grin. There were a few people marching down the road like ants, so I watched them go along until I couldn’t see them anymore. And in the distance, I saw the blinking red light of the radio tower, flashing on and off and on and off. I pretended it was like one of the stars, and so I wished on it, the same way you’d wish on any star. I wished on a radio tower to mean something.
Then I had the idea to break in. I don’t know, I thought it was a premonition, like the tower itself, or maybe the universe, planted the idea in my mind. It chose me. After that, it was like opening a valve to let the stormwater flood out into the river again, ideas just gushing at me in this unrelenting force. I couldn’t dam them up or hold them back, so I kinda just … lost myself in the waves, going with them instead of against. Spent the rest of that night planning how to break in and fiddling like a madman. Caused a serious racket, enough to get one of my neighbors slamming a broom handle against his ceiling, shouting at me to pipe down. He’s a grumpy fellow. Though, he does make a delicious cassero—
“Sorry to interrupt, but visitor hours are about over.”
Ah, shoot. I’ll see you all tomorrow then, same time, same place.
—
“Shall we continue?”
Yes, sure thing. It was later that same night I broke into my work. By broke in, I mean I used my company-mandated crowbar to lift a manhole and crawl inside. So, not exactly breaking in, but I still wasn’t supposed to be down there after hours.
My limbs were stiff, hairs on end with anticipation and fear fiddling an allegro waltz on the strings of my nerves. I had hoped my handful of night shift experiences would make the sewers less terrifying, but I’ll tell you this, there was nothing I could’ve done to make that dank place cozy.
My buddy Joe once told me there was a ghost in the sewer that you only saw if you walked around them at night. A she-ghost, with blood-rust fangs and clawed bird feet for hands. Her poofy ball gown looked the same as steam coming off the water, so you could walk into the fog, get all wrapped up and cocooned in it and never be seen again. I didn’t believe him at the time, but I sure as heck did slinking through those sewers that night. Thankfully the water was rushing too fast for any real steam buildup, because if there was any steam at all I would’ve hightailed it outta there.
I also maybe got a bit lost. Despite working down there every day for the past half-dozen years, I couldn’t quite figure out what street I was under at a couple of points. Funny thing, my sister sent me a letter once about a book she was reading where the main character was real lost at sea and trying to find his way home to his family, but the god of the ocean hated him for some reason, so every which way he turned he’d face a new monster. She also told me about a star book she read, where Polynesian sailors mapped the whole sky and could figure out exactly where they were going and how long it would take to get there. I sent her a letter asking why that lost guy didn’t ask one of those sailors for help, not realizing they were completely separate stories. That letter gave her a good laugh.
Looking at the drains overhead, I couldn’t see the stars anyway, so using them to find my way wouldn’t be any help. Though, looking up drew my attention to another thing: the dirty yellow arrow pointing left that said “EAST LILYVIEW AVENUE,” meaning I wasn’t actually lost, and the manhole cover I needed was only a surface-world street block away.
It was around this point I started running. Couldn’t tell you why. Just shot down the path towards the manhole I needed, fiddle bumping against my back to a madman’s rhythm. They drill it into you when you work in the sewer to never run unless there’s a real emergency. It’s just never worth it. Doesn’t matter how light on your toes you are, or if you’re being chased by a bloodstained ghost, it’s not worth it.
But in my sideways brain at that moment, the entire world was at stake. And (who could’ve figured) I slipped and almost fell in the rushing water. I’d like to tell you there was something cartoonish or comical there, that I pinwheeled my arms around and did a full slapstick 360 spin before sliding along the floor like a figure skater, but nah. I just caught myself before belly flopping into the stormwater and started walking slow again after that.
By the time I pointed my flashlight up, I could already see the ladder I needed. A balloon swelled in my chest, but it wasn’t floating up yet. I hadn’t run into a single cop, another worker, a homeless man, or even a ghost. My plan so far (or whatever you could consider this) had gone along perfectly.
I wondered if I was some kind of opposite to that lost guy the ocean god hated. Maybe the universe, or at least some sewer god, was really holding out for me, wanted me to achieve this. There hadn’t been a single thing in my way.
Which was exactly why I was suspicious. Like I said yesterday, I’m not a lucky person, so this was real out of the ordinary for me. I grabbed the first damp rung of the ladder and wondered what kind of trap the universe had set out, like if I was going to pop the manhole lid and instead of being in the radio station basement, I would poke my head right into the local county jail.
But the world was at stake, ya know? So I climbed the ladder.
And that was the visitor hour bell, wasn’t it?
“Yeah. But actually, that’s perfect, because this is about the point we’d cut to commercial anyway.”
Aw, that’s some nifty timing then! I’ll see you lot tomorrow.
—
Alright, where was I?
So, I push the manhole cover up and I’m in the basement of the radio station. Real dark and dusty kind of a basement. I had this sudden fear that there’d be black mold down there, couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it was the smell.
It wasn’t really like a moldy smell or anything, just the ink-and-sugar odor of old film reels. But I got so worried about it I pulled my shirt up to cover my mouth and nose so I wouldn’t breathe it.
Actually, now that I think about it, does doing that actually protect against black mold?
“Uh, black mold isn’t really that dangerous. Unless you’re allergic to mold.”
Oh really? Well, that’s the cat’s pajamas! Working in the sewers, we used to pull our shirts up over our faces the moment someone pointed out the stuff.
Anyway, I pushed through the smell and went right to this creaking staircase that led upward to a red, metal door. When I walked up to that door, I had this sudden memory of being five or six and learning from my superstitious Uncle Stan that red doors were used to ward off spirits and stuff. So in my mind, which was already as paranoid as possible thinking there’d be a guard or alarm or something, then piled on the idea that if I went through the door there’d be some kind of malicious fairy-type spirit or something. Not one of those happy fairies either, but the old kind, the ones you needed to get rid of with spells and red doors.
I think I probably stood there, stiff as a board, hand on the brass knob, shirt over my nose, for a good minute or so before I remembered that fairies are children’s stories. That thought kicked my brain into high gear again, and I pushed right on through.
There wasn’t an alarm, or a guard, or anything. I stepped out into this long, dark hallway with doors on both sides. It was a pretty nice hallway too, red chairs, potted plants, and posters of bands and singers in cola-brown frames lined both walls. To my surprise, I spotted a poster for The Chicories, that old bluegrass group I loved as a kid. They weren’t the only ones though, there was Groove and the Songbirds, Ally Gro, The Loose Threads, The Mountain-Smoke Five, all bands that had inspired me and that I’d listened to my whole life, frozen in their smiles and dances. I wasn’t in the best mindset at the time, obviously, but seeing all of them reawakened my soul, and I got a fresh wave of hope for my plan.
I glanced both left and right down that hall. On the left was this big sign that read “Studio A” in the shape of an arrow. The right didn’t have a big arrow, but it did have a black-and-white list on the wall with “Master Control” at the top. I didn’t think much of that at first, so I started towards the massive Studio A, but then stopped and realized maybe it was the master control I needed. So I spun on my heel and tried to go that way, but changed my mind again, then again, not sure which way would be better. Thought the universe was tricking me again, as though I could only pick one option between them and if I chose wrong, there’d be a guard around the corner.
So then I told myself I needed to make a choice, and so I did, and ran on my tiptoes down the hall to the master control room.
I hope you know that I don’t know a thing about radios. How I thought I was going to be able to figure out the radio controls, I have no idea, and I realized this very quickly upon coming to the master control room.
I nearly gave up on my whole plan when I realized that. How was I actually supposed to work the radio to broadcast my music if I didn’t even know where the “start” button was? I felt like my whole body nearly crumbled to dust at that thought, and I smacked my forehead with a thwack so loud I thought I would have alerted the imaginary guards, so I immediately froze right after I did.
Though, in that thoughtless, frozen silence, I realized I could hear something nearby. A real familiar voice. Upon hearing it, I’m certain my soul left my body and hightailed it back home at Mach speed ‘cause this was it. They had caught me. No way I could get out of this one if someone had actually heard me in here.
But, as I stood listening, trying to figure out what was so familiar about it, I realized something more. That voice was singing, and there was a beat to it, a rhythm. Instruments were playing behind it, and I suddenly understood where I heard that song. It was actually “Ol’ Marmot Mountain,” the same song I’d learned on the fiddle so many years ago, playing gentle as a lamb nearby!
I left the control room and made my way towards the music instead, following my heart and tapping my toes to my childhood theme ‘til I came to Studio B, the place it was coming from. The ON AIR sign over the door was red as furnace fire, burning my eyes when I looked at it.
I turned the knob, my hand shaking like an oak leaf in November, and pushed in. Then I realized it was actually a pull door, so I pulled it open instead. And there, tall as me and twice as wide, was a record machine, spinning slowly and playing the song for a microphone hanging from the ceiling.
“We have to be done for the day; the guard’s at the door.”
Aw, what? Right before I get to the good part? Nah, nah, I’m kidding you, I wouldn’t want to work overtime either, and I should probably get to dinner now. There’s a certain chef serving tonight that I can’t miss having a chat with.
—
Okay, where was I?
“You’d just found the record player.”
Yes, I’d just found the record player, playing my childhood song, and the microphone it played into!
I realized that was most likely the song playing over the radio right at that moment, which was ironic to me. I’d tuned into this channel nearly every day for the past year and hadn’t heard this song ‘cause apparently, they were only playing it at two in the morning, when only the crazy people were awake.
Now if you thought I’d been having second thoughts about this entire excursion, you’d be right as a square’s corner. But when I saw that record player and mic, I wasn’t just having second thoughts. I was having third, fourth, fifth, all the way up to hundredth thoughts. None of this was worth this risk, suddenly. I was perfectly happy with my job, I loved to just play my fiddle for myself ‘cause I loved it, and I didn’t care what anyone else thought about that, so why was I even here? Was I just jealous of my workmates and their lovers? Jealous of my genius sister? What’s the point of jealousy anyway? It’s just like envy, and envy’s a sin, so doing this was a sin too (that was my grandma’s voice talking to me, she was a great deal more religious than I ever will be).
I didn’t really need to do this. I was happy. I just needed to be patient. I didn’t need to broadcast my music to the world because what did it really matter anyway? Making it this far was bad enough, right?
All the thoughts. Every thought, every guilt, every doubt, every assurance flooded me all at once, trying to save me from doing something that, quite frankly, was a really stupid idea.
But, well …
I kinda realized I was lost in the universe, right then. Floating through space. I was a speck on a bigger speck, barely a germ on a grain of sand on the coast of a continent. The moment that realization popped into my skull, I turned my back and almost closed the door again, ready to hang my head as I went back down into the sewer and home for the night.
But right before the door clicked and latched closed, I suddenly got mad. We’re ALL infinitesimally small, yeah? We’re all going to be forgotten one day! And yet, everything we do matters so much! Every time your coworker shows you a picture of his girlfriend, every time your sister sends you a letter about her studies, every time you spread rumors about ghosts, every damn time you write a song and never play it for anyone but yourself, you’re changing the universe a little bit more! I was going to play my music, because damn it—
—SLAM—
I’m so much more than this. I had to prove I was something more, anything more. I didn’t need to change the whole world, I just needed one person, some insomniac or someone cleaning up the bar after everyone’s headed home, to hear my music, hear me, know me, you know? That’s all I wanted. That’s all it meant.
“Is your hand okay?”
Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry, did I knock anyth—
“No, it’s all good. For the recording, that slam was Jess hitting the table.”
Yes, sorry there, I hope that didn’t mess with anything. I got pretty heated.
“You’re fine, it should be alright.”
Right. Okay. Anyway, my face got hot as a steam engine, I was so mad about it all. I stormed into Studio B and lifted the needle off the spinning black record, flicking it to the side and letting silence fall over the room like a wool comforter in the wintertime.
Then, taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the microphone and, well, you heard the record they played in the courtroom. ‘Hello Universe, my name is Jess J. Johnston, and this little ditty is something I composed. I call it “City Creeks.” Enjoy.’ Then I jumped right on into it. I couldn’t stop myself after that. I played that one through, filling the studio with the quick hip-swinging beat of that song ‘til the silence reigned again at the very end. Then I said near the same thing again, announcing my name and playing “Eleven Blues and a Purple” next, a slower and longer one I hadn’t quite perfected, but I didn’t mind the little hiccup I had in the middle. I went on and on after that, playing everything I had written myself for two hours straight, when the janitor came in and found me there. I didn’t see him, but he saw me through the door I’d left open and, understandably, he called the cops.
I was still lost in the universe though. I didn’t care a lick about him or the police when they showed up. They tried to talk to me to get me to stop before dragging me out of the room by force. I didn’t stop playing until they wretched my poor fiddle out of my hands. I barely remember the rest of that experience, but apparently I kept on singing at the top of my lungs. Finished the one I was on, then started hollering row row row your boat, trying my best to get back into Studio B to sing over the airwaves now.
“You don’t remember the police ride at all?”
I’m pretty sure I fell asleep for most of that ride, actually. Woke outside the station, they brought me to the county holding cell and I fell asleep again, on the bench this time. Exhaustion does real terrible things, you know? I do remember one of the officers telling me I gave them a good laugh ‘cause I was still singing in my sleep, even in the cell.
Then yeah, everyone knows the rest. I was in the news for the next two, three days, the kook that broke into 93.3, Kentucky’s most popular FM radio station, and started playing fiddle music around two in the morning. Almost wish I’d made a nickname for myself at the time over the waves, something catchy they could’ve called me instead of just Jess, but what could I do?
“You did get a lot of compliments, though.”
Yes, and that warmed my heart when I heard about it! The listeners said they thought I was just the next record on the machine, some new artist they hadn’t heard of. Mostly the taxi drivers and quieter nightlife folk, and that one bar owner who said he loved listening to it while he cleaned house for the night. But you know, breaking and entering and resisting arrest? I didn’t have a chance.
Though, eight months with parole has been a pretty good sentencing. I’ve done a lot of reading, mostly things my sister’s recommended to me, and the other ladies love it when I fiddle for them during free time. Especially Cadence, she’s getting out soon too. She’s a great cook, been picking up the chef job ‘cause no one else has wanted it for months now, but she says it helps her relax. She adores my fiddling, and I dunno … I might adore her cooking too. She makes a surprisingly delicious potato soup considering she’s working with prison ingredients!
Anyway, that’s the end for you. Will that be enough?
“Yep, that’s it for the story. Though, we were wondering if you’d like to play a few of your compositions for us? We’ll use them as background music to liven up the radio show, make it feel real.”
Oh, that’d be the bee’s knees! I’m glad we’re already in the music room, my fiddle’s right here. You need an introduction or anything?
“Sure, go for it.”
Alrighty!
Ahem.
Hello Universe, my name is Jess J. Johnston, and this little ditty is something new I composed here in prison. I call it “When You Wish upon a Radio Tower.” Enjoy.
