Box Nine (47 page)

He fires the rubber ball at her. She doesn't stop, doesn't break her stride. She punches her right arm upward, all confidence, and rips the ball out of its trajectory.

Wayne's voice surges upward in pitch and volume. “She's got him, she's nailed him, she's put the game away. The crowd goes insane …” He cuts into the garbled hiss of a capacity mob pumped up on immediate victory and does a solo version of the Wave.

“You missed your calling,” she says, moving up next to him, keeping an eye on the histrionics in the broadcast booth.

“The Voice of Baseball?”

“Terrorist. You've got that kind of ego.”

“And to think I was going to spring for the number four at Tiananmen Takeout.”

“Uh-uh. No more midnight buffets, Wayne. I'm turning into Ms. MSG.”

“Microphone's Saving Grace.”

“Stop being funny. What's the story with Schultzie and Klink?”

“Uh-oh, I guess someone didn't have the station tuned in on the drive to work.”

“I can't listen to Ray anymore. Throws my whole mood. Ruins my show.”

“You used to be amused and now you're just disgusted.”

“Yeah, something like that. We've been hit again?”

““They're still at it. We're still off the air.”

“For Christ sake, Wayne, I'm on in twenty minutes.”

“That's what I told them. Nothing to worry about.”

“There's nothing you can do?”

“These guys get better every day. I'm a hack compared to some of them.”

“You tried everything?”

“All I know is it's coming from the east side.”

“Vinnie's not going to make it.”

“You should have been here when Federman called.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I told Vinnie. I said, ‘Vinnie, we'll be clear by ten. Ronnie's on at ten and she's their goddess.'”

“You charmer. Here we go, I'm blushing.”

“What?
Es verdad
, darling. They've hit every shift at the station, at least twice, except for ten-to-two. The Ronnie shift. Sweetheart of the subset.”

“Seriously, every shift?”

“They've hit Ray six times this month. Jesus, do they hate Ray.”

“So they've got taste on top of brains.”

“Speaking of taste, old pal …”

“Honest to God, Wayne, I can't do Chinese tonight. Maybe nachos, later on. Did you fix the microwave?”

“I'm not talking Velveeta here, you know. I'm feeling pretty worn down tonight. Doing a lot of overtime. This could be a long night for your favorite tech-man.”

“Mr. Coffee broken?”

“Studio coffee? On my stomach?”

“Jesus, you're a leech. Why don't you ever bring the booze?”

“C'mon. You're the big breadwinner around here. What do you say?”

“I say let's see if we get our signal back up—”

“Guaranteed, fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, well, you talk to me then.”

“So you're saying it's conditional? Your generosity to a friend is conditional? This is an either/or thing?”

Ronnie gives him a tight smile, throws the rubber ball into the air over his head, and starts to walk toward the studio door. Ray is breaking things, snapping pencils in two as she enters the broadcast booth. Vinnie has fallen into a silent depression. This always happens after a call from Mr. Federman.

“So, Raymie,” she says, dumping her knapsack onto the board, “the whole city shut you off tonight. What the hell did you say?”

Ray takes a breath and sits back in his chair, puts on his low, in-control voice. “That's right, Wilcox, push some buttons. Brilliant move. Annoy me some more.”

She squints down at him, moves over to the-lump-called-Vinnie, and starts to massage his shoulders. “Relax, Raymond. Pull yourself together. Your status as a professional is on the line here.”

“Make some jokes, girl—”

“That's bitch-goddess to you, Ray.”

“—be funny, be a wise-ass.”

“That's what they pay me for, remember?”

“Shock-jock shrink with the whore's mouth.”

“It's a weird world, Ray. You have to know your market. There're a lot more lovesick depressives out there than paranoid Nazis. That's what I try to tell Federman over lunch. ‘
That's
the reason for Raymond's numbers, Mr. F.' So far he buys it.”

Ray loses his grip, goes for the bait like a dim trout. “You want to throw the numbers at me, you little bitch, you want to start in?”

“People,” Vinnie manages to say.

“Love to start in, Ray. I'm amazed these east-siders could jam your show. No one else seems to know it exists.”

“My freaking numbers would be fine if I had a little consistency, if I weren't off the freaking air twice a week because some little delinquents are allowed—”

“Here we go, here it is. We've got to keep the little bastards out of the Radio Shacks, right? That's the answer, right?”

“Listen, the next time you're out with Federman, if you've ever been out with Federman—”

“Twice a week, Ray, just like these interruptions.”

He's boiling over. He knocks a metal clipboard to the floor. “You tell Federman, the son of a bitch, that maybe the problem with the ratings book is because he's screwed with the station's whole identity. We're freaking schizophrenic. We're confusing the goddamn audience. He lines up my political reportage—”

“Political reportage,” she repeats in a deep and put-on voice. “C'mon, Raymie, you're a reactionary hack with a good voice. You're Morton Downey with a head injury.”

“Followed by your bedroom filth, followed by the satanist crap from that fairy with the earring—”

“His name's Sonny, Ray. He told me he loves your show.”

“Followed by that moronic excuse for humor during commute time. Collect call to the Vatican. There's something original.”

“Well, we can't all book acclaimed Holocaust revisionists, Ray.”

“Did you even listen to that show?”

“Sorry, Ray. I was eating sushi in Little Asia. With Federman.”

“Bullshit you were with Federman.”

“Whatever you say, Ray. Vinnie, pal, you okay?”

“I don't know why they're singling us out,” Vinnie says. He's dressed in a navy polyester suit that's too big in some places and too small in others.

“They don't single us out,” Ronnie says. “They're hitting other stations.”

“They're hitting us the most,” Vinnie whines.

Ray gets up and walks out of the booth. Ronnie slides into his chair and says, “We're all-talk. We're a better target. For Christ sake, Vinnie, some of the metal music stations wouldn't even know they were being jammed.”

“I wish you wouldn't go after Ray like that.”

“Aw, Mom, he hit me first.”

“Do you really have lunch with Federman?”

“Vinnie, you wouldn't believe it. Man's got an appetite that won't quit.”

“You're not making my night any easier, Ronnie.”

“Sorry, Vin. Get on the floor and I'll change everything.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Give me a break, Vinnie. They write me a check every week 'cause I do that.”

“Federman called. He was all over me.”

“This isn't your fault.”

“He called me incompetent.”

“He likes to yell. He thinks that's the thing to do. He's basically a very insecure man.”

“He said he was calling the FCC and Mayor Welby.”

“Welby won't take his call.”

“I just can't believe they can't track these kids.”

“Who says they're kids?”

“I don't know. I don't know why I called them kids.”

The red rubber ball comes flying through the air over their heads, smashes against the plate-glass window without breaking it, and bounces once, down onto the board and then out into the hallway. It's accompanied by Ray letting out a throat-rupturing scream. “You leave your goddamn toys at home.”

Ronnie shakes her head and pulls her chair up to the board. She turns up the in-booth volume and Vinnie makes a wincing sound. The speakers give out a second of high-pitch squeal, stabilize, and then reveal a man's voice, this deep, smooth, 4
A.M.
voice:

Ouch, sorry about that. Brother John is asleep at the dials. And it looks like it's almost time for the beauty of the band-spread, the Cassandra of coitus, the sweet sister of all serial subcasters, our Ms. Ronnie. Kick this engine over, driver, the O'Zebedee Brothers best be mobile before those anal Fed-men follow our frequency. To Raymond, the fascist in short pants, don't bother to thank us for these little vacations. Till next time, friends, remember, our mission is transmission. Jam high and jam wide.

The booth fills up with white noise and Ray rushes in and goes for the headphones. Ronnie grabs them first and slides them around her neck saying, “Sorry, Ray, it's ten o'clock. I'm on the air.”

… What you're telling me is that you need some certainty that she's fulfilled.

I just wish there was some signal, some way to know for sure. Women don't have to worry—

We're about to argue, darling.

No, I don't mean—

I'm fairly certain I know just what you mean.

Don't be like that, Ronnie, don't—

Listen. Take a second here and listen. I'm about to do you a favor. I'm about to share something with you. Certainty is the enemy of sensual ecstasy. Say that to yourself. I'll repeat it for you. Certainty is the enemy of sensual ecstasy. Our pleasure always derives from our plunge into the unknown, the risk, the daring. The excitement comes from
not
knowing how far things can go, what levels of experience might be reached, the possibility, each and every time, that some ceiling might be broken through, that we might just get beyond known sensation, surpass anything our imagination has come up with.

You're saying doubt is good?

Not doubt. Listen to me. Uncertainty. Risk. Unknown territory. Unrevealed wisdom. Are you listening to me?

Yeah, yes. Yes.

But you can't see me. There's a good chance you don't even know what I look like. That's the beauty of this medium. One of the few that can still retain mystery. Mystery. That's an enticing word. I love that word. I don't know who you are or where you are or what you look like. You don't know anything about me beyond the sound of my voice. Are you lying in a bed right now?

I'm in the kitchen.

You shouldn't have told me. Turn off the lights. Get down on the floor.

Down on the floor?

Just stop talking. Just listen to me. Give up on this need to be certain of everything, looking for hidden signals everywhere.

Okay, I'm on the—

Knock it off. I mean it. Stop telling me. Do you know what I look like? Have you ever seen a picture?

I don't—

Answer me.

No. I don't know what you look like.

All right, then. Now, you just try to keep quiet for a second. It's been a different night for me. My engineer went home sick. Normally he's my partner here. He's a tremendous help to me. But tonight I'm left all alone here in the studio. But that's all right. I can easily adjust. The animal that survives is the one that can adapt. You have to always remember that. So it's a different night, an unknown. So maybe that accounts for what I've done.

What you've done …

Quiet. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen our studios or been down here, but our broadcast booth is located behind a great big picture window that looks out on the East Corridor of the mall. I guess the idea is that shoppers can come by and watch the announcers broadcast, see how radio works. Personally, I think this is a mistake. I think you're taking something away from the people rather than giving something. You're removing the image in their heads, the faces and bodies they've hung on these floating voices. I think it's a mistake. But I've adapted. My particular show is on after the mall closes up. So the only audience I have is an occasional security guard and his dog as they walk their patrol. The guard might stop for a second. He might stare at me a little absentmindedly, scratching the dog's ear as it hangs close to his leg. Then he'll nod and move on. This is fine with me. I'm really more or less ambivalent about his presence. I'm normally too tuned into the caller. I'm in the loop of the call, you know. I'm in the process, building something, letting one word lead to the next. Pulling the anonymous voice out of itself and splattering it out over fifty thousand watts to all the unseen ears listening in six states. That's what my engineer and I do here. We create little happenings. We construct new environments, on the spot, instantaneously, no blueprints, no plans, no permits. But my engineer is out sick tonight. So I'm alone here in the studio. And it's a peaceful place. Everyone should have this serene kind of place. The lights are dim, easy on the eyes. The booth is soundproof so there're no harsh noises or distractions. And it's warm. Actually, too warm. I began to find it uncomfortable after a while. Do you know what I did, caller? Don't answer. Keep still. First I removed my blazer. I hung it on the back of my chair. And I felt a little better: I kicked off my shoes, let my feet out of the vise, okay? And then I just kept going with it. It felt wonderful and I kept going. I unbuttoned my blouse, and folded it and put it on the floor next to my chair. And I pulled my camisole over my head and let it fall on top of my blouse. And then I just pulled down the zipper of my skirt, lifted out of the seat a little, and slid it off down my legs. And I ended up naked, alone here in the broadcast booth, taking calls, and nobody knowing, until now, what was happening. And then, you'll love this part, caller—don't say a word—I was putting on a public service announcement, about fifteen minutes back, remember, the Emergency Systems Test? And I looked up from the board, and there was Mr. Security Guard and his shepherd, right outside the booth, staring in the window at me, mouth just hanging open slightly. I burst out laughing and I waved, and after a second, he just went on his way, went on to the rest of his checkpoints and all—