Different Frequencies by Scott Levy
Eddie got through the break without breaking down. Barely.
“For eight years, I have been with you, trying to make each week night less lonely. Music has always united us. The marketplace now divides us. The owners have stated that changing trends go against what we do. We are told that listeners have new places to take their ears. Radio, the medium I have devoted my life to, is disappearing. I say this with great sadness. Starting tomorrow morning, our signal will go silent. Just know that it has been an honor and a pleasure
to share my voice with you. Farewell, loyal listeners. This is Eddie Basko, signing off.”
The final record of his career commenced its spin. It was, appropriately enough, a blues song.
#
Six stations, six cities, twenty years—these were the numbers summing up Eddie’s life as a d.j. He now added a new digit to the list: Zero. This summed up his existing job prospects.
With no place to go, and plenty of time to get there, he took a walk through the park. The sunny weather was at odds with his mood. His goal was to be affected by the atmospheric shine. This was achieved, but it in the opposite desired direction. Eddie’s thoughts darkened in direct
proportion to the brightness of the sky.
The park was particularly crowded, the pleasant climate drawing a wide array of people. The sounds they made were the typical background noises to be found in such a relaxed environment, which suited him. When contemplating a future that felt to be devoid of options, it was best to not be distracted by sound. Given the recent silencing of his career, this seemed fitting.
Then his ears were attacked by shattering volume.
“NO, HONEY! YOU MUST BEHAVE! IT’S ALWAYS IMPORTANT TO BEHAVE! YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR FATHER WOULD SAY!”
He turned in the direction of the aural assault. A woman was on her knees speaking to a child of no more than five years old. Despite the overwhelming number of decibels ringing in his head, the young mother’s posture belied the sort of tension usually associated with a scream. Her mouth was barely open, as if to produce a whisper.
Eddie found this disparity to be so disorienting it took him a moment to notice the woman’s black eye.
Before he had the chance to reflect on this, another voice blasted into his head.
“SORRY IF MY SKIN COLOR TERRIFIES YOU, MAN! SITTING IN THE PARK MINDIN’ MY OWN BUSINESS DOESN’T MAKE ME A MUGGER!”
Eddie looked toward the source of the sound. A slim young man, probably a teenager, sat on a bench, his head cast downward, his lips moving as if to form nothing louder than a mutter.
A middle aged man was quickly walking past the youth, his head intermittently turned in the young man’s direction.
‘I’M NOT A WHORE, DAD! THE GUY WHO DID THIS LIED, THEN HE LEFT ME ALONE TO DEAL WITH IT!”
Eddie saw a pregnant woman on her phone. Once again, her physicality suggested someone speaking quietly.
The voices, complete with unbearable volume, continued to come at him with such force, he started to believe he would not make it out of the park alive.
“I’M HUNGRY AND HOMELESS! ANY AMOUNT WOULD BE APPRECIATED!”
The man sitting on the ground before him, dressed in layers of clothing despite the warm weather, was barely moving his lips. Desperate to quiet the cacophony, Eddie reached into his wallet and gave him a five dollar bill.
“Thank you very much, sir.” The response arrived at a normal level.
After inviting him to join him at a diner, Eddie’s treat, the recently retired disc jockey told the homeless man to keep the five bucks.
As they were exited the park, the high intensity volume of human sound abated.
#
In the restaurant, he learned that the man’s name was Arnold Watson, and that he was once a claims adjuster for a large insurance company.
“Once I started hearing voices, it all started to go downhill,” Arnold explained. “I got sicker, lost my job, family, and home. I’m still plagued. It helps when I can get my meds. But that’s pretty hit and miss. Sometimes the best I can do is panhandle.”
Arnold’s story was often tough to hear, but Eddie continued to listen.
#
That evening, at home alone, Eddie postponed thinking about his next career move. He still loved music. He would always love music. He decided to put on a vinyl record. Eddie preferred the analogue recording to the more sterile, digital method that had long since become the industry standard. He favored the imperfections and the feeling of presence. He liked having the impression of being in the room where it was being recorded. Much like his conversation with Arnold Watson, pain and truth came through more readily when stripped of polish and pretense.
He placed the flat, black disc on the turntable and closed his eyes as the tune played. It was, appropriately enough, a blues song.