Rock 99 - Chapter 1
By H.G. Miller
- Graveyard -
The Radio DJ stared at the blinking light of his consol.
Somebody was calling.
They wanted to win a prize. God, he hated giving away prizes. Key chains,
t-shirts, concert tickets. Crap, crap and more crap.
Wasn't it bad enough he couldn't stand the music he played? He had to give away
merchandise that touted all of the dissonance with catchy clichés and vibrant
color patterns.
A deep breath, and he pushed the blinking button.
“Hello, you've reached Prozac nation.”
“Prozac nation! Ha, you're hilarious, man!” The teenage boy could hardly
contain his enthusiasm. “Did I win?”
“We're actually not running a contest right now.”
“But, I heard the Banshee Wiz Sticks song.”
Banshee Wiz Sticks. Jesus. Had he just played that? He couldn't even remember.
“The Banshees were the band of the day for yesterday, buddy. I'm afraid it's
three a.m. New day. New band to listen for.”
“Who? Who?” The kid really had no sense of humility. “I have to know. I need
those tickets!”
“You'll have to listen to Zap and Andy in the morning. They'll give out the new
band of the day at 7:15.”
Zap and Andy, those two no-talent hacks. How did they get a morning show? He
was toiling away with the creepers who couldn't hold down day jobs calling
every five minutes for tickets that would never be given away in the graveyard
timeslot.
“Dude, I can't get up that early. You hear me? Can not.”
Yeah, he heard him. Not much else to distract him. Nobody around this late.
Even the janitor had gone home. Keep the power down; the lights were on at
half. No music. No music? Shit.
He saw the other blinking light. The green one. The direct line. The boss…
“Sorry, about the tix, man. Better luck next time.”
He popped on the Slot 165 disc. Didn't bands use whole words for their names
anymore? Another deep breath. Time to kill another blinking light.
“Rock 99. If it was 100, you couldn't take it-“
“Can it, Bradley,” Mr. Watley's voice sounded as if he should have succumbed to
cancer ten years back and the voice box just refused to go. “What in the hell
am I listening to?”
“That's Slot 165, sir. They're on our 'Hot Shot at the Top' list.”
Though he had to be at least eighty years old by the staff estimates at the
station, Mr. Watley wasn't one to be unaware of what power-chord screaming
bands the head programmer was pushing. That was where the free lunches came
from.
“I'm not talking about now,” he told the DJ. “I'm talking five minutes ago.
What was that dead space after the Weezzy Sticklet, chicklets, whatever?”
Okay, so he didn't always get the names right.
“Something a little different, sir,” the DJ tried to reason with him. “Kind of
like a John Cage thing. You know, four minutes and thirty-three seconds of
silence?”
“I don't want to hear about your art school shit. Keep playing music or you
lose your job. Do you understand me, Brad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then.”
Mr. Watley didn't hang up immediately, and in the space of ten dead seconds of
conversation, the DJ pulled out the Slot 165 CD, started up a commercial for
affordable mattresses and prepared to run an advertisement for the very tickets
his previous caller had so desperately needed.
“Mr. Watley?” he finally ventured.
“Yeah?”
“Sir. Why are you awake right now, anyway?”
“I'd prefer you to keep out of my private affairs.”
“Yes, sir. One more thing, though.”
“What?”
“Brad quit last week. I'm Dale.”