On Air

Story by Anthony; Illustration by Game Master Virtuoso

Zachary was sure he was being followed. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his palms grow clammy and cold. His footsteps faltered on the uneven pavement as his legs yearned to widen their strike, to pump beneath him and send him hurtling down the deserted street towards the next streetlight. Zachary’s heart pounded like a wild beast trapped under his sweat-dampened Nevermind t-shirt and denim jacket, deafening him to the footsteps his subconscious was screaming were just behind him, ready to sprint towards him and pounce as soon as he turned around and acknowledged its presence. With winter’s chill already numbing his fingers and toes, Zachary knew he’d be easy prey unless he ran now, right now, right this instant just go just run right now go — 

Zachary was slightly more sure that his brain was sleep-deprived and full of shit. It was early morning in Alexandria, and it was just like every time he’d left his overnight shift at WRXL 102.1 FM. At five o’clock in winter, the sun was still far below the horizon, wasting its warmth and reassuring light somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. Zachary knew that his irrational fears were caused by the flickering street lights sending dark shadows scurrying across brick facades and darting down garbage-filled alleyways, nothing more. Normally, the peaceful night air served to quiet the last echoing traces of grunge and alternative rock in his ears. Normally, the half an hour walk home soothed the adrenaline rushing in his system from spending the past six hours yucking it up with his long-time friend and co-host Benjamin Meyer.

“That was yours truly, DJ Ben Jammin’, spinning you up some Pearl Jam tonight with their single ‘Spin the Black Circle’ from their latest album Vitology released by Black Epic Records. I know that Eddie Vedder on vocals and Stone Gossard on guitar can always wake me up from a late night slump at, wait, what time is it now?”

“It’s two forty seven in the AM, DJ Ben”

“Two forty seven in the AM and I’m feeling more awake now than I would from any espresso shot from one of those high falutin’ Italian coffee shops they keep opening for the yuppies across the Potomac. How are you feeling, DJ Zakz?”

Zachary was feeling like it might take the entirety of Pearl Jam’s touring company, including grips and security team, to keep him from collapsing on the floor in exhaustion. This was showbiz, however, and he had upwards of dozens of listeners who relied on him to keep them awake through their long night shifts. Zachary forced his eyes open despite the sandpaper coating his eyelids and plastered a smile on his face. The listeners could always hear the smile.

“I’m feeling like we’ve got a great couple hours ahead of us full of the hottest grunge rock this humble WRXL 102.1 FM has to offer our fine listeners. We’ve got some bills to pay to keep the lights on in the station, but after that we’ll be taking callers. Be sure to dial into 702-804-1021 for any requests and to shoot the shit with us this brisk November morning. We’ll be back after a word from our sponsors, including Ameriquest Mortgage. Ameriquest Mortgage! Worried about paying for a home in beautiful Alexandria? You can’t afford to turn that dial.”

Zachary waited for the red on-air light to dim under its dusty plastic cover before burying his head in his hands and groaning. Benjamin patted his shoulder sympathetically. 

“Rough night?” Benjamin asked as Zachary watched him head towards the break room. Zachary rubbed the sand out of one eye. “Did you get up too early for another date with that chick from the baseball game? Sarah, was it?”

“Nothing that exciting. Nah, just slept like shit.”

“One of those nights?” 

“Yeah.” The whirr of the ancient Kwik Kafe trickled from the breakroom into the radio station, and Zachary felt his shoulders loosen in expectation of a caffeinated relief. A brief, tired smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he remembered hauling that instant coffee machine in the middle of the night with his college friends out of the abandoned Motel 6 and up three flights of stairs to their shitty apartment. After their friend group at the UVA radio station all went their separate ways, Zachary lugged it with him until it had found its final resting place at WRXL 102.1 FM. “It was a weird one, this time.” 

“Is it ever not a weird one?” 

“This one felt different. Abstract, but realler than reality.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Zachary recognized the forced casualness in the question. Benjamin always tried to play it cool, like it was normal for a friend to have debilitating nightmares for years. Zachary appreciated that. They’d been roommates in college, and Benjamin had reacted to his new roommate gibbering and shrieking in bed by hoisting him out of his sweat-soaked, tangled sheets and moving him to the couch. Night after night, he had brewed them both a coffee or hot chocolate or tea, and held Zachary on the couch while he shivered through the adrenaline rush. He actually listened when Zachary spilled out his visions in incoherent, shaky breaths. Zachary knew that Benjamin cared deeply about him and had prayed for the nightmares to lessen their grip on Zachary.

Zachary also knew that these nightmares, and the listeners that called in every time he retold one, might be the only thing that kept the two of them employed full time at WRXL. They had better caller engagement on those nights than practically any day-time talk show on their station. Zachary heard Benjamin hold his breath as he handed the styrofoam cup of coffee and dissolving powdered creamer in front of Zachary’s bowed head.

“Sure. But I can tell you on air.”

Zachary pretended that he didn’t hear Benjamin’s shaky exhale of relief as the warning buzzer sounded a ten second return to the program. Zachary put his headphones back on and unwillingly learned how growing businesses could take thousands of more calls per day with AT&T QVC routing their telephone lines through Texas. 

“And we’re back on WRXL 102.1 FM with myself, DJ Zakz, and your friendly neighborhood DJ Ben Jammin’ ready to take your calls. Caller #3, you’re live on the air.”

Static filled Zachary’s headphones as he opened the line on the soundboard. He’d always liked the number three. You could end a number like that with a smile. The listeners could always hear the smile.

“Caller 3? Ready to join us live on air? Need another Pearl Jam song to wake you up? We’ve got plenty more on the —”

“Zachariah….” the voice hissed. It was a deep, low whisper. It left a thrumming in Zachary’s skull like when the soundboard operator messed up mixing a Nine Inch Nails song and the bass sent them all reeling and clutching their headphones. “Zachariah….”

“This is he, my bass-boosted listener. You know, I think you’ve got a voice for radio if you ever want to stop by the station during HR’s waking hours. How can we help you, friend?” 

“The night’s teeth draw close, Zachariah of the Sight.” The caller drew in a breath. It reminded Zachary of one of those breathing machines on late night infomercials for sleep apnea. Like the caller would have never gasped for breath until the machine forced oxygen down its throat. “Enjoy the sun, Zachariah, while you can. The night shall not wait for long.”

The radio station was silent but for the static buzzing from the phone line. Zachary heard his own breathing, heavy and thick, within his headphones. He slammed a palm down on the end call button.

“Well, caller #3, if I was in danger of sleeping on the job during the next few hours, I sure as hell am wide awake now! Thank you, dear listener, for ensuring that WRXL 102.1 FM gets all their money's worth out of DJs Zakz and Ben Jammin’.” Zachary took a moment to collect himself and think. How could he spin this disaster of a call to all the bored janitors and hotel staff and night nurses tuning in? Zachary smiled as the gears in his caffeinated brain clicked into place. 

“Listeners? There’s a new contest starting now at the station. If you can scare the crap out of me better than that caller by the end of the week, I’ll buy you a drink at Bullfeathers Bar on one of my off days, which our dear listeners should know by now are Sundays and Wednesdays. Until then, let’s honor caller #3’s request to enjoy the sun at three in the goddamn morning by listening to ‘Black Hole Sun’ from Soundgarden on their latest record Superunknown released by A&M Records.”

Zachary let out a deliberate huff of air that fogged up his vision a moment before he stepped through the exhaled cloud. He shouldn’t let callers like that get to him. Almost a decade in late night radio and he’d had his fair share of freaky callers. That was the hazard of the job — eventually you’d end up as the poorly paid therapist for drunks yelling about their exes, nascent skinheads blaming two Jewish co-hosts gabbing about grunge rock for their lack of a life, and lonely old men who’d either cry or jerk off or both into their phone set. 

People like that, they’d listen to the radio for hours. Zachary and Benjamin might be the only people they’d hear talking to them all day. Zachary tried to take that responsibility seriously. If no one listened to them, who would? Keeping all those emotions and fears trapped inside wasn’t healthy. They’d either implode with grief and rage or explode and take out a city block. Zachary and Benjamin’s words, whether they were advising or sarcastic or just sympathetic, might be the push they need to get back off that ledge. Zachary tried not to wonder who he’d be if Benjamin hadn’t listened to his dreams. 

Zachary loved his parents and sister, and he knew that they loved him. Esther and Norman were hardworking, respectable folk. His grandparents had fled the Russian Civil War and settled in Virginia after passing through Ellis Island. His parents had grown up during the Great Depression and were teenagers during World War II. They’d lived through actual, hard shit. In contrast, Zachary just had to play pretend that stop drop and roll would prevent a nuclear bomb from melting his skin from his bones. How could he make them understand that his nightmares left him unable to sleep right? That sleeping during the day was the only way to quiet his fears? That any time he’d spend a night in another’s arms, he’d wake up with visions of their death, whether in a year from a car crash or in fifty from dementia? Frieda had tried to understand and help him during their childhood, but his sister had her own life now, and he couldn’t burden her with those nightmares. 

For his parents, Frieda, and everyone else, he pretended like everything was fine. Like this night time DJ/talk host gig was just a stepping stone on his way to journalistic greatness. His friends Albert and Bobby and Rebecca from the college radio station - they all had lives and families now. They didn’t need to worry about Zachary’s sanity, dreaming dreams that he saw echoed in the news weeks or months or years later. Zachary knew that even Benjamin, for all of his faith in Zachary, wanted to believe that these dreams were just the product of an overactive imagination. That there was nothing prophetic or mystical about his dreams. 

His listeners, however, ate that shit up.

“That was ‘Zombie’ by the Cranberries off their second studio album No Need to Argue released by Island Records. Hopefully you’re feeling a little less like a zombie after that single during your long night shift. I know I’m feeling quite introspective and far from sleep.” Zachary nodded to Benjamin and jerked his head towards the break room. Zachary made the sign of the cross, which Benjamin knew was their tongue-in-cheek signal for tea. “In a moment, we’re going to go pay for all this terrible coffee I’m drinking to stay awake, but when we get back, DJ Prophet shall return with a story he’d like to share. A vision has crawled its way into the skull of a man who’d really prefer to have a good night’s sleep instead. The universe has reached out from the great beyond to share a truth with old DJ Prophet, and he needs the help of his faithful Zellots to decipher it.”

Zachary could practically hear his listeners holding their breath as he flipped to commercial. Across malls and factory floors and delivery trucks, his listeners hung in suspense as his station sold them new appliances or mortgages or investment funds - something very few of them could ever afford, but the advertisers paid for them to listen and not one of them would turn the dial and risk missing one of the so-called prophecies. Zachary’s parents had once hired a therapist to sit for a full hour every week for months to hear him cry about the terrible things he saw, and all he got was an anti-anxiety drug that left him tired and nauesous and still full of dreams. Now, dozens of people invested their precious time and energy into the bullshit his brain cooked up every week or so, and Zachary got paid to do it. Zachary took the tea from Benjamin with a grateful smile and let the warm, herbal air waft up from the styrofoam cup and relax him. He took a deep breath as the on-air light flickered to life.

“The sky was dark, but it glowed with a strange black light that illuminated the vast and cold desert around me. Before me, a great pillar of sand stretched upwards, and within it, or perhaps a part of it, an old man reached his hand towards the East. As I turned in the direction he pointed, I saw a cornfield rise up, and at its center lay an ancient temple, soaked in blood. All at once, and yet without a sense of motion, I found myself in front of the steps. Stumbling from the temple and onto the steps was an old man with white hair and a too-big forehead - looked like one of those old-timey US presidents. He froze as if he were a statue, and from his jaw to his waist he cracked in two. From his crumbling form, a naked woman crawled out, wet with blood and water, cradling in her arms a severed head as if it were a babe.

“As she stumbled away from the temple, the cornfields around me began to change. To the left, they froze into towering fields of ice. To the right, a great pillar of fire raged as pandas and giraffes fled the inferno. As I turned to watch them go, the fire and ice encircled me to meet in a great and terrible sewer pit, mixing into mud and wet ash. A grotesquely large white egg, ringed by a heavy golden crown, was falling into the sewer. I could not tell you, dear listeners, if it was the sucking mud and crown that drew that helpless egg below, or if arms rose from the deep and dragged it down. Beyond the sewer was Alexandria. Our Alexandria. It was safe from the raging fire, untouched by the freezing cold. And yet, above our sleeping city, towering far higher than it should, was the great George Washington Masonic National Monument. From the heart of the Monument glowed that same, strange light that illuminated the whole scene. And, listeners, for all the terrible things I had seen, it was that dark light emanating from the Monument that frightened me most of all.”

Zachary leaned back in his chair, careful not to push too far back and elicit a squeak. He allowed the silence to fill the station and to fill the ears of his listeners. He imagined them, standing stock still in the middle of a darkened hallway or idling at a traffic light, turning over every symbol and turn of phrase in their minds. He imagined them imagining his words, as the vision that had birthed itself wet and screaming in his brain now implanted itself within his listeners. He imagined them turning slowly north as the Monument thrummed like a beating heart at the center of the world. Or perhaps they turned away, keeping their heads down at their tasks, ignoring the shadow that fell across their shaking hands. Zachary took a sip of his cooling tea and leaned back into the microphone. 

“And now, dear Zellots, we’re ready to take your calls.”