It was Jerry’s fault. I lay in bed staring at the red numerals of my alarm clock, watching 12:15 become 12:16. Normally, I fall asleep quickly—the benefit of a clear conscience. Tonight was different. For the last hour I told myself I was teetering on the edge of sleep. If I would just remain still, nature would take its course and wing me to the land of slumber. I could lie to myself for only so long. I teetered as long as I was going to teeter. I wanted to blame the chocolate for keeping me awake, but I knew the truth. Jerry had kick-started my brain. Were there other similarities between Jose Lopez and Jim Fritz? I had been focusing on the differences: different age, ethnicity, social class, family relations, but there were some commonalities. Certainly dying by broken neck was the foremost.
I thought of the radio station that had still been playing when the police opened Lopez’s car. Why not? I was losing sleep already; a few more minutes wouldn’t matter. I reached for the clock radio and punched the sleep button. I set it for thirty minutes and hoped that the quiet conversation would lull me to sleep. Then I flipped a switch from FM to AM and dialed in . . . It took a moment for my sleep-deprived mind to recall Floyd’s words. They came to me. I set the dial at 620.
The radio immediately came to life, and I was met with a commercial. Another spot followed, then another, and I was beginning to wonder if I had remembered the wrong dial position. Perhaps I had stumbled onto the only all-commercial-all-the-time radio. Then came the voice—deep, smooth, like distant thunder. “The darkness has fallen, but the light of truth shines in each of us. You’re listening to Robby Hood, and we’ll be back to stretch your minds after this.” Another set of commercials oozed from the speakers. I considered switching off the radio and picking up a book. I was good at falling asleep with a book in my hand, but I persisted.
After a series of thirty-second pitches for gold investments, human-growth hormones, solar-powered radios, and vitamins from the sea, Robby Hood returned to the air on the heels of a New Age– sounding instrumental.
“Welcome back, this is Robby Hood, your guide into the night and into the places the timid dare not go. This is open-call night so get on the phone and make your opinion known, share an experience, ask a question.” He gave an 800 number. “Tomorrow we will have mind-control expert Daniel Pat with us and you will be amazed at what the government—your government—has been up to now. It has to do with the coffee you drink. So be careful the next time you order a double latte. More about that tomorrow. Now let’s hear from you.”
At least he didn’t pick on hot chocolate. There was the briefest pause, then “You are on the air with Robby Hood, who’s this?”
“Um, Robby?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Are we on the air?”
I was bone tired, but I laughed. Maybe this was the entertainment value of the show, listening to confused people call in.
“Yeah,” Robby said, “that’s what I meant when I said, ‘You’re on the air with Robby Hood.’”
“Oh . . . good . . . I’ve . . . I’ve been trying to get on for a long . . . time—”
“Turn off your radio, friend,” Robby said.
He sounded tired. I imagine he said that a lot.
“What?”
“Turn-your-radio-off. There’s a ten-second delay.”
“Oh, okay.”
I heard the caller set the phone down. The book I was contemplating was looking better.
“Okay, folks,” Robby said. “Let’s cover the ground rules again. When you call, turn your radio down—better yet, just turn it off. I know it’s fun to hear yourself, but you’ll go nuts trying to talk and then hearing the same words coming at you ten seconds later. So please, squelch them radios.”
Squelch?
“I’m back. Sorry.” The caller was male, sounded under thirty and a little confused.
“You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. Tell me your first name—no last name.”
“My name is Bob Rec—”
The radio went silent for a few seconds, then Robby was back on. “That’s it for him. I tried folks, I tried. We’ll let him consider the sins of his ways off the air. Let’s try this again.” Pause. “Hi, welcome to the Robby Hood show.”
“Let’s talk chemtrails, Robby. This is Ted in Santa Barbara.”
“You mean those contrails we see in the sky every few days.” Robby stressed contrail and followed it with a laugh. Apparently it was an inside joke. That was last night’s topic, pal.”
“I know. I tried to get through but the lines were all jammed. Gimme a break.”
“Okay, Ted, never let it be said that Robby Hood doesn’t love his listeners. What about them?”
“Well, I used to be a pilot. Flew for the navy in Nam in the late sixties, so I’ve logged a lot of airtime. I know contrails. I’ve left a few in my day, but what I saw out my window this morning weren’t no contrail. Contrails disappear soon after they’re laid down, but these babies hung around for hours.”
“That’s what they do. The question is, what are they?”
“Well, there are lots of theories,” Ted in Santa Barbara said. “You had a guest—”
“Edward T. Hart,” Robby interjected. He was nothing if not enthusiastic. “He was on last month. We may have him on again.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. He said that the chemtrails is the government’s way of inoculating the population against biological terrorist, but I think it’s something else.”
“Really? Like what?”
“You know the planes lay them down in a pattern, right? I think they’re used to calibrate spy satellites or maybe some kinda Star Wars weapon satellites like Reagan wanted when he was president.”
“Calibration?”
“Yeah, calibration. I mean, wouldn’t the optics or radar or whatever they use up there in space have to be calibrated from time to time? If a plane flies at a certain altitude, a known altitude, say 35,000 feet or something, and that information is fed into the satellite’s computer, then maybe it could compare an image of the ground with an image of the chemtrail and somehow adjust its cameras.”
“Hmm,” Robby said. “Are you sure you’re not some government operative pushing a little disinformation on ol’ Robby?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that. I’m just a truck driver these days.”
“Yeah, but I bet you have some history or some secrets you could share.”
The caller laughed. “Not me, Robby, I’m just an ordinary guy.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the ordinary people who scare me. Thanks for the call. Now remember, my merry men and women, you can visit my Web site and see some of the latest pictures of chemtrails, UFOs, and more. You can also order my latest book, To the Brink of San-ity: How to Remain Sane in an Insane World. Robby Hood’s mother will thank you. Now this.”
Music rose and ten seconds later another string of commercials rolled out of my radio. I wondered how many sponsors the man had. I rose from bed, walked downstairs, and poured myself a glass of milk. I looked out the window. The moon had moved along its path but it still bejeweled the rolling ocean. I stared at the sky. Chemtrails, eh? I chastised myself, then dragged my body and the glass of milk back to the bedroom. I arrived in time to hear the end of a conversation about what really went on in Iraq, followed by a woman who was certain JFK was still alive and living in the Florida everglades.
I sipped my milk and listened with greater fascination than I would have guessed. Some of the callers were whacky, but others seemed intelligent, educated, and well spoken. One thing was certain: the program wasn’t dull. Thirty minutes after I turned on the radio, the timer turned it off. I finished the last sip of my milk, lay down, pulled up the covers, then set the radio to play another half hour.
Finally, I drifted off. Sleep closed my ears.