Ghost Radio (5 page)

It felt Joaquin's
fear. And it liked it. It also liked the new words it was learning: airplane, engine, iPod, helicopter, and Morse code. It liked the taste of these words. They possessed a crisp tang, as did the first moment of communion with Joaquin, which it cherished.

Although it could not see Joaquin, it felt him. It felt his confusion and his seeking heart. These feelings gave it sustenance and purpose.

When it knew Joaquin had received its message, these sensations intensified. In its vast somewhere, it reeled and spun with joy. It knew in another time, another place, it had felt this revelry before. It had marveled at accomplishment. It had spun and leaped in another shape, another form. But it pushed away such concepts, and plunged itself into the moment.

As it felt Joaquin receiving the words again, it drank in his fear; gobbled up every morsel. And once again it whirled and whirled, marveling in its supreme majesty.

Abruptly, this jubilation stopped.

Joaquin was gone.

It was alone. Alone? This too was a new word. But this one tasted sour. After swallowing the word, it felt empty inside.

Emptiness.

Another distasteful word. This further emptied it. It became so hollow it couldn't move, so it drifted down into the dark valleys of its someplace.

It felt dissipated. It wanted to give up.

Then a power coiled deep inside sprang open. Filling it with energy.
It couldn't immediately identify this new energy, but it welcomed and embraced it.

As it careened around its world, it remembered Joaquin's fear and the lovely taste. It wanted more. It needed more. Now it knew that no matter what happened, no matter what, it would find that fear and devour it.

Alondra shot out
of the elevator and headed down the corridor in search of Watt's room. After several wrong turns, she found it and knocked on the door.

Watt answered wearing a hotel bathrobe and holding a cocktail in one hand and an open jar of macadamia nuts in the other.

“Hey, Alondra,” he said, ushering her into the room. “Just hitting the minibar a bit.”

“A bit?” she said with a chuckle.

There was a range of electronic gadgets strewn about the room. A Nagra tape recorder sat on the bed. A cornucopia of microphones erupted from a black plastic case. Some battery packs and chargers sat on the dresser. And on the floor lay a battered laptop connected to a variety of devices via a spiderweb of USB cables. Other than a black iPod, Alondra couldn't identify most of it.

“Could I get you something to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Red Bull and vodka.”

“Eww,” Alondra said with a shiver of disgust.

“You should try one; it's really good.”

“No, I think I'll pass. But the vodka sounds good. I'll have that. Ketel One if they have it.”

Watt opened the minibar and scanned the shelves.

“Hmmm…Ketel One, Ketel One…ah, there it is!” he said, snatching a bottle. “Want anything with it?”

“Ice and…ah…tonic water?”

Watt grabbed a few cubes from the ice bucket, cracked open the bottles, poured with a bartender's flourish, and handed Alondra the finished product.

She accepted the drink, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took a sip. The cold vodka tasted crisp and clean, and she had an intense flash of a sauna she'd visited in Finland.

“So how's the man?” Watt asked cheerfully.

“That's kind of why I came down here.”

“Really, something wrong?”

“I'm worried about him.”

“What's the matter, he's got the jitters or something?”

“No, I mean
worried
.”

“Not sure I get you.”

Alondra sipped her way back to Finland, and took a long deep breath.

“Well,” she said, searching for the right words. “It's like, um, God, it's like…um…shit…I don't…”

“C'mon, just spit it out. Jeez, I thought I was supposed to be the one with ‘communication issues,'” he said, popping a nut into his mouth.

“Okay, I'll just say it.”

Seconds passed, Alondra remained silent. She looked into Watt's expectant eyes. She'd always liked his eyes. Wide, blue, intense, and dotted with flecks of green. But as much as she liked them, she expected them to narrow in disbelief at what she had to say.

She just had to get it out. And so, after another quick trip to Finland, she did:

“I'm worried about his sanity,” she said.

As she'd predicted, Watt's eyes narrowed, and he turned away.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm serious.”

“Well, of course he's crazy. I mean we're all crazy. But he's not crazy, crazy.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Watt paced as he went on a long, rambling rant about everything he knew and felt about Joaquin. About insanity and how it works. About why Joaquin didn't fit the criteria, either constitutionally or pathologically. And on and on.

Alondra tried to listen. But the words became a background hum. She was too worried to accept what sounded like rationalization.

Finally, Watt stopped talking.

Alondra looked up. Watt must have sensed her desperation, because he grabbed her by the shoulders and, staring into her eyes, said: “He's fine. He really is. This is an intense time for him. Cut him a little slack.”

Alondra looked away.

“Okay, okay,” Watt said. “I'll tell you what. Tomorrow morning I'll have breakfast alone with him. I'll pay attention; I'll listen to him. I'll keep an open mind.”

Alondra looked down at the bedspread. Its blue-and-green lattice pattern perfectly reflected the mix of complexity and order she currently sought in her life. Maybe Watt was right. Maybe there was nothing wrong. Maybe she was projecting her own fears and concerns about the show, and their life together, onto Joaquin. She really wasn't sure.

“Alondra, did you hear me?”

“You can't have breakfast with him tomorrow. He's doing an interview with
Newsweek
magazine,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the blue-and-green bedspread.

Before entering the café,
I called Alondra. She answered with a long, languid hello. She knew it was me again, trying to convince her to come to the interview.

“Alondra.”

“What is it now?”

“I just wanted to be clear: I'd be happier if you were at the interview with me.”

“And I told you I would if you have lunch with me and talk about what's going on.”

“There's nothing going on with me. I'm just worried about the show.”

“Even you don't believe that.”

“Will you be there?”

Alondra hung up.

She was probably right. I should talk to her about what has been going on. But I know it scares her when I talk about these things. She always says:

“This is just crap from your show. Don't bring it home with you.”

She was right. Partly. Hell, one of the reasons I created
Ghost Radio
was to convince myself that the strange experiences I'd had were nonsense. Of course, another part of me had launched the show to justify them.

And now I was minutes away from glossing over these salient facts, promoting the show as an entertaining bundle of “things that go bump in the night.” I knew that was another reason Alondra wasn't eager to join me for this interview. She hated this crap. She wasn't interested in hav
ing to answer fatuous questions like “Isn't it difficult to work with your significant other?”

He couldn't imagine her revealing such intimacies to a stranger. She was already ambivalent about participating in
Ghost Radio
; it had taken a lot of coaxing for her to accept the role of cohost. She claimed it could affect her credibility as a researcher and professor. But I knew it wasn't that.

I humored her, arguing that the program would be a “hands-on” laboratory for her work on urban folklore. Yet I was certain that the reason she finally accepted had nothing to do with research. It was something deeper. She feared I'd lose myself in the show, and she wanted to be there to pull me back. She claimed to be a committed skeptic. But I often felt that deep down she believed, and it scared her. It made her mock everything paranormal or supernatural. She was a master of circular logic. How else could she hold down a serious academic job while continuing to edit provocative underground zines?

She used that slippery quality on the show. She had a knack for evading intense or uncomfortable situations, for speaking cogently but vaguely. She always bowed out gracefully without having to run or hide, but never drew attention to herself. I'm sure many saw this behavior as “cool” or “aloof.” I had another word for it. That word was “fear.”

Whatever her stated reasons, I was sure that this was the fundamental reason she hadn't joined me for the interview. She was afraid.

I entered the café lost in these thoughts. The reporter from
Newsweek
was there, waiting for me. He was easy to spot: his recorder sat on the table, and he was simultaneously talking on his cell phone, taking notes, reading e-mail on his laptop, and frenetically typing a text message into his BlackBerry. A pile of magazines and newspapers filled the only empty seat.

“Joaquin,” I said, offering my hand.

The reporter shook it tensely, and made a mute grimace that might have meant “pleased to meet you,” followed by a quick “give me a minute” hand raise. One by one, he terminated his communications. It was
like watching an assembly-line robot. Then he cleared the chair and, finally, looked me in the eye.

“Sorry about all that. I'm supposed to do this interview with Nicole Kidman. And her people just ‘got cute.'”

I saw through his attempt to develop a bond with me by letting me in on this little “confidence.”

Again, I didn't see this interview with
Newsweek
as a personal triumph. I had no love of publicity. On the contrary, I didn't trust it at all. But I wanted people to listen to my show and this would help make that happen. As a consumer of popular culture, I appreciated that
Newsweek
's interest meant that
Ghost Radio
had “made the jump.” It had slipped out of the fringe and into the mainstream.

The reporter introduced himself as “Eric Prew,” then immediately launched into comparisons between my program and the TV series
Ugly Betty,
a Colombian soap opera that had streaked its way, like lightning, into an American prime-time slot. I replied that comparing a soap opera to a program like mine purely on the basis of their Hispanic origin seemed simplistic to me. I stopped myself from adding that it seemed idiotic and borderline racist.

Should I have stopped? Maybe that tack would have worked.

Instead, I accepted the general amazement that these programs had garnered acceptance from a public that is not used to consuming foreign culture. I almost used the word “alien,” but caught myself at the last second.

I spoke about how the program had started in Mexico, spawned with no expectations:

“It happened pretty much before I realized what was going on. The music program I was hosting started to revolve more and more around the death-themed readings and comments I made between songs, but things really took off when I started taking calls on the air. So many wanted to talk about the supernatural. And I let them. The program evolved. It grew and expanded, becoming something new and different.”

(This wasn't entirely true. But it was the story I always told.)

I told Prew that my main influence, although I wasn't really aware of
it at the time, was another radio show that I'd discovered and listened to compulsively while I was hospitalized in Houston after the accident that killed my parents.

“I loved its horror stories, which still fascinate and on occasion still terrify me, but I loved its format even more. It was thanks, in large part, to that program that I was able to begin to recover from the tragedy I'd endured.”

“When was this?”

“Nineteen-ninety.”

Prew nodded and made a note on his pad. I could read his scrawl even upside down. It said: “Research—Supernatural Radio Show, Houston, 1990.” “But you said that your show's format happened almost accidentally; this story makes it seem more like a plan.”

“You might think that, as the host, I guided the program. In fact, it was the program that guided me. Within a year we had an extremely loyal fan base…some obsessive…troublingly so.”

Prew agreed that many of my listeners did seem fanatical. He compared them to groupies, and the followers of marginal religions. It wasn't the first time someone had pointed out that my audience acted like members of a cult. I nodded, accepting this; then silently waited for his next question.

“Can I get back to the original
Ghost Radio
again? The one you listened to in the hospital.”

“Okay.”

“Did you listen to this show by yourself? Or was it popular with the other patients?”

“Sometimes I listened alone. Sometimes with a friend,” I said, trying to sound casual and vague.

“Was this friend Gabriel?”

I nodded. Shit, I had hoped the interview wouldn't go in this direction. But this guy had clearly done his homework.

“And this is the Gabriel who died during some kind of pirate radio broadcast?”

I blanched.

“Do we really need to talk about this?”

“You host a program about death and ghosts, and you had an experience in your life in which a good friend died during a radio broadcast. It seems related.”

Prew was right, they were related. I owed almost everything to that catastrophe. I'm still marked by its scars…literally and figuratively. And I lost Gabriel. Gabriel…I still consider him my best friend despite the fact that he's no longer with us.

No longer with us.

Such an inapt term for Gabriel. No one could be more “with us” (or “with me” at least) than he is. It's been eighteen years since his death and I still feel him around me. That's not meant as a sappy cliché or a bit of tearful, cloying nostalgia. It is a pragmatic affirmation of his inescapable, daily presence.

“Don't you think it's important?” Prew asked, breaking my ruminations.

“I'd just prefer if it wasn't the focus of the interview.”

“Well, I don't think it's going to be the focus. But I plan to include some facts about the event, and I'd like them to be as accurate as possible.”

“It's a painful memory for me.”

Prew wouldn't let it go.

“Okay, but remember, if I don't go over this with you, we'll be forced to present the facts based on our research. You'll have no input. Some of the people who told us this story may be biased. I'm giving you the opportunity to ensure that what we print accurately reflects your point of view.”

I looked out the window; on the street a homeless man walked by screaming. I could hear his words through the glass and I felt like joining him. Instead, I turned back to Prew, and fixed him with a forceful stare.

“I think we've covered this,” I said.

After several seconds, Prew nodded, took a breath, looked through
his notes, and then, like the good reporter he was, tossed me a softball question.

“How do you explain your program's success?”

“We talk about stuff that interests a lot of people. I believe that modern society is deeply affected by technological progress. Technology is no longer a tool we use every day; it's inserted itself into the way we perceive reality, the way we see ourselves, the way we relate to our peers and our own memories. Our fears, aspirations, and fantasies are filtered through technology. I see my work as a way for the media to help people reestablish their bond with things that have nothing to do with science, like mythology, the unexplainable.”

“I didn't realize you were a Luddite.”

“I'm not. But I think there's more to life than Google, Facebook, and YouTube. There are other forms of communication. Deep forms. And people want to share their experiences,” I said, knowing my tone had become sharp, but I couldn't shake my anger at Prew for bringing up Gabriel's death.

“But it's largely about death, isn't it?”

“Have you listened to my program, Mr. Prew?”

“Your fans have what might almost be termed a necrophilic obsession, an addiction to the macabre. What's your opinion about that?”

“What culture
isn't
fascinated by everything horrific and terrifying? I'm simply channeling the zeitgeist, giving a form to our subconscious fears. But I also give them hope: the ultimate hope. That death isn't an end. That there's something more.”

“And you don't think that nourishing those fantasies is exploitive, even a form of emotional blackmail?”

“For over twenty thousand years, people have been telling ghost stories. We're not trying to blackmail, or bribe, or extort anyone. We're seeking communion, a way to get a handle on the inexplicable. Hell, I need this program as much as they do. I need these wild conversations. I don't presume to be able to unravel the mysteries of life and death, but I do believe that we can connect more intimately through a feeling as transcendent as terror.”

“Isn't your interest in death just morbid, plain and simple?”

“Morbid?” I stopped myself from replying with an insult.

It wasn't the first time I'd heard this accusation, but I never got used to it. It always struck me as arrogant and offensive. What the hell did Prew know about my views on death?

“As I see it, morbidity is the urgent and uncontrollable need to see that which is forbidden—to peer into the repugnant. What we examine on
Ghost Radio
is rarely repugnant. It's often quite beautiful.”

“But it's the stuff of horror movies.”

“We don't exploit those emotions in the same way. I'm not out to scare people. The listeners and I frighten each other, and together we work through it. It's new every night. It's not some Hollywood formula that makes
Ghost Radio
work. It's just human communication…pure and simple.”

Prew took notes as I continued:

“I don't like resorting to clichés, but we live in uncertain times. The wars and the catastrophes that have assailed the planet over the past few years threaten to trivialize our mortality, to desensitize us. But in my culture, we maintain a different relationship with death. We play with her. We write to her as if she were an old friend. We invite her in like a drunk who visits unannounced.”

Prew seemed satisfied with the interview. But as he reached over to turn off the recorder, I stopped him with one final thought:

“Something as natural as walking consists of repeatedly setting the body momentarily off-kilter. Each time we shift our weight from one foot to the other, we lose our balance for a fraction of a second. We learn to walk by learning to displace ourselves without falling, by losing and recovering our balance almost simultaneously. In the same sense, one might say that we are in a constant balancing act between life and death.”

“What made you tell me that?”

Joaquin smiled.

“Because you are about to get up and walk out of this café.”

Prew chuckled.

Then, as if possessed by a cybernetic spirit, he reconnected himself to his various communication devices. As he turned on and consulted his technological extensions, recovering the information lost in his time with me, his face lit up, he squinted, and reality seemed to dissolve around him.

He gathered up his belongings and walked out of the room, losing and recovering his balance with each step.

The instant he left, I returned to one central fact: this interview would tell the story of Gabriel's death. A story I wanted to keep to myself. This was bad. This was very bad.

But what could I do? I couldn't stop the magazine from publishing it. It was true.