Ghost Radio (9 page)

The woman's voice
was delicate and soft. But I liked it. I didn't want to ask her to speak up. So I had Watt boost the gain, hoping the lacelike tone of her vowels would be preserved.

“The whole Goth scene
bores me to tears,” I told him.

I didn't feel like saying any more. My black lipstick added the appropriate irony.

Creating the look had been a real triumph. But that was years ago. I maintained it more out of habit than anything else. It had become my uniform.

Sometimes I think I'll wear my black clothes, combat boots, and corsets right into old age. Sometimes I think I'll chuck it tomorrow.

The boredom I referred to stemmed from the fact that to many these aren't just clothes. They are an ideology, an attitude, urban paganism, second-rate Satan worship, and all that crap.

This discussion began one afternoon when Joaquin stopped what he was doing, looked at me, moonstruck, and tried to rationalize why he liked my style so much.

He told me the significance he drew from each article of clothing, its Victorian heritage and its sadomasochistic connotations. He expounded on the contrast between the soft, feminine lace and the hard, military accessories; the sensual warmth and the cold, mortuary appearance; the pleated, Catholic-schoolgirl miniskirts and the inverted crucifixes. His eye for detail impressed me. I was interested in the social history of the Darksider wardrobe too, but I'd heard it all a hundred, no, a thousand times before. So, I stopped him.

“You like it because it makes me look hot.”

I felt a little guilty about it, but I had to set certain boundaries and I decided to start then and there.

Our relationship was about to spread beyond intimacy and private space, making us into media celebrities, and I needed to establish strict rules about the way we portrayed ourselves through our microphones. Joaquin didn't have a problem with that; he'd developed an alter ego who was sometimes maniacal but sometimes restrained, who could listen patiently, and didn't treat every public appearance as an opportunity to show off. But I was more interested in ensuring we wouldn't turn the program into a farce, a grotesque vaudeville show starring us as one of those monstrous couples who put themselves on display. I couldn't shake the image of Jim and Tammy Bakker. But when I mentioned this to Joaquin, he just laughed and said:

“I think secretly you want to be Tammy Faye.”

I know I was exaggerating; maybe I was even being a little hysterical. But anyone who values their independence feels threatened when they embark on someone else's project.

It's a basic survival instinct.

I agreed to be on
Ghost Radio
because I thought it would give me material to work with once I got back to the university. Plus, it might be fun. But if my guard went down, I was lost.

As a matter of fact, it was fun. For me, sessions on the air were like living
Star Trek
episodes. We listened to stories in isolation from the world; we commented on them, we argued to the point of shouting. Most of the stories were really about loneliness, primal fear, maternal abandonment, Electra complexes, sexual frustration, spiritual suffering. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out that these were the things our callers were really afraid of. It didn't matter whether we imagined them as transparent specters,
chupacabras,
mummies, tentacled monsters, or any other malformed creature; in essence, all these beings were reflections of everyday fears and traumas. Discovering this, which was obvious to so many, was a revelation.

Joaquin understood where I was coming from. But didn't always agree.

“Sometimes a ghost is just a ghost,” he'd say.

Perhaps he needed that attitude to make the show work. You can't be psychoanalyzing all your callers, and still create entertaining radio. And Joaquin created entertaining radio.

I loved watching the different emotions he went through, from enthusiastic, to arrogant, to bemused, to excited. Occasionally, he went into a trancelike state. Those episodes made me nervous.

At first, I was convinced it was theatrics, that he was putting on an act to impress me. But I soon realized that it wasn't that at all, he was truly entering an altered state—and when he did so, he was oblivious to the world around him.

I eventually got used to his sporadic trips into the world of unexplained phenomena. He was able to wade through the mist covering the borderland between the normal and the paranormal. Although it scared me a little, part of me admired it. But I had concluded it was just one of those things better left alone. I chose to ignore it, but that wasn't always possible.

In time,
Ghost Radio
became my home, a space where I felt comfortable, where I could express myself without fear. Our little program was a tunnel, a highway of voices: Sometimes I was behind the wheel, sometimes simply a passenger. I'd earned my slot on the program. I got along well with the staff, and participated in the decision-making process. That was already several times better than the relationship I had with my fellow professors at the university, with whom anything more personal than an exchange of “good afternoons” was unthinkable.

As always in my life, I assumed from the beginning that this was just a passing phase, that at some rapidly approaching moment everything would change. I couldn't imagine any other outcome, even though, unlike practically every earlier stage of my life, I was really satisfied. I didn't feel like going through another change, lugging my suitcases somewhere else, saying good-bye to people, and filling garbage bags with the things I couldn't take with me.

One afternoon, I was having a coffee at Joaquin's apartment, which
was now my apartment too, and thinking about this, when I looked out the window and saw a couple fighting in the park. He was trying to hug her, but she pushed him, gently at first, and then with more force. He gestured emphatically, trying to make her stay. She didn't seem convinced, and walked off, but he ran after her and stopped her. Once again, he waved his hands around, speaking in a voice that, although I couldn't hear through the closed window, was obviously growing louder and louder. I could almost hear him through the closed window. I didn't want to eavesdrop, though; I didn't want to know what he was saying to keep her from leaving him. He didn't seem to care that passersby were watching. Shame and discretion had vanished; there was only his desperate attempt to conquer this woman. She dug in harder, looking at the ground, not like someone who's embarrassed, but sternly, refusing all contact. She raised her hands to keep him from even touching her. Finally, she turned and walked away. He watched her, his shoulders drooping.

Their separation affected me in a way I had difficulty understanding. I couldn't stop thinking about them, about his enormous sadness and her detachment. I walked through the apartment, appreciating it more than ever, its wide windows that let the sunlight in, its wooden floors, its kitchen and cozy bedroom. It was going to be hard work leaving this place; it was going to be even more difficult to peel myself away from Joaquin. When he returned the next morning, the first thing he said to me was:

“How'd you like a change of scenery?”

It seems he had a chance to test
Ghost Radio
in the United States, possibly leading to a syndication deal.

The notion of going back to the United States didn't seem very attractive at that point, but it wasn't something I completely ruled out either. I figured I'd have to return eventually, but going back now felt like cutting off something vital, sacrificing important experiences, abandoning ideas and projects. Above all, leaving Mexico made me think of my mother, who'd followed my father to America and was never happy there. Was
this history repeating itself? Fate, genetics, emotional programming?

“You're going to have to go alone. I'm staying,” I told him. I didn't get emotional.

I didn't know if I was right. I had to take this position. But I also had to hear his arguments.

We spent weeks debating the advantages and disadvantages of moving. It was a major opportunity for Joaquin and it made me feel guilty to think of him sacrificing something so big. He was in the same situation. He didn't want to leave me, but he didn't want to pressure me to go. It seemed that no matter what, we both came out losers. Joaquin spoke of the violence, the kidnapping, the misery, and the pollution in Mexico.

“And you really want to live in a country at war where you're an ethnic minority? You want your program to target the marginalized and dispossessed?” I asked him.

“Don't go all intellectual on me.”

“I'm stating facts.”

“But avoiding the real one.”

I stared at him, trying to diminish the anger in my eyes.

“What are you afraid of, Alondra?”

I was about to challenge him. But I knew he was right. I was afraid. But why? And of what?

I shook my head slowly, and looked at the floor.

Nothing was resolved. The discussions continued. Joaquin became more convincing and I faltered. I conceded certain points, but held fast on others. He hadn't won yet. But a tiny voice inside me told me he would…eventually.

Adding to the mosaic of issues that came with a return to the United States, Joaquin was counting on me to form part of the
Ghost Radio
team. I didn't find out until later, but the corporation buying the program did not want the format changed, and my presence was fundamental because I was American; I was the link between both cultures. Joaquin didn't dare tell me that they were pretty much buying
me
. He was afraid, and rightly so, that this would be too much pressure. At any rate, he said:

“They want the entire team. They want to reproduce the program's formula exactly.”

“Well, I guess you and Watt will have to find someone else.”

I asked Joaquin not to talk about it for a few days. I wasn't interested in hearing any more about moves, changes, or cultural transplantation. I needed to weigh the pros and cons myself. I needed time to think.