PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I know the night was a Wednesday, because my father had already gone to his once weekly bowling league at the local alley.  I was n something of a hurry to join Cerulean, a hurry of which my parent still in attendance, my mother, complained quite vociferously, making me all thumbs, as the saying goes, and, as I was crossing through the living room, I clumsily dropped my c.b. radio.  Immediately, I thrust my foot under it to try to break its crash on to the carpeted floor; it struck my ankle hard enough to raise a bruise that would last for several days and cause a slight limp in my usually casual gait, and then it bounced on to the carpet.  I felt like I had almost wet my briefs (I had not); but what added insult to this injury was my mother's laughter.  I think she actually hoped that I had damaged the c.b. beyond repair, knowing that I did not yet have funds sufficient to repair or replace it.

   I gathered it up, with my coat (without putting the coat on), and sprinted to my car, and then up to Cerulean's house.  After careful examination (no visually loose parts); and a slight shaking (no audibly loose parts within), we connected it to its mount in my car, and announced our breaker-break on channel twenty-two, and asked one of our friends (who had a base station with monitor dials, and whose handle I have since forgotten) to check our signal.

   Apparently, the c.b.'s collision with my parents floor had caused a bit of a change.  I have written, in a previous essay, that the unit was factory defective:  broadcasting at somewhat more than the legal five watts, without a kicker (which Cerulean called, running shoeless---a metaphor I particularly relished).  In early August, we had added a battery powered mic which further enhanced both the broadcast power, and the sound of my voice (more baritone, less pipsqueak).  But now . . . despite the collision; despite my mother's malevolent wish . . . the c.b. was now broadcasting at ten watts.  We laughed so hard and so long that our flanks became sore.  At most, if the FCC intervened, it could only have confiscated the unit:  the factory defect would have exonerated us of any deliberate tampering.  (Power mics were entirely legal, and did not significantly boost the signal, only the quality of its audible resonance.)  But now . . . ten watts, and this was measured on a base station well on the other side of our broadcast area.  

     Shortly after that time, a mutual friend, the daughter of a local doctor, advised us that her father felt that a c.b. might be useful for calling him to medical emergencies when he was not near a phone, and would we locate the proper items (mobile unit, power mic, antenna, car mount, etc) so that these could be purchased by his family as a Christmas gift.  We spent two nights of our time together shopping for the good doctor---locating every possible bargain so that he would have a set as similar to ours as possible.  Of course, we wanted to stay with the Midland name and model line.  Unfortunately, the family chose to disregard and dismiss our shopping research in favor of one of his patients (a chap by the name of Bernie) who promised him an excellent c.b. at far less of a price than we had found.  I was invited (without Cerulean, for whom the doctor's family did not much care) to visit on Christmas Night; and, upon pulling away from our dead-end street, I said my breakerbreak on a little used channel---and heard only silence.  Their home was not in town, but a very rural part of the township, and next to a pioneer cemetery that they had acquired as part of the purchase and allowed to continue to fall into disrepair.  A long lane, over an eighth of a mile, led from the road to their ranch style home.  Just before I turned on to their lane, I heard very faint static, and within that static an even fainter human voice.  I arrived at the house, and entered.

    I was proudly shown a small, walkie-talkie like device (complete with holder, suitable for belt or shoulder), with an antenna of about six inches, when fully extended.  They told me that they had heard my voice from the moment I left my street, and that, as I drew nearer, the small device had begun, at first to vibrate and then to actually move across the table from the vibration (ten watts from the Starwatcher's baby).  Then, forgetting my manners, I began to laugh.  They fed me leftovers from their Christmas dinner, and homemade iced tea (which was, admittely, very good, and well garnished with circular, not wedged, lemon slices); and after eating and sipping my tea, I began to laugh again.  Even as I said my goodbyes, and Merry Christmases, and after I stepped outside to go to my car, in night air that was bitterly, even painfully, cold, the steam poured out of my mouth as I released my laughter from all restraint, and nearly doubled over from it.  Cerulean, who had done far more of the shopping/pricing research than I had, and who had been hurt by the rejection of this, also laughed loudly and long on the landline after I had returned home.  (For discretion's sake, we never shared this tale on the channel twenty-two.)

Starward