I can’t let that one slide. “You’ve never seen me,” I say.
It takes more than reality to clip Emily’s wings. She flies on. “A woman knows these things. You and I are spiritual twins, Charlie D. Since I told you that, for me, listening to Emo music is like listening to the sound of my own soul screaming, you’re playing more Emo bands. I’ve counted. You’re not afraid of your emotions-not like that robot Marion with all her boring facts.”
Marion the Librarian used to be one of our regulars. No matter what the topic was, Marion did her research. She made the show smart and thoughtful. But smart and thoughtful doesn’t cut it with talk radio’s hottest demographic: listeners between the ages of seventeen and thirty-four. They like callers who are fun and crazy. They tuned us out when Marion was on, so the suits at the network told us to block her calls. I missed her. “Hey, Emily, you know the rules. No slagging the other callers.”
My voice is harsh, and Emily is as contrite as a whipped puppy. “You’re not mad at me, are you, Charlie?” she asks.
“No,” I say, “I’m not mad. Just promise me you won’t do any damage, okay?”
Her voice quivers with relief. “I promise. And Charlie D, when you’re ready to accept your destiny with me, your shoes are ready. I washed all six pairs on gentle cycle, and I put them out in the sun to dry. Every day, I sprinkle them with baby powder to keep them fresh.”
The image of Emily kneeling to powder my shoes stabs me. I fear these moments. Our listeners are loyal. They would do anything for me. They offer up their lives, believing I have the answers. Every morning I wake up thinking that this is the day they’ll discover the truth. I’m a broken man and a fake. I need to shut out these thoughts when I’m on the air. I’m relieved when Nova tells me our next caller is another regular-Podcast Pete. With Podcast Pete on the line, it’s impossible to think about anything.
When I was a kid, my father, in an attempt to turn me into the kind of son he could be proud of, took me to a place that had a batting cage and a pitching machine. That pitching machine was merciless. I tried swinging at the pitched balls, but I never connected. I tried catching them, but they stung my hand. Finally, I just stood aside and let the pitching machine hurl balls toward me, rat-a-tat-tat, until my time was up. I never did learn how to hit a ball. I never did become the kind of son my father could be proud of. But I did learn how to handle high-octane callers like Podcast Pete. You just have to stand aside and let ’em rip.
Tonight Pete is flying. “Enemies, enemies, enemies,” he says. “We’re surrounded by enemies, Charlie.”
I find my soothing voice. “Chill,” I say. “You’re scaring the horses. You’re sounding a little-uh-caffeinated. How many Jolts have you had today, Pete?”
“I lost count. It’s immaterial. I have to stay awake. Sleep is for the weak. I’ve got to stay on top of it. Twitter. Facebook. MSN-got to check with my friends. And I’ve got my podcast discussion pages-some real ugliness brewing on the discussion page about our show, Charlie D. A lot of people out there don’t appreciate your sense of humor-we’ve got a fight on our hands.”
“My granny used to tell me ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but virtual names will never hurt me.’ Let it go, Pete.”
“I can’t. Charlie, you’re an outsider, an outlaw. You don’t live by the rules. You’re a visionary, and visionaries have to be protected.”
Nova and I have always shrugged Pete off, but her face on the other side of the glass is solemn. Through my earphones, I hear her voice. “Push him.”
I nod. “So, Pete, who do you think I have to be protected against?”
His words are an avalanche. “Against the ones who are trying to keep you from realizing your vision. They’re out there. They’re everywhere. Charlie, I download every episode of your show. I fall asleep-well, something like sleep-listening to you on my iPod, over and over. Ideas come into my mind. When I get up, I know I have to clear the way for you.”
The words form themselves. “Clearing the way wouldn’t mean hurting anybody, would it, Pete?”
Tense, Nova leans forward against her desk.
Pete sighs heavily, and when he speaks his voice is lifeless. He’s starting to crash. “Sometimes in the middle of the night, I open my eyes and my heart is pounding-like it’s gonna pop out of my chest…and eat someone… you know…like in Alien. I think of all the people I have to fight-and I get scared. Then I remember what you told me John Wayne said.”
He falls silent. On radio, dead air is the enemy. “John Wayne?” I say.
Pete doesn’t respond, and Nova and I exchange glances. After nine years we know how to read one another’s signals. Pete has tanked. Ready or not, we have to move to the next caller, but Pete surprises us. It’s an effort for him to speak, but he’s back. “It was when I told you that some days I can’t face leaving my room,” he says. “You reminded me that John Wayne said ‘Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.’”
For the second time tonight I’m stabbed by the knowledge that for a lot of our listeners, I’m life support. I can’t be that anymore. It’s tough to keep my voice from breaking. “Pete, you don’t have to fight my battles,” I say.
Pete’s reply is a whisper. “What else would I do with my life?” he asks. Then, finally-mercifully-the line goes dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
My headache is worse. The fingers of pain have moved up my skull to press on my temples. Nova has been watching me carefully. She knows I’m not doing well. As if by magic, her words appear on my computer screen. I flash her a smile and start reading. My voice surprises me. As I read Nova’s script, I sound like a winner- one of those guys who breezes through life with the wind at his back and who takes no prisoners.
“You’re listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D,’” I say. “Our topic tonight is Erotomania. When we’re in love, we’re all crazy, but some of us take crazy to a whole new level. The Icelandic singer-songwriter Björk had a persistent lover. He sent her a book that was rigged to blow up in her face. And a video of himself putting a gun into his mouth just before he committed suicide. In my opinion, a box of chocolates and a dozen roses would have been cooler. Any thoughts you’d care to share?” I give out our call-in numbers and email address. Then I turn back to the words on the screen. Tonight is not a night for riffing.
“When it comes to crazy love, no one is immune,” I say. “Even Anne Murray, Canada’s singing sweetheart, had her own sketchy swain. Do you remember the Saskatchewan farmer who believed that when Anne signed a fan photo for him with an O and X, she was declaring her love? Her rural Romeo returned the favor by showing up at her door with a bouquet of flowers and a loaded twenty-two. The Barenaked Ladies honored him with a song. Our lines are open.”
As the Barenaked Ladies sing “Straw Hat and Old Dirty Hank,” I talk to Nova.
“Are the cops listening in?”
“They are indeed,” she says. “In their opinion, we’re two for two. They think both Emo Emily and Podcast Pete have real nut-bar potential. Officers in their hometowns are on their way to question them as we speak.”