MY READING of “Butts of the Joke,” the thirtieth episode of Dead Air, was interrupted after the first paragraph, as you will see.
WHENEVER, during the nights of my adolescence, my own thoughts became too much for me, I turned to “Baldy’s Nightcap” for relief from them. Baldy’s incessant talk usually set my thoughts aside, and thereby relaxed me, but sometimes Baldy himself set me thinking. Sometimes I would wonder, in the idle, unfocused way of a boy on the edge of sleep, where he got all his ideas, and in a similarly idle and unfocused way I came to the conclusion that he did it in exactly the same idle, unfocused way as I allowed my thoughts to wander in my head at night — that all of his earlier life, every moment up to the present moment, was material for the next utterance. I never wondered why he did what he did, only how he did it, until Baldy brought the question up himself. . . .
“HOLD IT! HOLD IT!” called Lou. “Sorry, Peter, but we just can’t hear you back here at the bar — not over that racket.”
We had all been trying to ignore the scraping, grinding sounds that were coming from the two washers that had been repaired and were currently at work washing clothes, but the noise had seemed to increase as soon as I had begun reading, and I couldn’t manage to read over it.
“Be right back,” said Al, and she ran downstairs to shut the machines off. She came back with a handful of shredded cloth, which she held out for all to inspect. “The good news,” she claimed, “is that everything seems really clean.”
Once the groans and laughter had died down, there seemed no reason not to continue where I had left off, so I did.
“You wonder why I do this, don’t you?” Baldy said one night. “And why I go on doing it, why I’m here every night when you tune in. Well, let me ask you something: why are you there every night, tuning me in? I’ll tell you why: we are all actors in a bad joke, isn’t that right, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Yeah’? What do you mean, ‘Yeah’? You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, right, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn straight. That’s what we are: actors in a bad joke.” He took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out into the microphone. “Actors in a bad joke,” he repeated. “And most people — not you, listener, but most people — don’t even get the joke!” He laughed his wooden laugh. “Well, I’ve got exciting news for you: here’s somebody who gets the joke.” He rustled a sheet of paper. “He writes to me. He’s just a kid, ‘nearly thirteen,’ he says, which means that he is twelve. He sends me a flyer, a printed flyer, printed it himself, I bet, on one of those Little Giant printing presses, and it’s got illustrations added by hand. Here’s how it starts: ‘Have you ever wondered whether a flying saucer or atomic warhead might be headed in your direction?’”
I sat up in bed. My heart began to pound. He was reading the flyer that I had sent him.
“Where does he get a style like that? Huh? No beating around the bush, just wham — right to the point. And that ‘Have you ever wondered,’ that’s good, that direct personal address. I use that, don’t I, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“I think he got it from me. That’s pretty flattering, when you think about it. It’s a little trick of mine, addressing the listener personally, as if I were speaking to one person out there.” He leaned into the microphone and said, “You,” and I knew he meant me.
“This kid — his name is Peter — he’s selling flying-saucer detectors. Probably makes them in his basement.”
How did he know that? I wondered.
“He’s even got a slogan! You want to know what it is? Of course you do. It’s ‘No worries, no kidding.’ We could use some of that here — a lack of worry — right, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I ought to order a detector for us. Maybe I’ll do that. I think I will do that. I’ll get one of these, and we’ll be safe here.” He began laughing his wooden laugh. “Sure we will!” he said. “No worries! No kidding! What a joke. You get it, don’t you, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. You and I get it, and this twelve-year-old kid gets it, but here’s something I don’t get: why do we bother going along with the gag? Why do we bother reading our lines? Why do we bother doing anything? Why draw that next breath, why take the next step, why say the next word — why not just sign off ?” He drew on the cigarette again, exhaled, and then said, in a measured voice, breathing into the microphone, “Let’s try it, shall we? Come closer. Lean in here, toward me. Here’s what we’ll do — when I stop talking, you stop breathing. I won’t talk. You won’t breathe. We will experience the power of refusal, the restful silence of dead air.”
Then he stopped talking, and there was silence, or the closest thing to silence that we get on a radio, a hissing vastness, but it wasn’t restful: it was disturbing, like the insistent rustle of apprehension that fills our heads when we close our eyes on sleepless nights.
After a long while, Baldy asked, “Are you still there?” I smiled in the dark, amused by both of us, and whispered, “Yes.”
Baldy’s theme music began coming up behind his voice. “We lost the game,” he said. “You drew a breath, and I spoke. Life got the best of us. The joke’s on us.” Then the music overwhelmed him and the show was over.
[to be continued]
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