At last, an all-new Friday Flash short story, rather than just another dip into my greatest hits. The oldest thing here is the title, Don't Touch That Dial, which I've used for a number of speculative projects over the year including a sitcom, a comic strip and a novel. None of those went where I wanted them to, so at least I get to use the title for something.
This story is about DJs, but it shouldn't be seen as a slight against the few good friends I have in that particular profession. It could just as easily have been written about advertising copywriters, though that wouldn't have made for quite as strong a set piece.
I do hope you enjoy it.
“Idiots,” said Dean.
“Morons,” said James.
“Idiots!” said Dean again.
“Morons!” came the reply.
“Idiots.”
This would have gone on…
“Morons.”
Much, much longer…
“Idiots.”
Had Hailey not interrupted.
“Guys…?”
They should have known from her tone that she wasn’t in the mood.
“Morons.”
After all, the estate agent had agreed to come out well after her normal working hours to show them round these recently closed studios that Dean and James had visions of buying. They planned to start up their own music- and personality-led radio company that broke away from the tight formats and strict playlists that were strangling all the fun out of an industry they both loved. They weren’t messing around here, they were each prepared to risk their life savings to get this venture off the ground. Radio was in their blood and this was their chance to do it the way they’d always believed it should be done.
“Idiots!”
But, at heart, they were still disc jockeys.
“Morons!”
They’d have happily kept this stupid routine going all night if they thought they could get away with it.
“Guys, please…”
Or at least until someone fed them the straight line they were looking for.
“What are they arguing about?” asked the estate agent. Her name was Meredith and she had high hopes for this evening too. She didn’t mind humouring these egotistical blowhards if it got this blasted radio station off her books once and for all. Six months now she’d been trying to sell these premises, and though she’d had any number of promising enquiries, nobody ever came back for a second visit. Still, there were other ways of making it pay…
Hailey ran a hand down her face with an expression that screamed “I wish you hadn’t asked that question”, but it was too late now.
“We’re arguing about the previous owners of this building,” said Dean, “were they idiots or morons?”
“They actually packed up and handed back the broadcast license to a lucrative business like this - just because they thought the place was haunted?” said James. “Idiots!”
“Morons.” said Dean.
“Well, that was the reason they announced to the press,” said Meredith, turning the key in Friendly FM’s side entrance and hearing the bleep of the alarm from down the corridor. “Rumour has it their advertising sales figures were fine, they just couldn’t get any presenters to stay in the studio for more than two records in a row. I presume you’ve heard what happened to their drivetime DJ?”
“Gary Peters?” said Dean. “We used to work with that boob. Dude couldn’t tie his own shoelaces without an instruction manual.”
“It’s very sad,” said James, “slitting his throat with a broken CD live on air like that – right before the traffic and travel, too - but I refuse to believe it was because he was possessed by some dark satanic force…”
“What was the CD, has anybody asked that?” said Dean. “My betting it was either Simply Red, Phil Collins, Celine Dion or the Lighthouse Family. That was pretty much Friendly FM’s entire playlist right there. I imagine playing the same dated MOR shite day-in day-out would make anyone want to gargle blood… I know it would me.”
“We’ll have a strict No Celine policy when we’re running this place,” said James, “and Phil Collins will be shot on sight.”
“Phil Collins,” said Dean, shaking his head, “what a bunch of morons!”
“Idiots,” said James.
“Morons,” said Dean.
“Idiots!” snapped Meredith as she keyed the code into the alarm box. “Idiots, idiots, idiots! There. It’s decided. Can we let that one rest now?”
James and Dean responded with their best two-scolded-schoolboys faces. Hailey glared at them. “See – I told you to knock it off!” She followed Meredith down the dusty corridor towards the studios.
“I like her,” said Dean.
“You should try being married to her,” said James.
“I don’t mean your wife,” said Dean. “I don’t like your wife.”
“You don’t like my wife?”
“No – I like your wife, I like her just fine.”
“You like my wife?”
“I don’t like-like your wife – she’s your wife. I like and respect her as your wife. But this estate agent lady – Meredith – her I like-like, in ways it wouldn’t ever be appropriate for me to think about Hailey.”
“Probably in ways it wouldn’t ever be appropriate for me to think about Hailey. Since, you know, being married…”
“Such things aren’t appropriate any more?”
“Such things just don’t come up anymore.”
Ahead of them in the corridor, Meredith pulled open the first of the huge soundproofed doors, letting Hailey hold it while she pushed through the second. “Well, here we are,” she said, palms up like she was checking for rain, “this is where it all happened.”
As James and Dean followed the two women into the studio, a striking change came over them. Suddenly, they were all business.
“Decent enough desk,” said James, flicking a couple of switches under the mixing desk and brushing dust from between the faders.
“Optimod, Myriad system with built-in Cool-Edit Pro… apparently there’s a half-decent SADie around here somewhere too,” said Dean, checking off the equipment against a list he’d printed off at home.
“I think that’s in the second studio,” said Meredith, recalling this query from a previous viewer.
“At least they cleaned up all the blood,” said Hailey. “In the back of my mind, I had this really gruesome image…”
“Apparently there are people you can hire to do that sort of thing,” said Meredith. “Like CSI, only with scrubbing brushes.” She expected a joke from the jocks in response, but they were lost in their anoraks.
“CDQ Prima codecs, Neumann mikes, Denon CD players…”
“Eleven swans a swimming and a partridge in a pair tree,” said James, slipping the headphones over his head and taking pole position in front of the mic.
“Is this thing on?” said Dean, going round the desk to the guest mic and giving it a one-two tap.
“It is now,” said James, dropping a CD he’d brought along into the player and opening both mic channels. “Come on, mate, let’s take this baby for a ride!”
The intro to Bachman Turner Overdrive’s cheesy 70’s anthem You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet began playing from the monitors and both jocks’ faces lit up with huge grins, turning to catch the reaction from their audience. “Let’s rock!” said Dean.
Meredith favoured them with a polite but confused frown. Hailey – who knew them only too well – remained hands-on-hips non-plussed. Secretly though, she was holding her breath and praying.
“We’re kidding!” said James, switching quickly to the second track on the CD. Song 2 by Blur.
“Woo-hoo!” screamed Dean, expecting the same response from his partner in crime. And that was when it happened.
They all felt it. The temperature dropped by ten degrees, the lights flickered, the monitors crackled and a shadow fell across the desk. Then James started screaming.
Thinking back on it later, Hailey compared the change on her husband’s face to the switch from Bachman to Blur. It was just as sudden, just as jarring, though much less contrived. One second that corny publicity shot grin she’d grown to loathe more with each new day of their marriage. The next, a look of total, wide-eyed hysteria as he tore the cans from his head and stumbled, panicked, away from the desk.
“James?” said Dean, his own grin faltering, “mate, are you…?” And then he saw it too. The scariest thing he’d seen in his whole life.
“So… how much did we say?” said Hailey.
“Two fifty,” said Meredith as she reset the alarm.
Hailey counted out the notes. If this had worked out the way she’d heard it did, it’d be worth every penny.
James and Dean were already in the car, sitting together in the back, holding hands and staring into nothing.
“All those wasted years,” said James. “My god, what have we done with our lives?”
“How come we never saw it?” said Dean. “How come we never realised…?”
“My dad wanted me to become a plumber,” said James.
“Gary Peters,” said Dean. “He saw it too, didn’t he? He saw it, and he couldn’t… he…”
The driver’s door opened and Hailey climbed inside.
“I can’t do this anymore, love,” her husband said from the back, his voice breaking, tears still streaming down his cheeks. “I have to get out, I have to get a proper job…”
“We both do,” said Dean. “Retrain or… something. Do something useful with our lives, anything… anything to save us from…”
“I’m so, so sorry,” said James. He was really blubbing now. Hailey’s heart went out to him. She reached over the seat and rested her hand on his shoulder. She hated seeing him like this, but still she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this happy. Relieved. Like maybe they actually had a chance now…
Meredith watched the three of them drive away while folding the money and putting it away in her bag. Then she checked her mobile. Five new messages, all from the wives or girlfriends or significant others of DJs the length and breadth of the country. Word was getting round.
