Mike Faricy - Bite Me

Actually I didn’t, somehow Farrell ‘in the groove’ didn’t seem to compute.

“So that’s it until noon?”

“Well, we stand by, answer the phones, sign up volunteers, get people organized, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, so listeners call?”

“Well they could, I mean that’s what we’re hoping will happen, sometime, anyway.”

It didn’t happen.

The routine was the same at noon, three and five-thirty, only even more boring. I walked around the building and the parking lot a few times just to stay awake. At six I drifted into Thompson’s office, he was pounding away on the future of America, his electric typewriter.

“You feel comfortable with me leaving for the day?”

He stopped hammering the typewriter keys, squeaked his chair around and nodded with a determined look across his face.

“I’d say we sent out a pretty strong message today.”

“Your broadcast?”

“Broadcast? No, you, our protection. We won’t be silenced. Matter of fact it’s provided me inspiration, freedom of speech,” he said and patted the one inch stack of paper on the desk. Just like yesterday it was face down.

“Tomorrow’s broadcast?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Farrell reads that for fifteen minutes and then you play it four times a day?”

“We do.”

“Ever think of maybe shortening it, I don’t know cutting it down to maybe fifteen or twenty seconds. Maybe play some music or something.”

“We’ve done that from time to time, or a version. We’ve had ‘America The Beautiful’ as a background accompaniment once in a while, some Sousa marches.”

“Yeah, I was thinking more like just music, maybe something popular, current, get your audience interested and…”

“Some drug culture thing, that it? You’ve been in the gutter too long, Haskell. We’re not trying to be popular, if that’s what your angle is. We’re here to tell the truth, something that often times is unpopular.” He placed some added emphasis to the un in unpopular.

“Well, I kind of like the gutter, to tell you the truth. But, I was thinking fifteen minutes is an awfully long time to listen to someone going on and on.”

“On and on, that’s what you think we do?”

“You know what I mean, I just wonder if you aren’t missing your mark a bit by trying to tell them too many things. You know the KISS acronym, Keep It Simple Stupid.”

“No, I guess I missed that one,” he said and squeaked around to face his typewriter, signaling the end of our conversation.

“Well, I don’t want to piss you off, but whatever you ran as your message, your word today didn’t seem to cut it. You played the thing four separate times. Fifteen minutes a crack, that’s an hour and unless you got a call center tucked away somewhere, I never heard a phone ring all day long, ever. Not trying to tell you how to run your business Thompson, that’s just my opinion.”

“That’s part of what’s gone wrong with this great nation, everything comes down to the ten second sound bite. Is that what freedom means to you, ten seconds?”

I waited for a moment, a long moment, maybe ten seconds worth.

“Nine forty-five tomorrow, right?”

It was more of the same the next day. The term boring wouldn’t begin to do it justice. Add to that the hot, humid weather and a nap had become one of my top priorities.

Immediately after the dreadful afternoon broadcast Thompson and Farrell had me follow them out of the office to the stairway. As we trudged down the six flights of stairs they filled me in on their latest brain fart. Then Thompson said, “So we up and decided, let’s just advance in another direction.”

“Do you think this is a good idea? I mean, wasn’t the plan that you were going to keep a low profile?” I asked.

“Within reason, but one can never be timid when freedom is involved,” Thompson replied. He sounded breathless and he still had another flight to waddle down.

“But a press conference in front of the building?” I said, “I don’t know, it…”

“That’s right you don’t know we’re just in time to hit the Six O’clock news. Haskin, I’ll handle the PR, you handle protection,” Thompson wheezed and then he pushed the door open and we stepped outside.

There were two cameramen and two people I guessed to be reporters standing there. They were chatting, waiting and looking very bored. One guy flicked a cigarette off to the side as the door closed behind us. I had news for them, it was about to get a lot worse. A woman I sort of recognized in a blonde way was on her cell phone with her back to us.

“Ladies and gentlemen thank you for coming, I’m Thompson Barkwell, CEO of K-R-A-Z, craze radio, seven-forty on your dial. I’m sure you’re all familiar with our on air personality, Farrell J. Earley.”

Farrell nodded, pushed his glasses back up on his nose and exhaled a blue cloud of smoke. Thompson continued, “We’re here today to discuss an extremely serious situation. Over the course of the past seventy-two hours we…”

“Excuse me, please, please, excuse me, sir, Mister Barky is it?” the blonde on the cell phone.

“Barkwell, Thompson Barkwell.”

“Sure, Tiffany Kinny, from The Source . Would you mind starting over, sorry I was on the phone and by the way, do you have a hand out?”

“A hand out, no I do not have a hand out. Maybe you could listen. I have some prepared remarks, and then I’ll take your questions.” Thompson suddenly produced a sheaf of papers that looked like a small phone book. He cleared his throat and began reading.

“It is time that the concept of Freedom of Speech in this great nation is taken back by the people. The very patriots who, in 1776, refused to stand idly by while…”

One of the camera men lowered his camera, shrugged and looked very bored. I’d say Tiffany what’s her face stopped writing, but then I was pretty sure she had never started. Thompson droned on, and on. Farrell had assumed a sort of military parade rest position and stared straight ahead wearing a more dazed look than usual. I tuned the whole thing out and watched a bus fifty yards away at the corner.

By now Thompson was working his way through the Gettysburg address.

“… It is for us the living rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work…”

He lunged, or did he fall? I didn’t know, I was just coming back to reality when I heard the shot, and then another. I saw the car race down the street. Farrell was over Thompson, shielding him, I glanced down the street, couldn’t read the license plate. Hell, I couldn’t even tell if the plate was from Minnesota. A nondescript grey or silver something but I couldn’t catch the make of the car.

One thing was for sure the cameras were suddenly rolling, focused on Thompson and Farrell. Thompson mumbled something to Farrell, they got up together, dusted themselves off.

“Is everyone all right? Anyone hurt?”

“Jesus Christ, did you get that shit?” Tiffany Kinny asked a cameraman from where she was crouched behind a trash can.

“Anything Haskell?” Farrell asked.

I shook my head, still staring down the street, the car was long gone.

“Nothing, not a thing.”

“Folks, who knew? They think they can silence the craze, K-R-A-Z, seven-forty on your dial. Seven-forty, get it, seven four, like July fourth. Seventh month, fourth day. Freedom, Freedom, we will not be silenced. We’ve hit a nerve, people. We’re speaking the truth and someone doesn’t like it. No sir, we will not be silenced.”

The cameras continued to roll as Thompson spoke. Tiffany shook her hair left and right then lunged into camera range to get closer to Thompson.