Kirk Jones - Aetherchrist

“I’m not sure anyone would give her the time of day, Rey.” He smiles. “Except you.”

“You think you’ll have any luck tomorrow?”

“Should have.” Jim continues playing with his potatoes. “You?”

“Not so sure. These people are backwoods. Like, really fucking backwoods.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“I walked into a mobile home with a chipboard addition. The guy’s wife was comatose on a bus seat screwed into the floorboards, watching static.”

“But you made a sale.”

“Yeah. Still.”

“Look. Don’t worry about it. You’re here to sell knives, not to diagnose the redneck population of northeastern America. Who cares how screwed up they are?”

I take the last bite of my burger and throw a ten on the table. “Guess you’re right.”

The next morning, I have Jim drop me off at the second house on the street.

This place looks a little more inviting. There’s a series of large tents with tables of clothes and other items that lead into a garage. A thick layer of dust coats the clothes. It’s like a year-round yard sale.

I walk inside. The place is lit by television static from three shelves of TVs on both sides of the building. Some of them steadily blare white noise. Others short in and out. An old man sits behind the counter. He stares at a television out of view. “How’s it going?” he asks.

“I’m doing alright. Just looking.”

“You’re the first customer of the season.”

“You get a lot of folks down this way?”

“Not many.” He looks at my briefcase. “Mostly solicitors.”

“You got me,” I say, as I walk to the counter and extend my hand. “My name’s Reymond.”

He shakes my hand. “Bill. I might be able to trade you something, but I don’t have much money. Only change for customers.”

I turn around to see if anything interests me. “All those televisions must put a strain on your breaker.”

“I got a couple kerosene generators if I overload it.”

“I take it you missed the conversion to digital as well.”

He points to a small television behind the counter. An episode of I Love Lucy plays. “I’ve got dish.”

“Why do you leave these on then?”

He stands up. “Every now and then they’ll pick something up. Short emergency broadcasts, people talking. CB transmissions.” He walks over to one of the televisions and starts flicking through the channels. “They don’t say anything important, but I like tapping into these frequencies that aren’t intended for me, or for the general population.”

“You ever see people?”

The man shakes his head. “Not since Canada made the switch to digital. I bet if you had an antenna strong enough… I think there are other countries that still use analog, you know? Most signals don’t go much beyond a hundred miles, though.”

I look at the televisions. They’re all set to channels 2 through 13.

“Those are the ones that pick up something most often, the VHF channels. But this one—” he draws his hand over a television on the second shelf “—I keep this one on UHF. Change the channel every day, hoping to pick something new up.”

I point to one of the televisions that keeps blacking out. “What’s wrong with that one?”

The man walks over to it. “Nothing. Sometimes you have to chase the transmission. The signals shift frequency, so you have to change the channel. Watch.” He turns the dial quickly when the screen blacks out. Each channel in succession is black with one audible utterance. As he turns through six channels in succession, you hear “te-st-tra-ns-miss-ion.” He goes back to channel 7 and starts again: “te-st-tra-ns-miss-ion.”

“It’s been doing that for weeks now,” he says.

“Weird.”

He walks back to the counter. “Not really. We knew the transition to digital was to free up analog airwaves for emergency broadcast. It was no secret. Most people just don’t keep their analog receivers on. Hell, most of the recent televisions just cut to black or blue if they don’t pick up a transmission. These TVs are old enough to where they’ll run the static. Every now and then, you pick up something mildly interesting. And that’s all you can expect to get. Whatever the government’s using analog for, you can guarantee you’re not going to catch any of that.”

I set my briefcase down on the countertop. “My father used to work in television.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans back in his chair. “What’s your last name?”

“Friott.”

“I don’t remember any Friotts where I worked. Was he from around here?”

I nod.

“I worked for public broadcasting back in the early Seventies myself. What’d your dad do?”

“Cable.”

“Ah. That’s why I didn’t know him. Broadcast didn’t get on so well with cable. Economics. You know how it is. At the heart of it, we all wanted the same thing. The towers weren’t capable of expanding the audience without some form of cable. Public broadcasting used telephone. Cable came along and promised to swallow the entire broadcasting industry whole.” He waits for a reaction, so I raise my eyebrows and feign amazement. Anything for a sale. “Wow.”

“Analog’s something I grew up with. You know how people have different preferences when it comes to music? Some like country. Some like rock and roll. I’ve always found myself partial to analog frequency, whether it be static, squeaks, or muffled voices. It all appeals to me.”

This fellow needs to hear some dubstep. That shit’d be right up his alley, I think.

“So, what’re you selling?” he asks.

“Knives.”

“You want a TV?”

“Not particularly.”

“I really don’t have any use for new knives.”

“You could resell them.”

“People come here looking for bargains, usually with a few dollars in their pockets. They couldn’t afford them.”

“I see.” I reach into my pocket. “Can I leave my card?”

“Sure.” His hand shakes uncontrollably as he reaches out to take it. “Why don’t you take one of my flyers on the way out?”

I pull my briefcase off the counter and head for the tents out front, pulling one of the man’s flyers off the table as I go. I wave it at him. “Take care.”

He’s already caught up in the old program behind the counter. “Yeah.” He waves without looking.

That evening, Jim and I head up to a small restaurant in town for a beer. He opens his laptop and grins as the screen flashes. “I’m telling you. It’s Lana!”

“There’s no way she’d put naked pictures of herself online. She could lose her job.”

“That’s why she doesn’t show her face.” He turns his laptop to me. They look like her legs. The red, form-fitting skirt she has pulled up to reveal her labia… yeah, that could be hers too.

“Shut that down! We’re in a restaurant!”

Jim takes a handful of napkins from the dispenser and wipes them across his forehead. “It’s a bar and grill, Rey.”

I point to a couple seated in the corner with their baby. “Family friendly!”

He closes the laptop. “Do you think it’s her?”

“It could be.”

He hands me a slip of paper soaked with sweat. “Here’s the link, one of my usernames and my password. I only send pictures upon request, and I don’t have my—” he points to his crotch “—measurements. So, you don’t have to worry about deceiving her or anything.”

I take the piece of paper. “Thanks, Jim.” Fucker .

He wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his jacket. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“You all right?” I ask.