Jack O'Connell - Wireless

He turns his attention to a large reel-to-reel recorder with a flashing red button labeled timer . He hits the rewind toggle and the tapes spin backward on their axles. He hits stop and then play .

“Here we go,” Speer whispers aloud.

The woman’s voice is replaced by a squeal of feedback, then the static cuts out completely, and after a second of dead air, a laid-back voice announces:

You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. We here at anarchy central agree wholeheartedly. “All-talk radio,” my ass. What they’re handing out here is all babble. Straight from the puppet’s mouth. I’m not saying I got anything better. I’m just saying we’re here to knock them on their asses for a while. So, tell your friends. The rumors are true. We’re ba-a-a-ck .

Speer smiles and says, “So am I, dickhead.”

… Well, you’ve been even more libidinously confused than normal tonight. I see my services are needed now more than ever. But the hour is late and my tongue is tired. So, until next time, this is Veronica Wilcox, the diva of deviant delights, saying, fuel the fantasy and keep in touch.

As the close-out theme rises, the regulars in Minnesota immediately start their critiquing of Libido Liveline . Flynn starts to file through bodies, moving out of the crowd, either nodding his head in agreement with their assessments or giving a warm and noncommittal laugh. He won’t argue with even the most ludicrous of criticisms. He’ll simply pat the commentator on the back and move on to more lucid company.

Flynn doesn’t like antagonism. He doesn’t see what it accomplishes, finds it reductive and time-consuming. As a result, he ends up spending a large chunk of all his time in Wireless playing the healer, soothing hurt feelings and trying to build shaky treaties between overly sensitive and cliquish people.

A regular named Frank St. Claire starts to rewind the requisite tape they’ve made of the show and Flynn knows this means the heavy-duty analysis is about to start. They’ll be huddled over the reel-to-reel beyond closing time, replaying the show inch by inch, jotting down notes and thumbing through cross-referenced index cards, debating every word of advice that’s fallen from the lips of the goddess . This is the core cult of Libido Liveline fans, the die-hards, the people who just can’t get enough, whose daily meaning and reason for moving and drawing breath has filtered down to a local radio show.

G.T. squeezes a last few arms on his way to the barber chair. He’s not into the obsessive dissection. As a matter of fact, though he’d never admit it to the fanatics, he’s not even that interested in what Ronnie Wilcox has to say. It’s simply her voice that gets to him. For all he knows, he’d get the same sweet charge, the same addictive chill, just listening to her read from the phone book.

He mounts his throne, the antique, handle-pump, brass-trimmed barber chair that’s located in a dim, cavelike niche in the rear of the bar. It’s from this post that he plays big daddy every night, dispensing love advice, floating loans of up to a C-note and occasionally beyond, reinterpreting a painful quarrel between two edgy friends, confiscating car keys for the overindulgent and offering rides home to all parts of the city. Each night, it’s as if a visit to Flynn’s barber chair is an essential part of the Wireless experience. Newcomers sheepishly approach and shake hands and mumble nicknames. Acquaintances swing by on their way to the rest rooms, dropping the latest radio joke or asking a pop fashion opinion. Novice radio-heads solicit quick quotes on antique sets, while the longtime aficionados settle in for ten- minute debates about recent FCC legislation. The punks come by for a free beer. The tech-heads want a pat on the back for their latest innovations. The amorous seek out an introduction to a newfound prospect. And the simply lonely want any kind of exchange, the basic interplay of human voices.

Flynn supplies it all, every night, and quietly, demurely, revels in it. He’s the main player of Wireless, maybe more essential than either Ferrie or Most. Tonight’s no exception to the tradition. Over the course of a half hour he sees most of the congregation. Hazel cruises by to ask if she can borrow his car next week and he smiles and assures her mi Saab es su Saab . Jimmy Donato hits him up for a twenty to lay on an upcoming round of nine ball and Flynn slides him a crisp, new bill. Jojo Mehlman needs some bolstering over the brutal divorce he’s wading through and Flynn goes to work, assuring a quick resolution and predicting lines of new women by spring. Norris Christianson has a need to recount the graphic details of his recent proctosigmoidoscopy and Flynn nods gravely and sympathizes over the strange ways of the lower digestive tract. Everybody seems to have a problem tonight. Laurie Geneva is convinced her new husband the dentist is slamming that bitch hygienist and Flynn assures her Graham would never do this. Nina Texier, lead guitarist for the industrial-funk band Grammatology, has sprained her wrist and Flynn recommends a specialist who owes him a favor and won’t charge her. A three-hundred-pound bald guy, known only as Dix, relays his recent problems with the licensing commission and Flynn promises he’ll make a call to Counselor Donaghue.

For the next half hour, they come like pilgrims to the barber chair, some edgy and some smashed and some angry, but most just anxious for five minutes of G.T.’s time. Does it ever bother him that no one comes offering a favor? Flynn knows that’s not the nature of the game. It’s not the posture he’s assumed and besides, he doesn’t need any favors. He’s more than content just being able to pass them out.

As Dix waddles away, Flynn smiles to see the next visitor is one of his favorites. Gabe is probably also the youngest regular at Wireless, maybe about fifteen years old. In the beginning, Ferrie got a little nervous when he found the underage kid next to Flynn at the bar. But Flynn calmed him down by hinting at friends on the liquor board and Gabe has now become not only a regular but one of Hazel’s inner circle. On this score, Flynn feels a bit ambiguous. Hazel’s people are young and it’s good Gabe can hang with people close to his own age. But some part of G.T. wanted to keep the kid pure, shield him, at least for a short while, from the political feuding of the jammers.

Like Hazel and himself, Flynn knows Gabe doesn’t have much in the line of family. He’s a mulatto out of someplace on the border of the Canal Zone. And, unfortunately, when he gets the least bit excited, he’s overtaken by a siege of stuttering. Lately, though, Flynn’s noticed that the boy’s speech seems to improve when he’s around Hazel. And for that reason alone, he can’t bring himself to discourage the enormous case of infatuation he’s seen build up over the past couple of months. Gabe’s got it bad for Hazel, a classic case of puppy love, a schoolboy crush of painful scope.

Flynn studies him now, slouched in the adjoining chair, ignoring the slick skateboarding magazine that Flynn brought him. The kid’s staring across the room to where Hazel is holding court with her muscle-boy, Eddie, and two new faces, possibly new recruits to the clique.

“Another Moxie?” Flynn asks, but Gabe shakes him off without looking over.

Finally he says, “I ga-ga-gotta take a piss,” and slides out of the chair.

Gabe has to wait ten minutes before the men’s room is completely empty. Then he stands in front of the wall mirror, brings his face close until his nose is just about touching the glass, and slowly, methodically, begins to make a series of exaggerated shapes with his mouth, rounding it into a huge “O,” pulling in the lower lip and clamping it with his teeth. He only gets a minute or so before someone comes in, then he exits and drifts through the crowd for a while.