Olan L. Smith's Short Stories

The Magic Radio

The Magic Radio

©2014, Olan L. Smith

What's a person to do when your upstairs neighbor's radio alarm goes off at 12:30 AM and you are just about to drift off into the land of dreams? I am in a "quiet" apartment building, so to react with noise of my own would just get me evicted, so you think it through. Perhaps they are on a different shift than me. I ponder. After about 15 minutes, it goes off, and all is forgiven. The next night, the same thing happened, and both times the noise wasn't really loud, but the voices were not discernible, and I thought the sound was traveling down a metal stud that my bed's headboard was against. I ignore it, and soon it promptly stops just as the night before, and I figure it is on a timer, like, you know, something for you to listen to as you fall asleep, and then automatically turns off. No big deal. Maybe it is because I am not used to apartment life, I reasoned. This goes on for about a week or so, and I grow used to it.

One night, however, things were different. The radio sound is more distinct, and I understand the announcers. They are talking about good old rock and roll, and I realize it is a syndicated show. They break away from the local ads, mention upcoming baseball games, and then give their call letters. I do a double take; the call letters for the station on FM are not possible in our world. As they say, no such number, no such address." I realize the radio is not my neighbor's, but it is mine. I roll over in bed, look at my radio clock, and think, Okay, what the fuck is going on? I arise from bed, turn on the lights, walk over to my radio, and sure enough, it is my radio that is on, but the switch is in the off position. Okay, weird things happen, right? So, I unplugged it, and it still plays. I think this can't be; perhaps somehow the battery for keeping the clock going during a power outage is the problem, so I take the battery out, and the radio is still playing. Not only is it on, it is on a station that does not exist.

In my hands is a chatter radio with no power to make it work, and it is tuned to a wavelength that does not exist. This will take some serious pondering, so I head to the bathroom. You know the place where serious thinking happens. I pull down the top lid to make a seat and hold in my hands a magical box, an otherworldly radio that plays without electricity, without battery power, and tuned to a nonexistent wavelength. I think, hmm, perhaps I am dreaming. You know, one of those false awakening dreams where you dream you woke up, but you're really in sleep paralysis, lying in bed dreaming you're awake. I pinch myself; it hurts, so that is not it, or at least I think not. I turn the radio over in my hands. I put it to my ears, and the damn thing was still talking. The DJ was rocking the night away in my hand, and after about five minutes of this unexplained weirdness, I decided to tune it to another station. I turn the dial, and presto, the sounds stop. I run up and down the dial; there is no sound anywhere as I travel the wavelengths. Of course not, I think; it is off and unplugged.