An attic wasn’t so bad after all.
Jim sank lower into the bed, pulling his quilt underneath his chin. He stared at the ceiling as he listened to the muffled voices below rise, then fall again. A draft blew in from one of the corners–a seam left untended when they renovated the top floor into bedrooms. Something rustled to his right–his step brother, in the next room. Just as Jim’s eyelids lowered, the voices rose again. Then, a crash. The boy winced. It sounded like one of the tea cups. Maybe a coffee mug. No, too light. A saucer, maybe.
He flipped over, curling with his back to the wall. The bedside table held an old radio, with faded white knobs and an orange dial. He clicked it on, quickly adjusting the volume. There was a science to it–he’d managed to find the exact frequency to make just enough noise to lull him to sleep without waking his step siblings in the neighboring rooms. He scrolled through the AM stations, finding his favorite. The Who and Elvis didn’t play this late–most often it was something classical. Maybe some jazz for good measure. The Kansas City Symphony didn’t exist yet, but every now and then local musicians would come on to jam, or promote their latest set.
The low tones floated through the air, softened by the space in the room. Jim focused as the next song was introduced, following the notes as they hit the acoustics of the drywall. He took note of the crooning textures, eyelids fluttering, and slowly fell asleep. Hours later, he awoke to mumbling static and a quiet house. He leaned over and switched the radio off, the orange of the dial fading.
Decades flew by, and a lot of music happened in between. Jim played in the high school marching band, and schemed with college roommates to make a surround-sound chair-speaker setup (while hiding an entire car engine in their closet, which is a story for another day). The step-siblings didn’t last long. The radio lasted a little longer. Before he knew it, he was hooking up speakers for his garage metal shop.
One day, a blue, 1996 Plymouth Neon pulled into his garage. The entire space burned with the sickly-sugar smell of hot metal. Jim flipped a switch, and the laith he was working on simmered to a halt. The grind of the garage door briefly muffled the soft rock playing on 98.1 over the radio. He turned, motioning to pop the hood.
The driver stepped out– a bright eyed, brown haired girl with a nose that looked like his. She stuck her keys and wallet in her back pocket and wandered around to the hood. She cocked her head, listening, and grimaced.
“Backstreet Boys? I thought Dan was hosting today?” She said.
“I don’t think he’s on Saturdays. He didn’t say anything about a schedule change when I saw him Sunday.” Jim shrugged.
98.1 started to evolve in the early aughts–the girl’s childhood was decorated by a playlist full of Huey Lewis and the News, Billy Joel, Foreigner, Bryan Adams, Journey, Phil Collins, and even the occasional Aretha Franklin and Van Halen. Her dad would often stop her in her tracks to listen for the sax line or change in synth pad in an 80’s hit. The Blues Brothers was a shared favorite movie between them, as it contained ALL of the greats. She liked layered songs best, especially if there was a dramatic key change (Bon Jovi seemed to be the best at it, but don’t quote her on that). The station was changing though, as they do. Love ballads and electric drum solos were now sprinkled with current day Celine Dion and the boy bands she listened to as a pre-teen.
It wasn’t bad, it was just different. Eventually 98.1 would meet its inevitable end. Jim joked with bittersweet humor, wondering aloud if he could set up one of those “in memory” crosses outside the station headquarters when it eventually turned into talk radio.
Jim stepped over to the hood of the car, holding a paper towel. He pointed out the various fluids the girl needed to be aware of, noting when to check and to change them. He drew out the oil stick, wiping it down and noting the level, then made her do it. He handed her a tire pressure gauge, and they knelt down to line it up properly. Just as she screwed the cap on the last tire, Queen started to play.
She checked her watch, and started. “I’ve gotta get over to Ihop. I’m meeting up with Amanda to make sense of our syllabuses.”
“One last thing,” Jim said, and handed her two containers of oil. “Look at the type. Make sure you memorize it so you know which one to keep on hand, ok?”
She threw a quick “thanks” over her shoulder as she placed the oil in her trunk and flipped the garage door opener. She waved as she backed out, curving around to face the street, then put it in drive. She paused for a moment, fiddling with the dials on her stereo (a gift for her seventeenth birthday), then pulled out.
Old and crumbling sidewalks flew past her in a blur outside the driver’s side window. The sweetgum trees that had decorated the streets and annoyed home-owners for decades swayed at her as she made her way down the street. She hadn’t accelerated enough for the AC to kick on, and sweat was starting to dribble out from underneath her hairline. She lowered the window, then cranked the volume on the radio. Her favorite DJ was on, using her husky wit and bright charm to talk about the latest stupid thing that was happening that day. The corner of her mouth curled upward. Just as she hit her first turn, Fall Out Boy began their familiar ascent: “Am I more than you bargained for, yet?”
She was about to start her sophomore year, finding herself and who she was in a college across the state. Her life was engulfed by good good people and a town where, somehow, she still managed to feel like a square peg in a round hole most of the time. 96.5 FM felt like home in ways that were difficult to articulate. Sure, there were plentiful notes of Panic! At the Disco and The Killers over the airwaves. There was also everything else. Florence and The Machine. JOSEPH. Elle King. Weezer. Gorillaz. The White Stripes. Dorothy. BORNS. Alien Ant Farm. Glass Animals. Even, on rare occasions, DropKick Murphys.
She had been raised on a healthy diet of millennial pop and nineties country that had their merits, but seemed to have lyrics fully centered around falling into or out of love*. She’d wafted through deep-water legalism immersed in Contemporary Christian hits only to land on a genre that embraced art and life that was full, loud, rough around the edges and cussed only a little.
Everyone she knew that religiously listened to 96.5 The Buzz always acted like they were the first to find it. She never corrected them, because that was how it was supposed to feel.
The AC finally blew cold air, and she reluctantly rolled the windows up at a stoplight. There was something about the sunlight in your hair that made a song taste better. But her short side pieces were falling out of her scrunchy, and she couldn’t risk singing The Struts looking like a cat in a dryer.
Much like any station, The Buzz changed, renamed, and eventually died. The number on the dial belongs to sports radio now, which is probably appropriate given the way the city is growing. I’ll never forget the subtle way it made me feel like I belonged, though.
Nor 98.1.
Nor an old, vintage AM radio on my dad’s bedside table.
Footnotes:
*With the occasional “No, I AM beautiful” song thrown in every now and then.
