band adjacency, he said—this one, the guy who hadn’t smoked a field of weed, was obviously the Head Geek—broadcasting on 94.2, clear space between two “lite”/soft-rock channels. And that was the point, he figured—most of Columbus’s dial was all eaten up by soft rock, country, and Christian radio. All the major monolithic radio entities ran stations in Columbus, but they all broadcast exactly the same kind of material. They all had a Christian station, they all had anesthetic adult easy-listening rock stations playing the kinds of records we used to lift out of our parents’ collections and use as ashtrays when I was a kid.
It suddenly occurred to me: I didn’t remember the last time I went to a gig. Couldn’t remember the last time I heard live music. Or went to a club to hear a DJ.
They played something by another local group, that had the real thump and clang of live music. The drummer started up on the toms, and collapsed into a glorious mess that sounded like he’d kicked the drumkit down a flight of stairs. The bass walked in and made the back of the car rattle. The lead guitarist went screaming down the strings and I laughed out loud, it sounded so good. And then there was a fuckload of static, ten seconds of silence, and a fight. Someone had entered their makeshift recording studio, and one of the kids, probably the smart one, had put the microphone back on.
“We are the FCC,” a loud voice proclaimed. “Take off your clothes and put these orange jumpsuits on.”
“The fuck?” said Herb Boy.
“Pirate radio operations have been reclassified as Broadcast Terrorism. You’re going to be wearing dogs in your asses at Abu Ghraib for the next five years, you dirty bastards.”
“This is community radio!”
“If we wanted communities, we’d make Clear Channel pay us to run them. Put on the hoods, too. No more devil music for you, Radio bin Laden.”
I switched off the radio, miserably, wondering if it was all my fault for listening and daring to enjoy it.
I got a little angry.
Not long after, the passenger-side door opened, and Trix climbed in, grinning.
I took a deep breath and said, “All set?”
“Sure. You should have stayed.” She looked at the dashboard. “What happened to the radio?”
“It broke.”
“Looks like someone kicked it in. Did someone break into the car?”
“Must’ve.” I started up the car. “Let’s go. I need to buy plane tickets.”
“Where are we going?”
“Texas,” I grunted.
She looked at me. Up. And down. And giggled. “Well, they do say everything is bigger there.”
“Oh, ha fucking ha.” I went to adjust my shirt. And found that things had changed.
I guess I’d been in the car a couple of hours. My balls had diminished to an approximation of their standard size. My penis, however, was significantly bigger than I was used to. Like half a dozen times. And, not having rearranged my shirt, I found that I was sticking out of my pants like I was an incompetent salami smuggler.
“They told me that the saline diffuses out in an hour or two,” Trix said. “I guess it migrates on the way.”
She leaned in way too close and whispered, “If that happens to me, my clit is going to look like a pool ball.”
I threw the gearshift and gunned the engine. “You better get some sleep. Neither of us are going to be laying on our fronts tonight.”
“I don’t mind you laying on your back,” Trix said.
“I’m going to order plane tickets and make a phone call, and then I’m going to get so drunk that I cannot see. You can find something to do tonight, right?”
“Sure. I’m going to jerk off like a freak. Want to watch?”
“Jesus, Trix…”
“What is wrong with you, Mike?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! I’m all tingly as hell, I’m hornier than a dozen rabbits, I’ve seen you looking at me, and suddenly you’re a monk. Are you scared of me?”
“Of course I’m not goddamn scared of you.”
“Well, you’re pissing me off,
It suddenly occurred to me: I didn’t remember the last time I went to a gig. Couldn’t remember the last time I heard live music. Or went to a club to hear a DJ.
They played something by another local group, that had the real thump and clang of live music. The drummer started up on the toms, and collapsed into a glorious mess that sounded like he’d kicked the drumkit down a flight of stairs. The bass walked in and made the back of the car rattle. The lead guitarist went screaming down the strings and I laughed out loud, it sounded so good. And then there was a fuckload of static, ten seconds of silence, and a fight. Someone had entered their makeshift recording studio, and one of the kids, probably the smart one, had put the microphone back on.
“We are the FCC,” a loud voice proclaimed. “Take off your clothes and put these orange jumpsuits on.”
“The fuck?” said Herb Boy.
“Pirate radio operations have been reclassified as Broadcast Terrorism. You’re going to be wearing dogs in your asses at Abu Ghraib for the next five years, you dirty bastards.”
“This is community radio!”
“If we wanted communities, we’d make Clear Channel pay us to run them. Put on the hoods, too. No more devil music for you, Radio bin Laden.”
I switched off the radio, miserably, wondering if it was all my fault for listening and daring to enjoy it.
I got a little angry.
Not long after, the passenger-side door opened, and Trix climbed in, grinning.
I took a deep breath and said, “All set?”
“Sure. You should have stayed.” She looked at the dashboard. “What happened to the radio?”
“It broke.”
“Looks like someone kicked it in. Did someone break into the car?”
“Must’ve.” I started up the car. “Let’s go. I need to buy plane tickets.”
“Where are we going?”
“Texas,” I grunted.
She looked at me. Up. And down. And giggled. “Well, they do say everything is bigger there.”
“Oh, ha fucking ha.” I went to adjust my shirt. And found that things had changed.
I guess I’d been in the car a couple of hours. My balls had diminished to an approximation of their standard size. My penis, however, was significantly bigger than I was used to. Like half a dozen times. And, not having rearranged my shirt, I found that I was sticking out of my pants like I was an incompetent salami smuggler.
“They told me that the saline diffuses out in an hour or two,” Trix said. “I guess it migrates on the way.”
She leaned in way too close and whispered, “If that happens to me, my clit is going to look like a pool ball.”
I threw the gearshift and gunned the engine. “You better get some sleep. Neither of us are going to be laying on our fronts tonight.”
“I don’t mind you laying on your back,” Trix said.
“I’m going to order plane tickets and make a phone call, and then I’m going to get so drunk that I cannot see. You can find something to do tonight, right?”
“Sure. I’m going to jerk off like a freak. Want to watch?”
“Jesus, Trix…”
“What is wrong with you, Mike?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! I’m all tingly as hell, I’m hornier than a dozen rabbits, I’ve seen you looking at me, and suddenly you’re a monk. Are you scared of me?”
“Of course I’m not goddamn scared of you.”
“Well, you’re pissing me off,
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