by Andrew Nance
“Wade?” the writer asked.
“Huh? Yeah, sure.”
“Shoot. Where was I?”
“The phone call to the radio station,” Millie said.
Demarius found his place on the page and cleared his throat.
* * *
“Well, you should, especially with Morningside Hospital for the Criminally Insane right outside of Maplewood,” the woman said.
“Making all those jokes about asylums and insanity, I must be … must be … CRAZY!” Larry the Loon ended the call with his loony laugh. “Hey, some of you are putting your nose to the homework grindstone for that sanatorium known as school. But as your head lunatic at Crazy Radio, I order you to put down your pencil and crank up the volume for the Rolling Stones, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash,’ brand new on Crazy Radio!”
“Thanks, Larry,” I mumbled, and leaned back, ignoring my books. Crazy Radio was the coolest station. McMurphy and Nurse Ratched did some far-out stuff in the mornings. Lizzie Borden ran the midday show, complete with ax-whack sound effects. Trustee Pete and Crazy Aunt Mabel cranked the tunes till seven, when Larry the Loon took the mike. Paranoid Paul came on at midnight, but to be honest, he made me nervous.
It’s a gas gas gas! Mick Jagger brought the song to a close, and Larry came on, “Hey, inmates! In twenty minutes I’ll give away a groovy prize—Winner’s Choice Saturday! Hang out for your chance to win on Crazy Radio!”
I looked at my homework. What a drag. I slammed the book shut and stuffed my half-finished report into a drawer. It was Thursday night. My mom and the old man were going away for the weekend, leaving the next morning. I decided not to crack another book until the weekend was officially over.
I threw on a pair of sweats and lay on my bed. “Fire” by the Crazy World of Arthur Brown came on, and I stared at the ceiling, thinking about the weekend. It would blow my mind to get Shelley DeCamp over. “Hey, Shelley,” I’d say, “come to my pad for a little free love.” She’s such a turn-on. Tall, long black hair, those beautiful eyes. But reality can be a drag; Shelley hardly even acknowledged my existence.
“Hey, inmates! Time for the contest. We’ll supply whatever the winner wants for Saturday night, courtesy of our Go-To Guy!” Occasionally they’d talk about the Go-To Guy. He wasn’t a disc jockey, so I figured he was a producer or something like that. “Caller ten will get a crazy question. A correct answer wins! It’s Winner’s Choice Saturday at 555-CRZY!”
I picked up the phone and dialed. I couldn’t believe it when it rang. I’d always gotten a busy signal when calling for their other contests.
“Hey, hey! You’re on the funny phone with Larry the Loon!”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to you, man? You’re caller ten! Who is this?”
“Jimmy Stevens.”
“Jimmy, I have a crazy question for you about crazy killers. In the psycho story ‘The Hook,’ the maniac escapes from an asylum and seeks victims on Lovers’ Lane. What does he leave dangling from the door handle of the young couple’s car?”
“Ummm—his hook hand?”
“Jimmy, you are absolutely, one hundred percent CORRECT!”
* * *
The doorbell rang at six on Saturday. I ran down the stairs in a new pair of hip-hugging bell-bottoms. I also wore a purple paisley shirt and a pair of ankle-high black boots. I wondered what they’d wear. I’d always had a mental image of Larry the Loon as a tall, muscular guy who dressed mod. The Go-To Guy was a complete mystery. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a lumpy toad next to a thrift-shop private eye.
“Hey, hey, Jimmy!” the lumpy one bellowed. He was short and round. Tangled red hair shot in all directions. Though he was at least thirty, acne covered both cheeks. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt with the Crazy Radio logo emblazoned across the chest. “I’m Larry the Loon, and this is my associate, the Go-To Guy!”
It was hard to pinpoint the Go-To Guy’s age. He could’ve been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. A brown fedora sat on his head, and his shoulder-length brown hair was meticulously combed. A black cigar was clamped in his mouth, the smoke thick and pungent. He wore a plaid sport coat. Underneath was a white shirt and red bow tie. Something about his eyes clued me in to the fact that he was a serious man.
The Go-To Guy took the cigar from his mouth, and softly said, “Hiya, chief.”
“Uh, hi.”
“Now, Jimmy, I know it’s a Winner’s Choice Saturday, but we have some ideas for tonight.” Even in person, Larry had a deep, smooth voice.
“Yeah, well, I was just going to hang out with you,” I said.
“Right on! How about dinner at Mad Hatter’s?” Larry articulated. “Then you can bring a date to see Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs at the Rock House in Maplewood!”
“Wow, that’d be great, but I don’t have a date, and don’t I have to be eighteen to get into the Rock House?”
“Tonight you’re cruising with us! Anything is possible!”
I had hoped that we’d ride around in a cool radio van, but the Go-To Guy got behind the wheel of an old junker that left a trail of smoke as we drove across town. We pulled into the restaurant parking lot, a line of red taillights in front of us.
“Wow!” Larry said. “Mad Hatter’s is busy tonight!” Larry talked in real life like he did on the radio. Everything ended in an exclamation point.
The Go-To Guy cut off an approaching car to grab a parking space. He ignored the angry honk and pulled his daisy-shaped keychain from the ignition. The old Rambler chugged, coughed, and died. Crossing the parking lot, I saw a 1947 cherry-red Chevy Fleetline in mint condition. I looked in the window at the leather seats, huge dashboard, and wood steering wheel. There was enough room to throw a party.
“This is the kind of car we should be cruising in,” I said, cupping my eyes and pressing my face to the glass.
“Hey, kid!” someone yelled. “Get offa my car!” I turned and saw a guy leaning off Mad Hatter’s porch railing. He wore a cowboy shirt and had a beer belly the size of a beach ball. “Put your damn hands on my car again, and we’re gonna have problems.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Sorry.”
The man turned to someone and said, “Can you believe that stupid kid?”
Embarrassed, I looked at Larry, and he shrugged.
The Go-To Guy, however, stared at the man and chewed on his cigar. Then he started for the restaurant, and we followed. Larry and I waited by the door as the Go-To Guy went in. There were twenty-five or so people ahead of us.
“A long wait,” I said.
“I doubt that!” Larry said, happily.
After a few minutes, the Go-To Guy appeared at the door and waved us in. We followed him to a woman in her mid-twenties. Blond and in a miniskirt, her eyes brimmed with tears. She led us to a booth, placed menus on the table with trembling hands, and hurried away.
“What’s up with her?” I asked, nodding at her back. “She looked scared.”
“Must be a bad trip,” the Go-To Guy said.
Larry’s loony laugh was cool on the radio, but in public, it was embarrassing.
“How’d you get a table so quick?” I asked the Go-To Guy.
He winked and blew smoke at me. “I asked her name, then told her I would get her address and pay her a late-night visit if she didn’t seat us right away.”
“Huh?”
“We’ve learned it’s best,” Larry said in perfect radio vocalese, “not to question how the Go-To Guy gets things done!”
Dinner should’ve been great; Mad Hatter’s makes great burgers. Larry, though, was a bummer. During dinner he quizzed me in his dominating voice, finally turning to girls.
“So who’s the lucky lady you’ll bring to the concert tonight?”
“Uh, well, I don’t have anyone to bring—just us, I guess.”
The Go-To Guy pulled concert tickets from his pocket. “I have four tickets. It’s a magic night, chief. There’s gotta be somebody you’d want to go with.”
“Shell
ey DeCamp.” Her name fell from my mouth before I realized I’d spoken. “But—uh—there’s no way she’d go out with me. She’s popular, you know?”
“Shelley DeCamp?” the Go-To Guy repeated. “Be right back,” he murmured, and slid from the booth. “Where can I find a phone?” he asked a passing waitress.
The Go-To Guy returned ten minutes later as Larry and I finished our meals.
“I’ll take care of dinner.” Larry grabbed the check and made for the front.
“I think I’ll hit the bathroom,” I told the Go-To Guy.
“And I’ll take care of our transportation,” he whispered.
When I came out of the restroom, I saw Larry by the cashier. The Chevy guy who’d yelled at me walked out the door. I joined Larry, and we waited for the Go-To Guy. After a couple of minutes, the Go-To Guy popped his head inside the front door and waved at us. I wondered why we were waiting for him if he was already outside.
“Hey, Jimmy! Where are you going?” I was midway across the parking lot, but they had stopped next to the cherry-red Chevy. “Your wish is our command!” Larry announced. “Here’s our ride for the rest of your Winner’s Choice Saturday!”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” the Go-To Guy said. “Turns out the owner is a Crazy Radio fan and donated it for the night.”
That was cool, I thought, and climbed in. The Go-To Guy turned the key, and the engine roared to life. I heard a couple of thumps from the back of the car.
“I need to take care of something,” the Go-To Guy said and, letting the loud engine idle, he got out, went around the back of the car, and opened the trunk. After a moment he returned and we drove off.
We headed in the opposite direction from the Rock House in Maplewood, but I didn’t say anything. We ended up downtown and pulled into the parking lot of the Royal Theater, where 2001: A Space Odyssey was showing. The Go-To Guy got out.
“I’ll be right back,” he said softly.
Five minutes later, he exited the theater. My heart stopped when I saw Shelley DeCamp and Brian Silva with him. Oh, no! Brian would cream me good for interrupting their date. Don’t come over here, don’t come over here, I chanted under my breath. I sighed a thank-you when Brian pointed further into the parking lot and they started in that direction, Shelley first, then Brian, then the Go-To Guy.
“So, that’s your beloved Shelley.”
I jumped at Larry’s basso voice. “How’d he find her? What’s he doing?”
“Getting your date,” Larry said with a smile. “Guess he called her house from Mad Hatter’s and found out she was here.”
“But Brian Silva is her date.”
“The Go-To Guy can be persuasive.”
They stopped by a sedan in the dimly lit parking lot. Someone opened the trunk. A moment later, the Go-To Guy closed it. He pointed our way. Shelley shook her head and backed up. He grabbed her arm, pulled her close, and spoke to her for a minute. Had he put Brian in the trunk? Then, still holding her arm, the Go-To Guy started back, pulling her along. I sat in shock as the door opened and Shelley slid beside me.
“Hi, Jimmy,” she said. For a second her face was tense, then she smiled.
The smell of her perfume cut through the cigar smoke and made me dizzy and giddy. I giggled and slapped a hand over my mouth.
“So we’re going to a concert?” Her words came to me fine, but her lips moved in slow motion. Just watching her speak was erotic.
“Wh—what about Brian?” I stuttered.
“Um—it’s you I—uh, want to be with.” Then she did it. She leaned over and our lips touched. It was better than I’d ever imagined.
The next couple of hours were mind-blowing. Shelley and I made out the whole trip there. The doorman at the Rock House tried to card us, but the Go-To Guy had a private word with him, and we not only got in, but got a table up front. Larry ordered a round of beers. I’ve tried beer a couple of times and have to agree with my friend Eric Moss: it tastes like horse piss, so I just sipped mine. Shelley, though, drank one after another. Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs were out-of-sight. We danced for “Wooly Bully” and “Li’l Red Riding Hood.” When we sat, Shelley kept a hand on my thigh.
The band finished, and Larry said, “We can stay for the late show if you want!”
The Go-To Guy looked from me to Shelley. “No. I think there’s something Shelley wants to do for our winner.”
She stiffened beside me. She smiled, but her eyes—I don’t know—were scared? It was like she had two expressions on her face at the same time.
“I’ll get some beer to go,” the Go-To Guy said, and left the table.
Larry stood and stretched, then strolled up to the empty stage.
Shelley looked around the room, leaned over, and whispered, “Help me, Jimmy.”
I stared at her, trying to figure out what she meant, and asked, “Help you how?”
“Shhhh,” she hissed.
“Help you with what, Shelley?” Larry boomed from just behind us.
Shelley jumped at his voice. “Nothing,” she blurted out. “I didn’t say anything.” Her mouth screwed up, and tears welled in her eyes. She looked past me and gasped, then she forced a smile. I turned as the Go-To Guy approached with a six-pack in his hand.
No one spoke as we rode around. “Spooky,” by the Classics IV, came on Crazy Radio. Shelley sat at the other end of the seat. Why was she so distant now? I sensed her looking at me, and when I turned, she flung herself into my arms.
“Wha—?”
“Now!” she said. “Do it now!”
“Do what?”
She kissed me, long wet kisses with those wonderful Shelley lips. She began to unbutton my shirt. Her hand trembled, and I grabbed it.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s do it,” she demanded, her teeth bared.
“Make love, not war.” Larry laughed from up front.
“But—but—they’re right there,” I stammered.
“Let me get this over with!” Tears started down her cheeks.
“Shelley,” the Go-To Guy said quietly.
“Please”—she was close to hysterics—“so I can get back and see if Brian is all right!”
“Shelley.” The Go-To Guy drew out her name so softly it was almost inaudible.
“Oh, God, I can’t do this!” Shelley leaned away and sobbed.
“The date is over.” The Go-To Guy spun the steering wheel to the left, cutting across two lanes, the wheels squealing. He nearly sideswiped one car and came close to clipping another. Blaring horns diminished as he accelerated.
“Wait!” Shelley pushed even closer to me. “I’m okay. I just had too much beer.”
“The date is over,” the Go-To Guy repeated, and hit the brakes.
We skidded to a stop just past a Ford sedan in the movie theater parking lot.
“I’ll do what you want. I’m smiling, see, just like you said.” Shelley’s mouth stretched into a toothy grimace.
The Go-To Guy leapt from the car, snatched open the back door, and before I knew it, Shelley was gone.
I jumped out. “What are you doing?”
The Go-To Guy shoved me and I fell, hitting the back of my head on the car door. Through swirling starbursts, I saw them by the Ford. He gripped her wrist, and she fought to get free. Then she stared at me, silently pleading. Black mist filled my vision. I shook my head until I could see again. The Go-To Guy stood alone before the Ford’s open trunk, his back to me. He slammed the trunk shut.
Still dazed, I got to my feet. “Where’s Shelley?”
The Go-To Guy pushed me into the backseat, got behind the wheel, relit his cigar, and we drove off.
* * *
There was a burst of light like someone had taken a flash photo. It came again, over and over.
“Mr. Tremblin?” Millie asked.
“My goodness, it’s the time,” he responded.
Time flow was going so quickly that night and day passed in mere moments. It was like
someone stood by the light switch flicking it off and on.
“Check out the clock,” I said. The hands were spinning so fast they looked invisible.
“Maybe it’s good,” Demarius said. “Maybe we’re getting to our time faster.”
Ian Tremblin looked cautiously around, then said, “Continue.”
* * *
Resting my head against the window, I tried to make sense of what had happened. Streetlights and oncoming headlights played over the interior of the car. I wished that I could go home but was scared of what they’d do if I asked.
After a while Larry the Loon said, “Hey, Jimmy! There’re the Crazy Radio studios.”
I didn’t respond.
“It’s right over there, to the right!”
I lifted my gaze. We were out in the country, and the only building I saw was Morningside Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “Where?”
“There.” Larry pointed to the asylum.
“That’s Morningside.”
“I know! We live there! We work there, too!”
“Huh?”
“Crazy Radio is part of a treatment program—you know, the responsibility of holding a real job. Sure, we call ourselves Crazy Radio, but most people think that’s because we’re crazy, wild party people. I don’t think our audience would be too thrilled to know the station was literally run by criminal lunatics. We like to keep that quiet. All our giveaways are usually records, gift certificates, and concert tickets, things we mail to our winners! Some of us thought it would be a gas if we could actually interact with our listeners for a change. And you’re that lucky listener, Jimmy! Trustee Pete has access to keys and helped us get out.”
Have you ever sucked on a milk shake and gotten brain freeze? Only this was a simultaneous brain freeze, stomach freeze, and groin freeze. They were crazy, criminally insane! Some of what had happened started to make sense. The car we’d driven around in all night—the Go-To Guy had taken it from that loudmouth at Mad Hatter’s. What had happened to him? I remembered the noise coming from the back when we first got in. What would I find if I opened the trunk? And what about the trunk of Brian’s car?
“Pull over,” I blurted out.
“You’re the chief,” the Go-To Guy said, and slowed the Chevy.
