Breaker Whiskey

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Okay, even if Harry—

Well, I’m still alive and with what is looking like a pretty serious situation on my hands. Junior is clearly here because of me. And if Harry ran from the house because he showed up, then she must have been thinking the same thing I’m thinking which is that he wasn’t dropping by for a cup of tea. 

What does he want? What would I want if I were him?

I’d want back to the real world. I’d want my dad back. I want to punish those who took him from me in the first place. 

You know, even after all the “you are the stone” business I still thought…maybe this wasn’t me. Maybe it’s the choice that Harry made, the one she kept from me for six years, that broke us off into some alternate version of the future. After all, she's the one who—and if she’d just told me then then maybe I wouldn’t have—

[click, static]

I guess it doesn’t really matter. Because it really was me, wasn’t it? This was all my fault. It wouldn’t be him—it wouldn’t be Billings son who’s here if this was all about what Harry did. 

I have to assume the worst, I think. Both about what Junior—god, I guess I am just calling him that now—wants and about…about Harry. 

I think I’m going to—

[click, static]

Fuck, I guess I really can’t talk about that shit on here, can I? I can’t work through my problems or plans out loud, at least not before I’ve done them. 

I never could have expected that would be so lonely. To keep my thoughts to myself. But it is. 

[click, static]

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See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

It isn’t…it isn’t Billings. Fox was right. Or at least—

[click, static]

I should explain. I don’t know for who’s benefit but…

I went back to the house this morning. I didn’t— I didn’t go in or anything, I…well, I staked it out. I know the woods around the house like the back of my hand, felt fairly confident that I could stay out of sight and see if anyone was going in and out. See if Harry had come back. 

She hasn’t, as far as I can tell, but he’s still hovering around. He drove up in a shitty old VW that sounded like it was gasping for breath and went inside for…fifteen minutes? And then he left again. Doing what I’m thinking is probably a daily check. To see if anyone has shown up. To see if there’s been any change. 

God am I glad I had the common sense not to broadcast that I was going back today. 

I don’t think he saw me. Though I’m not sure what would have happened if he had. I got a good look at him and it wasn’t…

The weird thing is that it did look a little like Billings. Same blond hair, same light eyes—I was too far away to really get a sense of the color, but it’s such a sunny day and his eyes were kind of…glowing in that way that blue or green eyes do when the sun is shining in them. 

Harry’s eyes do that. 

But he was—he wasn’t an average sized forty something guy. He’s…slight build. Reedy like he doesn’t eat very much. Maybe a little on the shorter side. Felt like I could snap him in half just looking at him. And he’s…young. Early twenties I’d guess? If that? Still had some baby fat around his cheeks, but I thought I could see some dimples too. Or the hint of them, just like…

Am I dealing with some kind of time travel? Is this the young Billings, traveled…forward in time to prevent something that’s already happened? It makes no sense. I know that I haven’t traveled back in time, because I’ve read just about every single newspaper from 1968 that I could get my hands on, just to have something to do. 

I took a photo. So that I could look at it later, see if I could remember anything else about Billings, if he had a mole or a scar that would give him away. Or else see if I could recognize whoever this person is. 

Except the picture—I mean, I took it from far away but I could see him through the viewfinder, I should be able to see him in the photo too. But instead there’s just…nothing where he should be standing. 

It’s more evidence that, for whatever reason, photos are showing me something I can’t otherwise see. People that aren’t there; empty space where there shouldn’t be. 

That mystery will have to wait. I have to go meet Harry. 

God willing. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

Junior

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

What do you mean it’s not him? I was so certain—I mean, of course I knew there was a possibility that it was someone else, just wearing the same cologne, but why would Harry leave, why would the back door be broken? Why would my flight or fight instinct have kicked in so hard the moment I felt his presence in the house?

I guess I’ll—

[click, static]

Well, I guess I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking, what I’m planning on here. I guess I should just do it. Because on the off chance you’re lying to me, I don’t want to give—

[click, static]

Fuck, Harry, where are you?

Please, let me know that you’re okay. Somehow. Send up a flare or go back to the house or—

Actually, don’t do either of those. And I can’t tell you where I am, not on a public channel. I’m not sure you can even hear this. If you do have a radio, maybe you can hear this but not respond, or not broadcast far enough to reach me. I just have to hope that’s the case. 

You know that place that we went once in the spring of…’71? ’72? I can’t remember, they all blur together after a certain point. But that day stands out shining gold from all the rest. It was a really good day. The first crop of strawberries had come early, and you made shortcake and you let me drive us all the way to…well, to that town we picked up bottles of champagne in, which I’m not going to say the name of because then we found that place, where we had the picnic. Strawberry shortcake and champagne for lunch…we got a little drunk. Just tipsy really, on the champagne and the perfect sunny day we had, unseasonably warm. 

And we didn’t argue for a whole afternoon. Well, that’s not true, we argued about everything, but it was…they were arguments that didn’t matter. You tried to convince me that Rothko is one of the greatest painters of the twentieth century and I told you I just didn’t get it. You got so red in the face—because of the sun, because of the champagne, because of how impassioned you were describing his style to me, explaining what was so revolutionary about it. I tried to poke holes in it all, telling you it was just big blocks of color, that all his stuff looked like someone trying to decide what color to paint their living room and gave up halfway through. (laughs) You hated that. But anytime I said anything particularly offensive to you, you would push on my shoulder with your palm and the more we had to drink, the more you let your hand linger, tracing your fingertips down my bare arm whenever you pulled back. 

So I couldn't exactly tell you the truth—that I like Rothko. That I didn’t agree with a word I was saying. That maybe I did, at one point in time, but you’d been telling me about his art for so long that I’d started to see it differently, that I’d gone to an exhibit of his art once without you, just to try and understand what you saw, try and understand you. That I had your voice in my head the whole time, pointing out everything special in the paintings and that that made me love him. That the way you see art, the way you see the world, made me love a lot of things. 

If I’d told you that, you would’ve stopped pushing me. So instead I pulled your pigtails like we were kids on the playground. And you pulled right back, teasing me about my music taste, saying you could take the girl out of the country but you couldn’t take the country out of the girl. And I know you’ve never liked that kind of stuff, but you still got me to recite all the lyrics to “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry” and then you made me sing them, even though you know I’ve got a shit voice and you leaned your head on my shoulder as I sang and I think…I think you liked the song. I think you liked something. 

[click, static]

Meet me there. In that place where we had that picnic. In the hour before the sun sets. On Friday. That will hopefully give you enough time to get there from…wherever the hell you are.  

Just…come find me. 

[click, static]

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I moved again. I’m torn between thinking it would be good to find a place to bunker down until I can figure out what’s going on, or find Harry, and thinking I should just keep moving, never stop driving. Except driving definitely draws attention—he could hear the sound of the engine from…who knows how far away, now that the world is as quiet as it is. 

I know I should just get the hell out of dodge and leave Pennsylvania entirely. And I’m not saying I haven’t, I could be as far as Vermont or Tennessee or Indiana by now. But—I mean— 

Harry. I can’t just give up on her. If she doesn’t have a car then she can’t have gotten far. But of course, when the whole world is a hiding place, even a small area is like looking for a needle in a haystack. So I just keep moving. Hoping I’ll see some sign of life. 

And I guess I’m hiding too. There’s no other word for it really. All that time on the open road, doing whatever I wanted, broadcasting all the time, I got so used to being unfettered. Especially after so many years trapped within the four walls of a house for all intents and purposes. But now, he could be around any corner. Driving down the road, my eyes are peeled not for anything out of place, anything that might point to someone out there, but for danger. Human danger. 

And talking like this, now, feels foolishly dangerous. Maybe he can follow the signal, maybe I’ll slip up and say something that gives away where I am. But what other choice do I have? If I’m going to find Harry, if I’m going to get any kind of explanation from Birdie or Fox, I can’t give this up. 

I can’t imagine what he’s thinking if he can hear this. Is that how he found the house in the first place? Because he heard my broadcasts, heard me talking about Pennsylvania and Harry and thought…

He shouldn’t have anything against Harry. Not really. I’m the one who—

Part of me thinks I should just let him do whatever it is he wants. That that will somehow…set things right again. That it will set me free, set Harry free. Even if I think my freedom would come in the form of death. 

Maybe that would be worth it, to send Harry back to wherever it is she really belongs. She shouldn’t have to live with the consequences of my actions, even though I’m living with the consequences of hers. 

But me and him? Our fates are too intertwined to be untangled. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

Not him

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Okay, sorry, I— I had to move. I thought I heard…

(a dark laugh) It’s just like the early days again. Jumping at every sound, looking over my shoulder. Except at least then I had Harry and now she—

[click, static]

I have to think she ran. I have to think that wasn’t his first time in the house and that she ran. Because the alternative—she’s dead and buried already, he’s abducted her…is that what this is? He took Harry already and he came back for me because we’re just rats trapped in a maze laid out for one dead man’s revenge? All that shit about Eternity and stones and ripples and this really is just purgatory after all. 

Fox said I didn’t destroy the future. Just my future. You can’t put emphasis in morse code but I think I got it anyway. 

I don’t even know his first name. Billings. That’s the only name I have for him. I only heard it once or twice from the other guards as we were being loaded into the transport. 

He had green eyes, blond hair. He had a kind of crooked tooth in the front of his mouth and the fairest hint of dimples on his cheeks—I’ve spent so much time thinking about how he probably had a really sweet smile. 

He was older. Mid-forties, maybe? He wasn’t a small guy, but wasn’t all that tall either—I guess he was the epitome of average height and build. I think about that a lot too. How even though I’m tall and pretty hale and hearty even before I spent six years chopping wood and fixing holes in our roof, I’m still…well, a male prison guard my same height in the prime of his life probably would’ve been able to…

I don’t know. Maybe what happened would have always happened. Maybe his middle age didn’t make him slower, or weaker, and I always would’ve—

[click, static]

Yeah, I can’t do this. 

[click, static]

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Alright, okay, I’m thinking I should maybe explain some things. 

[click, static]

Though you’d think by this point I’d earned some explanations of my own, but then again I guess I have the advantage of speaking in words, not dits and dahs. But I did say I’d happily sit by the radio for hours and translate whatever you wanted to send me, so if you do have explanations to give…

I’m not sure who I’m even addressing this to at this point. 

I’m…I’m safe. For now, at least. I won’t say where I am, obviously. Not when this transmission might be heard by—

[click, static]

It doesn’t make any fucking sense. But maybe it’s the only thing that does make sense. The man, in the house—god, he might still be there, he—

I recognized his cologne. And it could be—I mean, it could be anyone, right, for all I know it’s the most common cologne there is but…

I’m the stone. I caused the ripple. I killed a man who was just doing his job and, in doing so, destroyed the future. 

And somehow, that man broke into my house. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

Not the future. Your future

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See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

(whispering)

Someone…someone’s here. 

[click, static]

It’s not Harry, I know Harry’s footsteps, I know the shape of her shadow, and this is not her. I don’t…

[click, static]

I’m in my closet. They’re—whoever they are—they’re still moving around the house, quiet and slow, like they’re…

(a hushed laugh) Well, it’s like they’re casing the place. They’re moving like I used to back when I was robbing penthouse apartments. 

And maybe—I mean, I had the thought that maybe it was Pete or something, but—

I mean, it’s a person. Even if my instinct to waking up to someone moving through the house like they didn’t want to be heard was to hide, it’s still a goddamn person. There is someone else in this world and they’re alive. 

And I was about to risk it, was about to go out there and see who it is and introduce myself but the closer I got to my bedroom door…

I caught a whiff of something. A—a cologne or a…I don’t know, but it…my stomach fell to the floor. Because I know that smell, it’s burned in my brain for the rest of my life but there’s no way—

[click, static]

Except if I’m right…then I’m in danger. If I’m right, then whatever is going on with Harry might be a lot worse than I thought. 

I need to get out of here.  

[click, static]

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

You’re not anywhere. 

I checked everywhere I could think, I had my radio on the whole time and you’re not…

I don’t know what to do, Harry. There’s no sign of you. I don’t know how to fix this. 

I did fix up the back door hinge just now and taking a closer look…this hinge has always been a problem, I mean I should’ve just replaced it years ago but I think it would’ve required refitting the doorframe, because I’m pretty sure it’s a problem with the wood, not the hinge itself, but, well. It’s not loose in the way that it has been before. It…the wood around it is splintered. And I checked the other hinges too and the wood around them looks…stressed. Like the door was forced. 

Did something happen here? Nothing really looks out of place, there’s no sign of a struggle but…

God, what am I doing? Trying to be some kind of amateur sleuth and read a crime scene where there is none. The back door is old as shit. Maybe you had your hands full coming inside and pushed it a little too hard. Who knows. 

But then again, what else am I supposed to think? There’s something wrong here and I know it’s only been a few days but if you’re not here then maybe I really did imagine you and—

[click, static]

At least all the power in here still works, so I’m going to hook up my CB in my bedroom and keep it on all night. Just…tell me you’re okay. Tell me where you are. 

[click, static]

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