Breaker Whiskey

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Sorry, I got all worked up in my last transmission that I had to go outside and—well, I wanted to chop wood, but that doesn't seem like a common past time here, which isn’t a surprise, so I just went around the neighborhood picking as many citrus fruits from trees as I could find. I just needed to do something physical. 

I’m just…I feel like I’m the only person not laughing at the circus. Or maybe I’m the clown, I don’t know. But how does this keep happening to me. How do I keep ending up entwined with people who fucking lie to me—

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It must be me, right? I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly trusting person, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m just fucking gullible. Or maybe I just want to believe the best in people. But it keeps failing me. I keep trusting all the wrong people and ending up hurt and frustrated and…

It isn’t even that I trusted Birdie. I didn’t. Not completely. I trusted them as much as circumstance necessitated. I had to take them at their word, because what else was there? Better to assume they’re telling the truth than live in a prison of suspicion and conspiracy…   

No. Fuck it. Let suspicion reign. Maybe if I’d been a little less trusting of Harry, I wouldn’t have gotten my heart—

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Jesus, this whole neighborhood is going to be out of fruit by the time I’m done! 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Alright, I’ve had some time to calm down. Get my head on straight. And maybe I should stop broadcasting entirely, but now that I’m on the other side of the country, who knows, maybe there will be some people here. Maybe this will finally reach sympathetic ears. 

Also, I’ve gotten pretty used to talking out loud into this thing. It helps me think. So. 

Here’s where I’m at—I spent the weekend looking through all my notes of everything that Birdie has said and every weird thing that’s happened and I’m going to lay it all out—everything I know—and try to figure out how the fuck it connects, if it does at all. 

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So. Messages that Birdie has sent me that make me fucking angry: 

Telling me to stay out of Denver because it’s a “collision point” and then refusing to explain what that means. 

Telling me I was wrong about my actions not having consequences and then refusing to explain what that means. 

Saying that their job was important, that they betrayed it, and that it hurt people and then, you know, not explaining it. 

And here are the things I know about Birdie—or I think I know: 

They’ve been in the same spot this whole time. They’ve never encountered anyone else. They’re pretty good with a radio, having gotten it to broadcast this far, they don’t have physical speaking capabilities, and they’re trained in Morse code. Though to be fair, I’m technically trained in Morse code by now, so I’m not sure how revealing that is as a biographical fact. 

And here are the things that Birdie has definitely lied about: That they don’t know what happened. 

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I don’t know if you found out what happened between you first contacting me and us talking in real-time. But one of your first messages to me was that you didn’t know what happened. And then when we spoke, you said you did, but that it was too complicated to explain in Morse code. So which is it?

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Of course there’s a chance that you’ve been working much harder than me at actually trying to figure out what happened and you did it, you figured it out, but…well, Occam’s Razor right? I’ve spent nearly half a year driving around the country, looking for people, looking for answers and, sure, I haven’t been scientific about it, but I must have had a better chance of stumbling across something than you, a person who seems to have been sitting by their radio nonstop for 6 years. 

Then again, there were those weeks-long stretches where you didn’t contact me at all, so maybe…

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No, the simplest explanation is that you lied. If I’m being generous, maybe you lied because you didn’t know if you could trust me and then, over the course of a few months, you decided you could. You decided you trusted me enough to talk to me and tell me the truth. But to what end? Why tell me you know what happened, if you couldn’t explain what happened? What would that accomplish?

And that’s such a huge thing to lie about—I mean, I’ve lied in these transmissions, I’ve lied to you, but nothing big. Nothing…consequential. I choose to just not say anything at all instead of telling a big lie. But that’s a big lie, Birdie. That’s an intentional lie—whether the lie was that early message you sent me or when we talked, whichever one it is, it’s a big lie. And it has me thinking…

You don’t make that kind of big lie unless you’re confident in your ability to deceive. That’s the kind of falsehood that’s spoken by an experienced liar, not an amateur. So it wouldn’t have been the only lie you told me. 

But experienced liars don’t fuck up unless they start to lose track of what lies they’ve told. So if you fucked up when you talked to me and told me the truth—that you do know what happened—then, well Birdie, that tells me you’re losing track of the lies. Which means that everything you’ve told me—everything—isn’t to be believed. 

Which puts me…well, if my intent here is to lay out everything I know that I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed. I know fucking nothing. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Fuck you, Birdie. 

Are you serious? You don’t contact me for weeks except to say “Happy Birthday” and now you send me the first substantial message since the last time we talked and you said some stuff that you still haven’t explained and this is what you have to say to me?

“You don’t belong?” 

What the hell does that mean? Who are you to decide where I do and do not belong. If I feel like I belong here, then I belong here. And if this is some kind of twisted way of driving me out of Los Angeles because you’re here—which, don’t think I didn’t notice that your message sounded a little different, maybe like it’s clearer or closer, I don’t know but—well, then you have failed to do that because I’ll search every inch of the city to find you if you’re here. 

“You don’t belong”. Fuck you. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out from my driveway. Well, my current driveway, I’m not sure I can call it mine. 

Although, if “you break it, you bought it” still applies in this upside down world, then I guess the house sort of is mine. 

I broke it. The house I mean. The wiring, at least. I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to do constant work, turn this place into the Winchester Mystery House like Harry always accused me, and I’m not! There are just some basic improvements that are going to make my life easier. Turns out, the power doesn’t work in every room, so I was trying to figure out what went wrong with the wiring and in the process, it seems I’ve cut out power to the whole house. Way to go, Whiskey. 

So that’s going to be my project for the weekend it seems. And obviously this means I can hook up the radio inside, but I’ll be sure to check in through the day, so Birdie, if you feel like chirping at any point, that’d be great. Just do what you usually do and set those messages to repeat. 

But not even your absence or royally fucking up the wiring can dampen my mood. It’s so beautiful here, so warm and bright, and it feels good to have a concrete project ahead of me. Things feel right here. It feels like I belong here more than I ever belonged in Pennsylvania. Sun on my face and lemon trees on my block. 

My block. My house, my terrible electricity. Even if I only stay for a few weeks, it feels good to have something I chose, instead of something I had simply because that’s the situation I landed myself in. 

New year, new start. Things are going to be better. They have to be. 

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[beeps]

You don't belong

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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I picked a house a little bit at random the other day - it was on a block of a bunch of sweet craftsman homes and this one had a nice tree in the yard and when I went inside the power actually worked so… 

I guess that isn’t entirely random. But it isn’t like it was entirely deliberate either. But it turns out, it’s nice. It’s really nice. All the furniture is, well, it’s dusty as hell, but it’s nice furniture. The kitchen is a pretty decent size and has this big window that looks out on the backyard. Which is, of course, very overgrown, but with a little bit of work—

I don’t know why my instinct is to settle down here. I know I said I wanted to take a break from driving for a little while and that’s true—especially now that the days are short—but I keep looking around this place and thinking about how long certain repairs are going to take me, or what kind of garden I could turn the backyard into. 

What kind of garden I could turn it into, that is. I’m hoping that being in a warmer climate will make it easier to grow things, but I’ve still got to start simple. Pick produce that’s hearty, hard to kill. 

See? I keep having thoughts like that and then I have to stop and remind myself that I don’t have to do that anymore. I don’t have to make a home, or anything, just because I’m tired. I can just…relax in a place for a little while. It doesn’t have to be constant work. 

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Not that I’m going to just sit here and what…read? Walk around the reservoir—

Oh yeah, there’s a really beautiful lake near here—the Silver Lake reservoir. I think I made the right choice with this neighborhood. I’ve certainly christened it, what with waking up in a bar this morning, I…

I think I may have gotten a little carried away. I had my radio with me and I’m not sure if I said…well, let’s just say I had a lot to drink and I don’t totally remember if I got on and broadcast anything after the beach so if I did let’s just pretend I didn’t. 

Anyway, I’m not going to be a total layabout. I’m not gonna wake up in a bar again. Part of why I wanted to take a beat, have one central living spot for a little bit is to…process everything. It feels right, now that I’m on the other side of the country and it’s almost been half a year since I left. The right time to think back on the trip so far and…yeah, process. 

Because there are things—a lot of things—that don’t make any sense to me. And for so long those things have been too small or too mysterious to really do anything about. I’ve had nowhere to start when it comes to figuring out what the hell is going on, what the hell happened in Estes Park, what the hell your whole deal is, Birdie. I’ve been taking notes on everything you’ve ever said, every weird thing that happened to me on the road, and maybe it’s time for me to…Dick Tracy it. Get out the red string and try to put the clues together. Or, at the very least, figure out the best things to ask you when I eventually do get you back on the radio. And I'm going to. 

I meant what I said on New Year’s Eve. I’m going to find you. And that’s…that’s not a threat. But it is a promise. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Harryyyyyy. 

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(very drunk)

Harry, Harry, Harry. Harriet Harriet Elaine Stadtler. 

Happy New Year! 1975. Who’d’ve thought, huh? Who would’ve thought we’d make it this far and who would’ve thought that we wouldn’t be ringing in this year together. 

D’you know this is the first year in ten years that we haven’t spent New Year’s Eve together? I know, isn’t that crazy? But Don’s New Year’s party, we were always both at Don’s New Year’s party. We would both get  drunk at Don’s New Year’s party. And stay up until truly absurd times—I guess I’m right back into that habit. It is currently…three AM looks like? On New Year’s day. 

Don’t worry, I didn’t drink and drive—I didn’t have anything with me to drink on the beach, and I didn’t want to sleep in my car, so I drove back to Los Feliz and found a bar and then proceeded to drink nearly everything in it. Can’t ring in the new year without a toast. 

I think you’d like this place. The…the Dresden. Plush booths and a piano. Your kind of spot. The kind of spot that I went on that date, uh, at, uh, the one with K. 

You never liked her. Because of course you knew Sissy. Everyone knew Sissy—is that how I know Sissy? Did I meet her through you? Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because you and Sissy got along like a house on fire but apparently you hated K because when I told you I went out with her you were such an asshole about it. 

I mean, you were an asshole about a lot of things, but that, that really pissed you off. I always thought it was because maybe you liked K. And I always hoped it was because—

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You wanna know what my real new year’s resolution is? To get over—to stop thinking about you. You take up so much space in my head, Harry, you always have. Pete used to make so much fun of me for it, because even when we  were both doing jobs—when he and I were doing jobs—that you weren’t on, apparently, I would find ways to bring you up all the same. He thought I was fixated. 

He was right. He was always right about everything. He was. I was fixated. I am fixated. And I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of thinking about you when I’m not sure that you’ve thought about me in a whole year as much as I think about you in a single week. 

Did that make sense? Is anything I’m making saying sense? Is anything I’m saying making sense? Sometimes you’d look at me like I was speaking a different language and I never could get you to really understand what I was trying to tell you when I said—

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Well, understand this. They say to begin your year the way you intend to con-continue on and this year, for the first time in a decade, I’m beginning the year without you. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Well, here I am, just under the wire, broadcasting a few minutes before midnight. 

It took me the better part of yesterday and today to find a car, load it up, get into LA, and try to figure out what neighborhood I want to stay in. And then to figure out from there what house looked like it might still have power or have the capability to have power. 

I think I found a little spot in Los Feliz - Francis told me about this neighborhood once, and how much he liked it, so it seemed a good place to start as any. And it’s cute! I think it’ll be a good spot to settle in, it’s more or less in the middle of things. 

I’m sure it used to take people hours to get to the beach from there, but with no one on the roads and no traffic laws to follow, it only took me about fifteen minutes. A straight shot down Santa Monica Boulevard. 

That’s where I am now. The beach. I drove my car right onto the sand. Why not? There’s no one here to stop me. Though I guess I am going to have sand in my car now. 

It’s…it’s something else. The Pacific ocean. I knew it was big but… (whistles). Right now? At night? It is unfathomably huge. Just…gargantuan. It’s like the Earth just stops, goes sailing off a cliff into utter darkness. 

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Five minutes to midnight. I guess it’s time for me to come up with some resolutions. 

It’s already midnight on the East coast. Well past. Isn’t that strange. It’s already 1975 for Harry. It might already be 1975 for you too, Birdie. What are your resolutions?

Okay, I’ll start with the simple one, the easy achievable one. 

Go to all contiguous 48 US states. I’ve only got thirty to go, I think I can manage that in twelve months. 

And that brings me to the more complicated, much harder one: to find you. 

We’ve been doing this dance long enough, Birdie. I think I’ve earned your trust by now, even though you keep breaking mine. If I have to drive all the way to Alaska I’ll do it. But I’m going to find you. I’m going to learn everything I can about radios, and skip, and I’m going to figure out how to track where you’re broadcasting from. And then you’re going to tell me what you know about what happened in ’68. And everything else that you’ve been keeping from me because it’s too complicated to explain. I deserve to know. Just on the merits that I’m one of the last people on earth, I deserve to know. 

And I’ll—I’ll tell you about what happened back then. What I did. I’ll tell you everything, answer any questions you want. But we’ve got to do that face to face. Even if it’s still dots and dashes, or writing things down, or sign language—I’ll learn, I picked up a book on it a few states back—we’re going to be in the same room and we’re going to goddamn communicate. 

But for now. I’m just going to sit here, looking out into endless black and listening to the waves crash onto the shore, the only indication that anything is even there. 

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Here, listen to the ocean for a bit. Maybe it’ll bring you peace like it is for me. 

[ocean sounds]

Happy New Year. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Well, it finally happened. My car finally broke down.

I’ve been standing on the side of the…210, I think? For the last two hours trying absolutely everything I can to fix the thing, but I think it is well and truly dead. Which is…inconvenient, to say the least. 

It’s not as if I can’t find another car. I just wish this would’ve happened once I’d already settled in for the night, not twenty miles from Los Angeles. But that’s never how things go, is it. You get the flat tire when its raining and you’re already having a bad day. Your coat zipper breaks just when you get down the block from your place on the coldest day of the year.

Murphy’s Law, that’s what it’s called right? Or…no, that’s “everything that can go wrong, will”. Is there a law of the universe for when something goes wrong just when its most inconvenient for it to go wrong?

Maybe that’s just the rule of my life. 

I’m sadder about this car breaking down than I thought I’d be. It’s not like I’ve even had it that long but it’s…it’s been a good, reliable companion these past—Jesus—nearly six months I’ve been gone. It’s driven three thousand miles, gone through eighteen states, been my luggage, my bed, my kitchen, my home. It’s kept me grounded in the real world during the times when I felt I might truly go insane. 

And it’s been my lifeline to you, Birdie. And you, Harry, if you’re listening. Without this car, I’d have only been able to use the CB sporadically at best. I’m just grateful that even while the engine has crapped out, the electricity is working fine still. For the time being. 

But, it’s December 30th, and I guess if there’s a good time for something to die, it’s the day before the end of the year. I can start 1975 with a fresh new car. And I have my pick of them—in Los Angeles, I bet I could find something really nice. 

I just have to get there first. I have to get myself and all my stuff into a new car, that works. 

So, I might be going quiet for the rest of the day and tomorrow too. Hopefully it won’t be longer than that. I’ll hop back on the horn once I’m in LA. 

Alright, this is Whiskey, signing off.

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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]

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Dear Harry, 

I’m writing to you from the Hoover Dam. I forgot that it was so close to Vegas, so I’m glad I took a closer look at my map before leaving the area entirely. Feels like one of those places that’s good to cross off the list. 

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but whatever it was I was wrong. It’s…it’s strangely beautiful. Enormous and powerful and alien. This whole region is alien, like being on the surface of Mars. I think I’m close to where Area 51 is, or that whole Roswell thing and I get it. I do. I get why people look at this landscape and think “aliens crash-landed here”. Even the dam itself, we built it, but the design of it, the way it fits into the land around it, it looks like it’s from another world.” 

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Aliens are another one of those things I think I have to reevaluate. Like ghosts. I always thought aliens were more likely—how could it be that we’re the only creatures with life in the entire universe?—but I certainly never believed that they’d been here. Like ghosts, that was for crackpots and conspiracy theorists. 

But now…I don’t know. I don’t think aliens came and built entire civilizations or anything, but did they crash land in this part of the US and get hauled in by our government? Maybe. Who am I to say that that’s impossible. 

I’ve gotten off topic. Back to the postcard—looks like its from another world…

It doesn’t look like it belongs here. And I don’t think I belong here. I don’t think either of us do. We’re like this dam, shoved into an environment that clashes with us, like we’ve been plucked from our usual habitat and thrown into some kind of bizarro world—“

Then I ran out of room.

What do you think, Harry? Do you think you belong in a house in Pennsylvania for the rest of your life? Or are you still trying to reach me?

I’m headed to LA now. And I’ll be there for a little while maybe. In case you wanted to…

Well, just in case. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static] (sigh) Well, I think I had my fill of good cheer last night. I don’t think I’ve been hungover like this since I first got on the road. Back in that cabin in the country with the bourbon. 

But that’s the spirit of the holiday, right? “Spirits” of the holiday. (a weak laugh) Sorry, that was terrible. 

Do you know why it’s called a cup of good cheer? Apparently cheer used to just mean someone’s face or expression so “good cheer” meant good mood and what puts people in a better mood than alcohol? 

Or we say that because we cheers. Which we do to make sure our cups aren’t poisoned or to ward off bad spirits or…something. 

I don't know, Harry used to talk about all this stuff. She was full of weird random trivia. I don’t know how much of what she told me about any given thing was true, but then again, I don’t know how much of it has an answer. Do we really know where toasting came from or are we just guessing?

Anyway. It’s not like I had anyone to cheers with yesterday. But I definitely spilled some of my own drink throughout the day, so hopefully that counts toward whatever warding off of malevolent spirits I need. It seems to be working, at least, I haven’t seen anything since Estes Park. 

There’s still an eeriness to this place though—the lights flicker because the power keeps going on and off. I’ve gotten scared plenty of times by a slot machine suddenly turning on and making a hell of a lot of noise. Music coming from other rooms and then stopping. The power grid here is so strong and still has so much residual power from god knows what that it’s like being in a life-sized pinball machine, sounds and lights going at random. 

Maybe it should freak me out more. Walking through what feels like a rat pack themed haunted house. But I’m just grateful to have music and a working water heater. And I’ve found plenty of places to hook up the CB, and it hasn’t turned on with phantom power even once. Until I see someone appear in front of my eyes, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Speaking of, lord, I need a shower. Whiskey out. 

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