Breaker Whiskey

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I’ve been…slowing down this week. Everything from the tornado in Kansas to Estes Park feels like a blur. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier now and I don’t much care for driving in the dark when I’m the only one on the road, so I’ve been taking longer to get from place to place…

I’m planning on going to Vegas for my birthday because…well, why the fuck not, right? And I think there’s a part of me that thinks if I just really drag out the process of getting there, I’ll delay my birthday somehow. 

My last birthday…we were in a good period, actually. Or, at least, an okay period. Things were…peaceful. The falls in general were always pretty peaceful. We still had the optimism of people who’d spent the summer in the sunshine, and we’d finish up our harvest, start stocking up for winter…there was ritual in it. 

Harry baked me a cake. A carrot cake, because we always had a ton of carrots, but she didn’t bother with frosting because, according to her, “carrot cake with anything other than cream cheese frosting is an abomination” and, well, obviously fresh cream cheese isn’t exactly easy to come by. But despite that, it was nice. It was…it was delicious, actually, she’s always been a very talented baker. 

So we had dinner and cake and a bottle of wine that she’d stowed away early on—that was a surprise. Both that she’d had the foresight to stash it and that she brought it out for my birthday. When I asked her about it, she said…

Well, actually, she didn’t say anything. I’ve  spent a lot of time playing that night over and over in my head, playing lots of nights over and over in my head, imagining how the conversations could have gone, that sometimes I forget what really happened. And what really happened that night is that I asked her why she was wasting a special bottle of wine on me and she just said “well, it’s not all for you”, and topped off both our glasses and that’s not really an answer to the question at all, is it? I wish she’d said—

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We didn’t do presents, obviously. Not for birthdays or Christmas or anything. But we’d usually spend holidays playing some kind of game—chess or one of the few boardgames we had or whatever card game we could best remember. And that night, she suggested we play Clue, which was my favorite game and she never liked playing it much, so that…that felt like a weird sort of gift. 

And for that whole night, it felt almost like the old days. Like we were in Richie’s Alphabet City loft, like we were standing on the edge of something; of finally getting along, of finally understanding each other. 

Turns out we weren’t. Instead, that was just one of the last good days. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Yeah, I’m just going to keep talking to you like you’re listening. Because the alternative is reminding myself that there’s a nonzero chance that Harry is the—

[click, static]

Anyway. Hey Birdie. You’ll never guess my luck today. I saw the lights on in a roadside diner—I still cannot put together why some places have power and some don’t—and when I walked in music was playing. 

That’s right, their jukebox was working! And that was exciting enough as it is, but I did have this moment when I first heard tinny music playing that…well, someone had to have been there to pick a song right? Put in a quarter and everything. So I barged right in and searched the whole building—the kitchen, the back office, the bathrooms—and when that didn’t turn anything up, I pretty much ran circles around the property like a chicken with my head cut off. 

There was nothing. And when I took a closer look at the jukebox, it seemed like it was a free one so…I guess there must have been some kind of power surge that caused a circuit to trip and turn it on or…

Who knows. I’m not an electrician, as much as I’ve very carefully tried to be throughout the years. Whatever happened, music was playing. It wouldn’t let me actually pick a record, but it didn’t matter. It was a dream to get to listen to some real music again. The Four Seasons, Peggy Lee, Elvis…it felt like the world was full again. 

I’m getting used to too much weird shit, I think. The CB working without a power source, jukeboxes randomly tripping on, you sending me messages that contain all kinds of red flags and me just…

You kind of distracted me, you know that? I was pissed at you. The whole Denver thing, not responding to a lot of the stuff I’ve sent you that I think warrants a response—I don’t know, I’m starting to feel a little crazy, Birdie. But then you show up and talk to me live and it’s like…all that stuff ceases to matter. Because you’re there and you’re real and I never know what you’re going to say next, but none of that makes you trustworthy. 

Give me a reason to trust you, Birdie. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out from…somewhere in Utah.  

I don’t expect anyone to call back. I haven’t heard from you in days, Birdie, and you missed our date, so I’m assuming the worst. That you’ve decided you want nothing to do with me, or that—

Well, I don’t think anything happened to you. You’ve survived this long, so unless you had a heart attack and dropped dead—

[click static]

Shit, I really hope you didn’t have a heart attack and die. I’m gonna feel like a real asshole if you had a heart attack and died. 

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That’s what killed my dad, you know. A heart attack. Dad died of a heart attack, mom died of cancer, which I think makes my family the most statistically average it’s possible to be. 

I think it’s fifty-fifty the way I’ll end up going. My life isn’t exactly stress-free and lord knows I’ve smoked enough in life to warrant lung cancer. At least I’ve had the goddamn pleasure of cigarettes. My mom, poor thing, just got fucking unlucky. She should’ve picked up smoking the moment she was diagnosed if you ask me. Enjoyed those last few months. 

I used to think I’d die from sheer stupidity. By doing something dumb and reckless. A car accident, getting killed in the course of a robbery, doing the wrong drug. 

Not that my drug phase was particularly long. Calling it a phase is probably even a stretch. I think I’ve done exactly two drugs. I prefer booze. 

But even being drunk is…I’ve never liked having my objective perception of the world changed. My life has always had too many secrets and too few trusted confidantes, that letting myself get out of control, or slip into a different state of mind always felt too risky. 

And now…well, I’m sharing every secret and stray thought I have with the entire world. And my perception of the world has been plenty challenged. Who needs drugs when you can just hallucinate ordinary men in hotel rooms?

[click, static] 

I turn thirty-five next week. And it feels young. I mean, when I entered this whole new weird world back in ’68, I wasn’t even thirty yet. Thirty-five felt unfathomably far away. And now here it is, both like I blinked and woke up six years later and also like I’ve lived several decades in that time. 

I could have a good thirty years left at minimum. I used to worry that I wouldn’t have enough time to soak up every little bit of the world that I wanted to, that I’d run out of time, die before I was full satiated. 

Now I’m not sure what the best case scenario is. I have nothing but time to fill and what used to be an all-you-can-eat buffet is now an empty table. The only food on it is imaginary, the phantom tastes and smells of a world that no longer exists.  That’s the thing about being so alone—you just stagnate. We need other people to provide variety, unpredictability. Otherwise we atrophy. 

I’ve gotten unpredictability on the road, it’s true. Weird feelings, unexpected roadside attractions, tornado warnings. But I can’t rely on tourist traps and automated weather warning systems to provide all my life’s variety. 

That’s what you were giving me, Birdie—one of the things, anyway. Unpredictability. The thrill of not knowing what you were going to say or when you were going to say it. You surprised me. Please keep surprising me. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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“Dear Harry, 

Today I saw the Grand Canyon. And it was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. The picture on this postcard doesn’t do it—“

And then my pen exploded, so there’s a big ink splatter on half the card now. Not a lot of room left to write. But if there were, I guess I’d say…

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“The picture on this postcard doesn’t do it justice. The colors are what’s really hard to capture—there are too many of them for me to name. But you’d find them on your palette by taking four colors and blending them in various ways to get a dozen more. I never understood how you did that. How you started with a few bright tones and discovered every shade between that existed. How you did it so expertly, without any hesitation. 

You rarely hesitate. It’s one of the things I envy about you. It’s one of the things that made you so good at your job. You didn’t rush, you were always so intentional and careful and sure of yourself. And I didn’t hesitate on the job either, but in other things…

The only time I saw you hesitate when it mattered was—

Well, I guess the important thing was that I didn’t hesitate. 

Did you…did you try to reach me? Did you get another radio? Are you calling out? Can you hear this somehow? 

What—

[click, static]

What did you want? Are you okay? Are you just bored? Do you want to talk to me specifically or are you just lonely?

Never mind. I’m not sure I want the answer to that question even if you could reply. 

I hope you’re okay at least. I trust that you are. You can take care of yourself. And you don’t need me for anything, you made that very clear.” 

[click, static]

I guess all of that wouldn’t really fit on a postcard.

Probably for the best. 

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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.

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I was writing a postcard from the Grand Canyon to Harry and my pen exploded. My fingers are covered in ink and it made me think—

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Harry’s hands always had something on them. Paint usually, or dirt from the garden…ink even. She found this old typewriter in the house and got me to fix it up for her despite the fact that I knew nothing about typewriters. I was able to figure it out—you work on enough mechanics, including really tiny ones, like the electrical wiring for the miniatures, and you can figure out pretty much anything that’s designed well. 

And typewriters are beautiful machines it turns out. I hadn’t used one very much before then—it’s not like I ever needed to for my job and I never took typing classes or anything—but I fell in love with this one. It was an old model—from the thirties, if I had to guess—and the design was both beautiful and complex. Intricate but obvious. 

(huff of laughter) God, what a metaphor that is, huh? (mumbling) Harry sure knew how to pick interests that perfectly reflected her. 

But anyway, Harry spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to refill the ink reel. It had obviously dried out long ago, but she was convinced she could resoak it in ink and it would work again. Turns out, it’s not quite as straightforward as that. But she kept at it, trying paint, ink from the pens we had, whatever she could. After the first few attempts, it was something she only ever worked on when she was particularly angry with me. 

That’s how I knew we couldn’t repair what got broken in that last big argument. Every day, she had ink on her hands. 

[click, static]

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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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I’m on my way to Salt Lake City, land of the Mormons. I have no idea what to expect from a city built by people who don’t drink or smoke or, god, even have caffeine. Maybe it’ll be just the same as every other city in America - half of the ones back East were founded by Puritans and teetotalers. 

I never had much use for religion. I remember my parents bringing me to church sometimes when I was a kid, but they weren’t that devout themselves so it never really sunk in. 

And no, my weeks on the road have not changed my mind about God. Not even that weird encounter in Colorado. Whether it was a trick of the light or a hallucination I was having…

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Who am I kidding. Trick of the light? It wasn’t a trick of the light. And I’ve never hallucinated in my entire goddamn life, I can’t imagine that all this driving has had such an impact on me that I’ve suddenly started now. 

I’ve mostly been trying not to think about it. A ghost, a spirit, some kind of angel or demon…whatever it was, I haven’t seen anything like it since and I’m—

Even if it was a ghost, just because I believe in the afterlife doesn’t mean I believe in gods. And I’m not sure that’s what it was! I’m not sure I do believe in the afterlife! Maybe it was just…

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Maybe I should pick up some Mormon writing in Utah, see if they have anything to say about it. 

I have always wondered about the multiple wives thing. How does that work exactly? Even if all the women really were happy with the situation—which I’m not saying is impossible, it just seems like a system where maybe they don’t get that much say either way—I can’t really fit the puzzle pieces together in my head. Is it easier if you all have one relationship within the larger…structure, or does everyone have relationships with everyone? I mean, I lived in New York for years and hung out in the art scene, I knew people who had both kinds of situations, and it never made sense to me in those cases either. Not to say it didn’t work for the people I knew, I’m just not sure it’d work for me. 

With the benefit of hindsight and plenty of time to reflect over the last few years, I’ve come to recognize that I…fixate. It hasn’t happened very often in my life, but when I lo—when I like someone, really like someone, I get a little bit of tunnel vision about them, whether I realize or not. And if I ever got that person, I don’t think I’d be selfless enough to share. 

Maybe that’s unhealthy, I don’t know. It certainly hasn’t helped me have good romantic relationships. I think one of the reasons I never was really able to commit to Martha is because by that point I was already crazy—

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It wasn’t fair to Martha. The way I was I just wish I’d figured it out at the time, either to tell Martha the truth, make her understand it was never about her or to, ideally, give myself a smack upside the head and get over whatever feelings my heart decided to develop without my consent. If I’d known what I felt back then—really felt—I would’ve done everything in my power to make sure I stopped feeling that way. 

[click, static]

What about you, Birdie? Did you leave a partner behind? If the world were suddenly full of people, is that something you’d want?

I guess I can ask you about it on Thursday. Whiskey out. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Okay so… 
(sighs) “What choice marks”. That’s what you sent. I guess I should have seen that coming. It’s the question I’d ask too.

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I’m surprised you haven’t put it together yet. We both know I haven’t been careful about what I say on here, what I say to you. I know you figured out that I was an art thief long before I told you. And I’ve already said a lot about…

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We got caught, right? I’ve told you that. That last job…we got caught. I’m still not sure how, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. And that was a few months before we—

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We were being transported. Harry and I. There’s a—um, there’s a federal prison in Pennsylvania and the two of us had gotten into a little trouble at the county jail that we’d been in before that so we were sent up the river.

I guess it isn’t really called that if you’re sent to Pennsylvania. We weren’t going up the Hudson to Sing-Sing, we were—

[click, static]

You know, I don’t actually like talking about it very much. It wasn't a particularly shining time in my life, you know? It’s not like I hadn’t spent time in jail before—a night here or there throughout my twenties for one thing or another, but this was…

I don’t even know where the guys ended up. I guess I should’ve been thankful that Harry was on the job with us, otherwise I’d have been entirely alone. It’s not like we shared a cell or anything, though if you count six years trapped in a house together in the woods then…

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I shouldn’t joke about that. It’s not the same. Yeah, I complain about the last six years with Harry, how suffocating they were, how lonely and isolating and stifling it all was, how frustrating to be stuck with her and have no idea what was going on in the wider world but it beat the alternative by a long shot. Even before I knew there was a chance I could go back into the world, even when it seemed like the smart thing to do was stay in that house with her for the rest of time, it was still better than being where we were headed. A cage of your own choosing right? And even if the world hadn’t been flipped upside down, maybe enough years would’ve passed that we could’ve gone somewhere and started over.

[click, static]

I don’t mean together necessarily. I mean, we each could’ve gone wherever we want, taken on new names, dyed our hair…I don’t know. We assumed that our escape would’ve made us wanted fugitives—and I’m sure it would’ve if there’d been anyone to do the chasing—but I don’t know, I have to think that two art thieves would hardly have been on the FBI’s most wanted list forever or even to begin with. We could’ve figured something out once the initial heat had died down. I mean, it’s not like we were murderers or—

[click, static]

I don’t—

Look, it’s not important. What’s done is done and I’m not sure I owe you an explanation, not when you haven’t given me one for why you feel so guilty about your job. Other than the vague assertion that you’ve “hurt people”.

And you know what? You don’t have to tell me. Let’s just agree to skate past those parts of each other and move on, okay? There’s nothing to be gained from pulling out the skeletons from each other’s closets.

[click, static]

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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. ------ [TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Hey Birdie. 

I got to the Grand Canyon. 

I can’t believe I called it a hole in the ground. It is…so much more than that.  

I’ve never seen anything like it. 

I drove right up to the edge—who was gonna stop me, right? And now I’m sitting on the hood of my car, watching the sun rise. 

The colors are extraordinary. The light and the shadows, the different shades of the earth. The bits of reflected light from the river down below. 

This isn’t—I don’t know what you meant yesterday in saying I was wrong about the impression I’ve left on the world, but I don’t think you really appreciate the comparison I’m making. I’m not denying that I’ve made choices that have had…devastating consequence. Even if you take some of the lesser choices—the ones that I don’t feel regret over—they obviously still had an effect on people. Every piece of art I helped steal had some kind of ripple effect. 

But the real mark—the one, the last one I left, I guess…I know—I mean, I can only imagine the, not even ripple, the wave that that left. I know that there are some decisions that will leave permanent marks. On you just as much as others. 

But I’ve—I guess I’ve comforted myself with the fact that it didn’t matter after all. Even if we hadn’t—even if I hadn’t done what I did, everything was about to change anyway. The “incident” or whatever it was happened and changed the world overnight—or maybe really gradually, I don’t know. Everyone either died or was…raptured? Moved into underground cities? Abducted by aliens?

I was a meteor, maybe. But the crater is impossible to see because a much bigger meteor came along and blew away the earth around my crater. I’m one wave inside of a tsunami. 

I—I think maybe I know what you were trying to say though. I’ve been thinking about it—and about you and what I know about you—and you seem to walk around your life with this immense burden of responsibility on your shoulders. You told me that what you did—whatever happened with your job—still matters. And I'm sorry, I’m sorry it’s still haunting you. 

But if you’re trying to tell me that what I do matters, that it matters just as much as whatever happened with you? Trust me, I get it. I heard that particular lecture pretty often, for six straight years, I don’t need it from you. Don’t project your guilt onto me. 

So I’m just going to sit here, watching the sun rise over this beautiful, natural phenomenon, and marvel at the fact that as much as I matter, nothing I could ever do would erase this view from the world. 

[click, static]

[beeps]

.-- .... .- - / -.-. .... --- .. -.-. . / -- .- .-. -.- ... ..--..  What choice marks?

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[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker breaker, this is Whiskey calling out for Birdie. You here?

[one beep]

Hell yes. How long’ve we got today?

[five beeps]

Five…five minutes? We have five minutes?

[one beep]

Okay, Jesus Christ. Well, I’ve been thinking about this, what I would ask. So let’s go, one beep for yes, two for no, three beeps when the answer is too complicated, and one dash for I don’t know. Alright?

[one beep]

Okay. Have you known who I am this whole time?

[two beeps]

No…okay, did you guess my name?

[two beeps]

Then how— 
Have you—have you seen me, in person somehow? Not that that would help you know my name…

[two beeps]

Did I—this is embarrassing but—have I told you my name and I just forgot?

[two beeps]

Okay, well, that’s a relief that I’m not broadcasting my name everywhere. 

[two beeps]

No? I am broadcasting my name?

[two beeps]

No again—

[dash dot dash dot; dash dash dot dash]

Can you do that again?

[dash dot dash dot; dash dash dot dash]

CQ - oh, seek you. Um…there was—there was a CQ for me?

[one beep]

What—you mean, so, you did hear my name over a broadcast?

[one beep]

Holy shit…what else did they say?

[two beeps]

So you just heard my name?

[one beep]

Do you know who it was?

[two beeps]

No, why would you. I don’t even know why I’m asking really…there’s only one person it could’ve been. And considering you sent me a message of my full first name, despite it being more to tap out…well, she’s the only one who doesn’t use the shortened version. Harry, that is. She’s the only one who knows I exist other than you. Who else would it have been?

So…Harry got a radio, learned how to use it, and broadcast something to me. Looking for me. 

[one beep]

Jesus, okay. How did I miss this?

[click, static]

Right, um, was it the middle of the night?

[two beeps]

Hm…oh- was it while I was camping? When I left the radio behind?

[one beep]

Shit. I wonder—god, I mean if I had been there would I have been able to…

Have you been able to get into contact with her?

[two beeps]

Have you tried?

[two beeps]

Would you try? I mean—what am I saying, I don’t know why I—

[click, static]

Do you think I should try to contact her?

[click, static]

I guess that’s not something you can really decide, huh? Do you think you have the capability to contact her? I’m not sure I do. 

[one long beep]

One dash— don’t know, right?

[one beep]

Okay, so you’re not sure if you could contact her, but you did pick up her broadcast. But not on purpose?

[one beep]

Yes, it was on purpose?

[two beeps]

Wha—oh, yes as in ‘that’s right’, it wasn’t on purpose. Okay, I clearly need to be more intentional in my phrasing. Do you think you picked her up on skip?

[one beep]

Right. Okay, I…I don’t know what to do with any of this, to be honest. 

[click, static]

Shit, okay, I don’t want to run out of time with you. I need to ask about the message you sent last night. You said “you’re wrong”. 

[one beep]

Wrong about what? I mean—was it something I said yesterday that I was wrong about?

[one beep]

Okay, I was talking about the meteor crater, right? So…I mean, I’m assuming it wasn’t about the crater itself. What else was I talking about…

The fact that we have no control over the impact that we make? You disagree?

[two beeps]

No, that’s not it. 

[dot dash, dash dot dot dot, dot dot]

I recognize that—my name, right? Well, the shortened version. 

[one beep]

So it was something about me that I said?

[one beep]

What, that the choices I’ve made didn’t change the world?

[one beep]

What? That’s what you think I’m wrong about?

[one beep]

Birdie, what does that mean?

[two long beeps]

What? Oh that’s—that’s goodbye isn’t it. 

[one beep]

Wait, you can’t leave yet, what do you mean?

[two long beeps]

Ugh, fine. But you’ll be here next Thursday? Same time?

[one beep]

Alright, I guess I’ll have to just live with that—but explain in your next transmission please. 

[two long beeps]

Whiskey out. 

[click, static]

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