Now Playing: Unconscious Melody – Preoccupations

Nope. It’s impossible.

I’m standing face to face with another human being. Her vacant stare is fixated on a point far behind me, it seems. Every synapse of my brain is firing, rummaging through twenty years of memories and experiences, and searching for any conversations I’ve watched or had in the past, all to find the right words in this very moment. My vocal cords are paralyzed. It feels as though my lungs are shrinking with each breath. It’s hard to tell whether the adrenaline in my blood is beginning to kick in, or starting to wear off. Are regular people really able to converse like this?

I fight to drown out the inhibitions; instincts screaming at me to forfeit and retreat. Still, I manage to push out one phrase. It spills from my lips like a reflex – my vocal cords vibrating without my input, instinctually.

“What’s your name?”

“…”

I grab the pod at the sides and twist it back around to face the wall. I feel stupid, asking questions to someone who can’t even answer back. But there is meaning to it. There has to be. Speaking a single sentence drained me of all energy, like a recovering patient stretching out the atrophy from their muscles, one ligament at a time. Right now, the only things my eyes can see is the texture of metal, and I’m lucid enough to recognize that a part of me doesn’t want to turn the pod back around.

In all likelihood, I’m never going to find another living person again. This could very well be the beginning and the end of my encounters with humans, but…  there’s a nagging feeling. My body even handle making eye contact, and yet I can almost sense this sickly, famished furrow in my brain – a still-beating wrinkle that has, since birth, hardwired me, and every other human being into becoming a social creature, and which has been clawing at my psyche like a cornered animal. Today, for the first time in years, scraps of food fell down at its feet.

And now, it is screaming for more.

I can see the beginnings of a puddle of sweat forming just below me. Despite the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions bouncing around in my reptilian brain, I don’t think I can handle “talking” to her face-to-face – at least not yet. I scan the now clutter-free room for anything that can act as a middle ground; crutches I can use to at least build up tolerance.

I find it. It’s hanging off of a rack where I’ve strung up all the wires that feed into the radio amplifier, an item so well-worn that it is, in all likelihood, older than I am. It’s perfect. 

***

Inside of the last radio station left on planet Earth, an aberration is taking place. The barely functioning fluorescent sign outside its door is switched on, warning anyone in the vicinity that as of this moment, the presenter inside is transmitting live on-air. However, this is not the case. While yes, the amplifiers and transmitters have been switched on, and yes, Walkman is currently speaking into the microphone with his inconsistent, albeit well-liked panache, the cable connecting one to the other has mysteriously been unplugged. A cardinal sin has just been committed on the premises; the audience cry out in retaliation as their favorite radio personality callously streams white noise to every receiver within reach. But Walkman does not seem to be concerned. He is sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the frosted glass of a cryogenic chamber, retelling an anecdote his listeners have been subjected to many times before. The only thing which has changed, aside from disconnection of the radio transmitters, is a new cable leading from the main amplifier, and feeding into a pair of taped-together headphones, glued to the sides of the woman’s pod. Although dodgy at best, it is an honest attempt at letting in a comatose patient to the happenings of the world of Walkman.

He’s just wrapped up the story of how he found a pair of antiquated headphones with a mysterious signature (the twist is that the signature wasn’t any artist, but just the owner’s name). Just as he has done many times in the past, Walkman begins to segue from the anecdote towards introducing the next track of today’s playlist. He freezes up. This is supposed to be a conversation, no? Why are you just talking at her, like a listener? He can feel his amygdala squirming with anticipation, but can do little as every other part of his brain is trying to reign in control and pump the breaks. He’s finished the scripted transition, and the distant hum of white noise creeps its way back into the station. What’s the compromise going to be?

Walkman begins to mime surprise. Nobody can see this.

“Well everyone, this is a first - we have a caller on the line with us today! Normally, we don’t have any allotted time slot for call-ins… but I suppose today has been a slow day. Let’s see what she has to say!”

‘Expertly done’, he thinks to himself, still unaware of the fact that he’s already put a crack in the illusion by use of pronoun. Walkman continues to mime, picking up an invisible phone receiver. Tragically, the woman stuck in a block of ice does not begin thawing out, and thus abandons him to the sharp silence. His structureless design is beginning to unravel.

“Ah, welcome to the show-”

Time has slowed down to a halt. Every lobe, neuron, and its synapses are firing at maximum capacity, searching for something that can work as a name. Almost in line with Greek tragedy, Walkman’s past actions have ensured the booth is spotless. No inspiration can be found anywhere. Time is starting to turn back to normal; he needs something, anything.

And there they are. On the repurposed spice rack, nestled in between the splintered wooden cylinders: cassettes.

“- Casset…”

That is a terrible name.

“Cass! Welcome to the show, and apologies – we sometimes have bouts of bad connection.”

Expertly done indeed. We’ll have lots to talk about.