Rock 99 - Chapter 2
By H.G. Miller
- Morning Drive -
His mother had named him Jackson Herbert Hammond. His father had protested the
middle name, but lost out when it was revealed Uncle Herbert would offer a nice
sum towards remodeling the baby's room, and he had no uncles with such liquid
assets.
And so, Jackson Hammond avoided using his middle name for as much of his life
as possible. An outgoing child, he soon sought out nicknames that were more
expressive than a simple John, Jack or Jimmy. Eventually, he settled upon the
monosyllabic moniker that would propel him to the upper echelon of morning talk
show radio hosts.
Andrew Davis had no such issues with his name. Andy instead drew upon a
lifetime of being short, skinny and un-athletic to fuel his tirades against the
injustices of humanity that the general public never took seriously enough to
consider as anything other than humor.
The two boys met in college and enjoyed a small but loyal following for their
wild antics during the graveyard shift. Now, they dragged themselves into the
station at five a.m. and survived the first hour by napping through four
traffic reports, two news reads and a gloriously-egotistical 180-second promo
for the car dealership empire in Western Covina.
Zap and Andy hit their stride at 6:30 a.m. When the public awoke. When their
coffee sunk in. When the hangovers started to wear off.
Zap hit the appropriate shortcut keys to make Homer Simpson go “Doh,” and Red
Dotson grimaced as another one of his news reads fell to ridicule.
“You're telling me he actually punctured his own lung with the rifle nozzle?”
Andy asked.
“That's what it says here,” Red told him.
“Ladies and Gentleman: you're Los Angeles Police Department,” Zap chided.
“Our nation's finest,” Andy added.
The banter was easy for them. They'd been at it for almost fifteen years now,
though their profiles on the station's website claimed nothing more than six
years. Wouldn't want to tip the kids listening that the jackasses they were
listening to in the morning would probably date their mothers.
“Okay, after this new cut from the Banshee Wiz Sticks, we'll get to our new
band of the day,” Zap read from the gaudy poster over the control room window:
“You're listening to the Rock 99. If it was 100, you couldn't take it.”
He flipped the off switch on his microphone and spun away from the
punk/ska/gangsta rap tune that fed through the airwaves.
“Can our slogan be any more lame,” he asked his broadcasting partner.
These days, Andy agreed with Zap on almost nothing, but he sided with him on
this subject.
“Pretty fuckin' lame, man.”
“How long is this song?”
“Three and a half, I think” Andy told him.
“I'm going to the can to do some blow.”
Andy could never tell when Zap was joking about these things. He laughed
because Zap seemed to think it was a joke. Who knew? After three trips to
rehab, Andy pretty much assumed Zap would always be a little bit polluted when
he worked.
Zap, of course, joked about everything in life, whether it was serious or not.
It made for great bits. Lying about the size of his penis. Using the painful
truth of a kidney stone watch to boost ratings. Making up some unflattering
stories about his mother and a love for all things Clint Eastwood. Whatever
worked. It was all a joke, right?
He shut the handicapped stall and tried to think of anything interesting he
could talk about after the next commercial break. Maybe Moog Synthesizers. How
did you pronounce that name anyway? That was kind of funny, right?
Whatever. He pulled out his pen stash and pulled a nice buzz through his nose
and into his brain. Whatever worked…