Ghost Radio (11 page)

A massive electrical storm
was brewing. The sky turned from gray to mustard yellow, and the smell of ozone filled the air.

Joaquin knew the plan was hasty and premature. But he couldn't turn back. Gabriel wouldn't let him. He didn't even want to, because he'd never seen Gabriel so excited about one of their projects.
Deathmuertoz Live from Radio Mexico
was the makeshift title they'd given the concert, performance, and media intervention. They'd crossed the border like illegal aliens in reverse, from the United States into Mexico, the notion being that the trip itself was part of the show—everything had to be a transgression. They carried a few instruments, and bags filled with the paraphernalia they planned to use during their jam session.

On the Mexican side, three fans awaited them: Colett, Feliciano, and Martin, who had faithfully followed their music over the past year. They originally proposed the concert and offered to help with logistics. Gabriel took Polaroids along way: new pages for his visual diary. Each flash reminded Joaquin of the night before: a raid on a convenience store, sliding packs of Polaroid film into his oversize coat, Gabriel played lookout.

The border crossing was no big deal, other than the intermittent rain. According to the plan, they rendezvoused with Colett, Feliciano, and Martin at a gas station along the highway. The rain had stopped. But the blacktop was slick, and water collected in the potholes.

Martin sat in the driver's seat of an old Volkswagen van. Feliciano paced in front. And Colett leaned seductively on the hood; her dyed black hair still damp from the recent rain. They greeted Joaquin and Gabriel
warmly. But Joaquin sensed a reticence in Colett. Behind her smiling eyes lurked a wariness that he found alluring.

A few months ago, Colett and her friends helped set up an illegal feed of an Armenian punk concert broadcast from a jail in Ankara. Martin worked at the university-owned radio station, but its employees had gone on strike two years before, and the conflict was still unresolved. Gabriel and Joaquin had given him the impression that they knew how to operate the station's equipment. In reality, they didn't have a clue.

Martin told them what to expect once they got in.

“The station's operational, but it's been abandoned for some time,” he said, showing them a diagram that explained how to broadcast a signal. He gave them some more drawings of electric circuits, pointing out that all of it ought to be ready to go. “You shouldn't have any trouble getting the ball rolling.”

He'd originally said he would come along, but there had been a change of plans. It would be better, he said now, if he kept an eye on the guards at the gate and picked the others up when they were done.

Feliciano expressed concern. They hadn't had enough time to prepare. It was going to be risky and complicated to air the concert that night.

“It'd really suck if we didn't do this because we're afraid.”

“We've been working the grapevine for two weeks, letting everyone know the jam session's tonight. So it's gonna be tonight,” said Gabriel, who was taking Polaroids of everyone. “And besides, nothing seems more perfect than playing on a night like this.”

Joaquin didn't say much. He couldn't keep his eyes off Colett. He lost himself in her dark, bitter eyes and juicy lips. She spoke with a strange accent. There was something familiar about her that he couldn't quite place. Although she smiled provocatively at him from time to time, on the whole she seemed somewhat detached.

They decided to go for tacos and wrap up any unfinished business. Over dinner, Gabriel explained that taking over the station would be a great leap forward in their career. They'd burn CDs of the concert and package them with a booklet of all his Polaroids.

“We want stations taken over everywhere: a full-scale rebellion, giving radio back to the people. Away from the corporate suits and their bean-counting Top 40 shit.”

Joaquin agreed with the concept, but he was surprised to hear Gabriel trying to talk like a militant. It sounded artificial. He realized that much of it was aimed at Colett. This was flirting, Gabriel style.

After finishing their tacos, Feliciano, Martin, and Colett went over their part of the plan: Feliciano would drive them to the station, where they'd scale the outer fence. Martin would take care of security, and Colett, who knew the station well, would accompany them inside and act as their engineer.

“You know how to use a soundboard and all that?” Joaquin asked her.

“Yeah, I worked at a station in Boston for a summer. I learned a few things,” she said as she brushed her hair from her face with the back of her hand.

Joaquin vowed not to leave Mexico until he got to know her more intimately.

“That'll do. It's gonna be perfect,” Gabriel said, taking another photo of her.

Yup, Gabriel liked her too. He was certain. If Joaquin wanted to nip in ahead of him, he'd have to act fast.

Near the end of their meal, a drunk approached them, selling flowers.

“For the little lady,” he said with a drunken grin.

Gabriel took one, tossing him a dollar; his eyes never left Colett.

“In Aztec society, flowers were an offering reserved for goddesses,” Gabriel said, handing her the flower.

Joaquin rolled his eyes.

Colett wasn't impressed. She questioned the accuracy of Gabriel's statement.

“Aztecs offered flowers to their goddesses? I don't think so.”

An argument ensued. Gabriel was a good debater, but Colett parried every thrust. She knew her stuff, and Gabriel's bluffs withered.

During this exchange, Joaquin sketched a rose on a napkin. He paid
careful attention to the stem; halfway down, it morphed into electric cable, ending in a two-pronged plug.

He offered the finished drawing to Colett.

“In modern society, drawings of flowers are given by broke guys trying to impress superhot girls,” Joaquin said, mocking Gabriel's tone.

“That's a fact I can't dispute,” Colett said, taking the drawing.

She studied it, furrowing her brow. Joaquin thought it made her even cuter.

“Very cool. Would make a nice tat,” she said, offering the highest of Goth compliments.

She folded the napkin and slid it into the back pocket of her alluringly tight jeans. They left the restaurant. Gabriel's rose lay forgotten on the table. Round one to Joaquin.

They split up as planned. There was so much electricity loose in the desert that Joaquin's hair stuck to the van's interior. They got out of the VW. There wasn't anyone guarding the station. Joaquin jumped the fence first. Colett followed, leaping like a dancer: a dancer in combat boots. Gabriel went over last. They heard barking.

“Martin said there weren't any dogs,” Joaquin said.

“That's because there aren't any,” replied Colett.

“Something's coming this way, and it's barking,” Gabriel said.

“Okay, maybe there
are
dogs,” Colett said.

As she spoke, two enormous mastiffs leaped out from around a corner, barking and drooling. The group took off running. Joaquin felt an odd sense of joy in this moment. Gabriel sprinting ahead of him, the sound of combat boots on gravel behind him. And the growl of dogs farther back.

This felt like life. Real, immediate, powerful.

Gabriel reached a ladder set in the wall; he grabbed the bottom rung and scampered up. Joaquin let Colett go next, then sped off in the other direction pursued by the dogs.

He ran toward a brick wall at the back of the building, calculating on the fly that he could probably reach the top. When he jumped, though,
his backpack shifted, he lost his balance, slipped, and hit his head against the wall. One of dogs pounced on him, biting his head, near the ear, then released him and backed away. Joaquin raised his head, disoriented, in pain and terrified; the mastiff's jaws hovered inches from his nose. A low growl emerged from deep in the beast's throat. Joaquin froze. He tried to think of a way out, but any movement would only provoke the dog further; this time, he was sure his face would be the target. He was completely vulnerable, his life hanging on the instincts and the caprices of an animal.

It's great to be alive, he thought strangely.

Then, looking at the dog, at his slavering jaws and into his cold eyes, he had an idea. It was so absurd it just might work.

“Home,” he said in a commanding tone.

The dog cocked its head as if it were listening. Its growls changed frequency.

“Home,” he repeated sternly.

It slowly retreated, closed its jaws, and trotted off. Joaquin smiled and stood, the adrenaline mitigating the pain of his wounds. He returned to the ladder, where Colett and Gabriel still clung.

“What happened?”

“The dogs are gone,” he said.

Colett jumped down, and gave a start when she saw Joaquin's wounds. She gently caressed his face.

“The dog?”

“He tried to kiss me, and missed.”

Colett chuckled, and then shifted gears.

“I don't think we have any choice but to stop now. Just look at the poor guy,” she said to Gabriel.

“It's just a scratch; Joaquin's very resilient. One little bite isn't going to hold you back—right?”

“I'm okay. Let's go inside.”

“How'd you get rid of those dogs?”

“I have a way with animals,” Joaquin said convincingly.

Though, before tonight, he hadn't been aware of it.

“There never used to be any dogs here,” Colett said again.

“Maybe the strikers brought them to watch for people breaking in. Like us.”

Gabriel opened the door with ease. Picking locks was one of his many talents. All three entered the building. It was a mess: Windows were cracked and broken; puddles of water were everywhere; and documents, books, and folders littered the floor. This place had been abandoned for some time.

“Well, if those were watchdogs, they're a fucking failure,” Joaquin said.

“
We
realized how incompetent they were when they let you go with that little scratch on the head,” Gabriel remarked.

Colett guided them through the darkness, following Martin's instructions, until they reached the transformer. Gabriel gave the electric cables the once-over to make sure they corresponded to his diagram. Once he'd finished, he snapped a few Polaroids and they headed for the broadcasting booth.

“Martin said we shouldn't turn on any lights on the ground floor.”

When they reached the booth, they were greeted by the stench of humidity and rot. The toilets had been torn out, but no one had bothered to shut off the water. The carpet was wet and the walls were covered with mold. Colett nervously flicked on the light switch and the whole room lit up. Gabriel and Joaquin got their instruments out of their backpacks. Everything was wet, but seemed in good working order. They hastily set up a crude altar, composed of a range of bizarre objects.

Joaquin hadn't understood when Gabriel expressed the need for an altar. But now, as it took shape, it seemed essential. As if the whole exercise would be pointless without it.

Joaquin helped Gabriel carefully position the articles they'd brought with them: the flashlights, the old Kwik Kleen bottles filled with suspect liquid, the toy soldiers, old coins, a dollhouse, a strange headdress, a knife, carved wooden symbols, drawings, and other items.

“What are you doing?” Colett asked.

“Can't you tell? We're asking the gods to watch over us.”

“Shit, you and your crap ideas about the Aztecs. Fucking thing looks like an Aztec altar, designed by a retard, or a senile old lady.”

“Awesome! Exactly what we were going for,” Gabriel responded with a laugh.

When Gabriel connected his guitar, he got a shock; a bolt of electricity arced from the instrument to his hand.

“Sonofabitch!” he yelled.

“Tonight, the guitar will become an instrument of torture,” Joaquin said.

“We'll feel a little of the dead warriors' pain in our fingers.”

“I can assure you it won't just be in our fingers.”

“Those warriors would have preferred a few electric shocks to the obsidian knives they used to cut out their hearts,” Colett said through the control booth speakers.

“Better to have your heart ripped out than to smell the sewage water flooding this goddamn studio,” Joaquin said.

“Actually, the Aztec sewage system—”

“Okay, girl, lose the Aztec history lesson and show us some of your broadcast expertise,” Gabriel said, cutting her off.

Colett moved over to the console, powered up, and played with the sliders—mixing the signals from the guitars, tapes, synthesizer, and drum machine.

Watching her, Joaquin was turned on. The way her hands danced across the controls. How she cocked her head when something didn't sound quite right. And the sly grin that snaked across her face when it did.

Everything was ready at around one thirty in the morning. Gabriel took over the mike. On his first word, the amplifiers popped and the lights went out. It didn't take them long to find which fuse they'd blown, but they couldn't find a replacement. Joaquin sat down in the dark, defeated. His head was still bleeding. The dog bite throbbed, and they didn't have anything to clean or cover it. But Gabriel wouldn't give up. He found a
thick cable and used it to bypass the fuse. The lights came back on. By 1:49
A.M.
, they were on the air.

A red light went on in the studio.

“As promised, we are Deathmuertoz, and we're liberating the airwaves of Mexico,” Gabriel intoned.

They started playing. They opened with “Voices Gone Unheard,” a classic punk challenge filled with rage, mounted on an intense percussion track composed entirely of insect sounds. It was the perfect opener, and it invariably left their audience turned on and hungry for more. Joaquin wasn't satisfied; he thought they sounded flat, and he signaled for Colett to adjust the bass, lower the monitors, and up the reverb. She did so, brushing the hair from her face with the back of the hand.