Breaker Whiskey

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] (on the verge of tears, softly) Harry? Harry can you hear me? [click, static] Please, Harry, I need—if you can hear this, just please get on the radio and talk to me. I don’t care what you say, I just need— [click, static] What are we going to do, Harry? What are we going to become if we stay like this? I have all the time in the world to seek answers but that just means I have all the time in the world to never find them. Life is so long, this woman—she lived to be sixty in this world and we— [click, static] I can’t keep doing this. Another two, three decades like this? Only to die one day, never to be found, decaying in the open air while the rest of the world continues not to move around us. I think I’m going insane. We would joke about that, you and I, do you remember? We’d have our “sanity days” where we’d do something that reminded us that we were real, and that time was marching forward, even if it didn’t feel like it. We’d tell each other a story the other had never heard, or run around outside like kids, or see who could eat one of your scones the fastest. Small stuff, dumb stuff. [click, static] Do you think Leann had anything like that? She must have been so lonely. [click, static] We’re responsible for that Harry. You and me. We could’ve helped this woman not be lonely but instead we stayed in that stupid house and— [click, static] Please. Please just get on your radio and tell me I’m real. [click, static]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] Leann Smith. That was the woman’s name. I, um…I don’t know what the ethics are of nosing through someone’s home when they’re lying dead in the other room, but no one’s here to tell me not to. And I wanted to—I guess I wanted to know something about her. I wanted to know if there was some…connection, I guess. Because that would…it would lend some kind of sense to all of this, right? Harry and I both being alive still—that makes sense. We were together when whatever happened happened and we were intentionally hiding from the world at the time. If something, you know, swept through civilization, we were isolated from it. Mrs. Smith, here, well she was isolated too, I guess. She lived all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, by herself. At least I think she lived by herself. I found a stack of old mail that I guess she must have kept this whole time for…sentimental reasons? I get that, I think I would’ve done the same if I’d be living at my own address. And the mail was only ever addressed to her. If someone else lived here, there’s no evidence of them, and a woman who kept mail from six years ago would’ve almost certainly kept traces of whoever she lived with. But there are—well, there are photos. Photos of her with a man—her husband maybe—and then, eventually, with kids. The most recent photo, based on her age in it—she’s got her arms around two women in their…late twenties I’d guess? Younger than me. Or, at least, younger than I am now, though I guess probably not the year this photo was taken. Leann herself is—was—sixty-one. I found her driver’s license and her work badge. She worked for the Bureau of Land Management. Probably how she survived this long on her own, she must have picked up some useful skills in that job. She had an interesting job, a husband at some point, and two daughters, if I’m interpreting all the photos correctly. Granddaughters I think, or something like it, based off a letter she got, a woman writing about her beautiful daughter Grace, turning one soon, would Leann come visit? She lived a full life—fuller than mine in a lot of respects. Sure, I’ve had excitement and variety but never… She really does look peaceful now. I thought—well, I thought about burying her, giving her a proper rest, but…I don’t want to move her. Not when she seems to be resting just fine already. I wish I knew anything about what she believed in, I would’ve liked to…I don’t know, pray or say words or sing, no matter how tone deaf. Something to show that she’s—that someone was here, someone knows she’s gone. Someone will remember her. I thought maybe I might find a will with the funeral arrangements she’d wanted but all her safe had was a gun, which…that was a bit surprising, um, and what looks like an old engagement ring, and a stack of cash. None of which is particularly useful to me now. At least I got to break a lock more intricate than one on the front door of a house. It wasn't a very good safe, but it kept me occupied for nearly a minute. That’s something. I— I’m not really sure what I’m going on about. I feel…I feel very far away from my body right now. Like I’ve been watching someone else walk casually through the house and open cabinets and rifle through papers. Like that can’t possibly be me, because surely I’m somewhere having a breakdown over the last few days. (a slightly manic laugh) But nope! It’s me, I’m the one who has suddenly gotten very comfortable occupying the same space as a dead body. Isn’t it amazing how quickly human beings can adapt to something? I feel like that’s all I’ve done the last six years—actually, I feel like that’s all I’ve done my whole life—adapt, adapt, adapt. The great adapter, that’s me. Why wouldn’t I adapt to this new reality that other people did survive but that I don’t get to talk to them? It’s just another piece of information. And information is neutral, easy to digest. And all I’ve done today is gather more and more information and while none of it has proven to be particularly useful…well, I have it now. And that’s something, right? It’s got to be something. [click, static]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] You didn’t know? I’m assuming you’re not saying you didn’t know they’d be here, because there sure as hell wasn’t anything else noteworthy at these coordinates. You sent me there to find them, that’s the only thing that makes sense. So, in that case, are you saying that you didn’t know they’d be dead? I guess…I guess I can believe that. I’m not sure I do, because I don’t believe anything you say to me, but I could believe that. After all, I haven’t had any direct contact with Harry in six months—though I guess she tried to reach out to me a few months after I last saw her in person. But for all I know, I could drive back to Pennsylvania right now and find that she’s— [click, static] No, I can’t think like that. I can’t—maybe I should go back. Just to…check. [click, static] She said I would never make it a year. That I’d be back once I’d gotten sick of driving, once the loneliness had driven me sufficiently insane. That that would happen even faster if I didn’t find something to take care of. [click, static] I can’t go back. Not just because she— I need to sort all o this shit out. I’m not listening to any fucking cryptic morse code messages anymore, but you need to tell me what the hell you’re playing at with this. What you were hoping to accomplish by having me meet this person. And you need to tell me if there’s anyone else. You give me more coordinates and I’ll listen to those. But that’s it. Unless you do a hell of a good job explaining this whole situation that you’ve dropped me in. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [content warning: reference to vomiting, dead bodies] [click, static] “Call me Fox”. That’s all you have to say for yourself? After what you just— [click, static] I’m not going to call you anything. I don’t know what—or who— Do you know Birdie? You must, right? Birdie and Fox, both communicating only through morse code…who the hell are you people? What did you do to that— [click, static] (a dark laugh) Well, now I know. Now I know that there are other people in the world. Or, were. There have been, this whole time. If I had to guess, I’d say that that woman had been dead for…a few months maybe? If I had just— [click, static] Why would you do this? Why would you send me to find a stranger’s corpse? [click, static] I…I slept in my car last night. Which isn’t exactly new for me, but it felt different, knowing that I was parked outside a perfectly good house with a perfectly good guest room—I’ve slept in plenty of strangers’ homes, in plenty of guest rooms and master bedrooms and children’s rooms and all of them—all of them—have been empty. For the past six months—hell, for the past six years, I have dreamt about finding a house that isn’t empty. I’ve imagined what it would be like, not just to sleep in a guest room, but to be someone’s guest. I cannot be a guest in that house. You can’t be guest when the host is lying in their own bed, eyes shut like they’re— [click, static] I got sick. In the house, yesterday, about fifteen minutes before I tried to contact you. I, um, I threw up right on their bedroom carpet. I—I cleaned it up eventually. I don’t know, it felt like the right thing to do, like, polite, you know even if the whole house already smelled like— [click, static] I’ve seen a dead body before. It isn't that. I watched both my parents die, I saw a really terrible motorcycle accident on the highway once. But those were…for lack of a better term, they were, um, fresh. Which is its own kind of horror, but what’s in there, what’s in that house, the decay of it. The…the loneliness. [click, static] I don’t want to be found like that. I don’t want to find Harry like that. But if we both—I mean, is there anyone left to do the finding? There—I still can’t get over the fact that someone was here. Not a person from six years ago with a body that somehow stuck around, but someone who has been here, who died, it seems, peacefully in their sleep sometime in the last year. I don’t know anything about what happens to a body after it dies, but I know that the body inside that house has not been lying there for six years. Why? Why did you do this? Do you have any idea just how cruel it is? To show me that someone was here all along, and that I’m too late? [click, static] [beeps] didn't knowSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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] Who— [click, static] Who are you? I’m not asking anymore, who— [click, static] I don’t know what—what the fuck you’re playing at but… It’s not you. What—who I f— [click, static] It can’t be you. You can’t have transmitted something to me just last week, not when— [click, static] But you knew. You knew what I would find. Why—how— [click, static] Why would you send me here? [click, static] Who are you? [click, static] [beeps] -.-. .- .-.. .-.. / -- . / ..-. --- -..- Call me FoxSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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] I swear to god, I really am going to lose it. Really, really lose it. There’s nothing here. Not only are you not here, but there’s literally…nothing. It’s an open field. I’ve double, triple, quadruple-checked the coordinates and I’m pretty positive I have it right, so… I mean, I guess it’s a general area. I’m not particularly used to reading longitude and latitude, so I’m only…ninety-five percent certain I have the right idea about how wide of an area it is. So it’s not like my search is over but… The whole area is flat and empty. As I’ve discovered, a lot of America is flat and empty. What am I looking for? If it’s signs of human life, I haven’t found it. I guess…thinking about how Harry and I have lived…it’s pretty rural, pretty empty and hard to find. Which was the point. So maybe you were thinking the same thing. Maybe you’ve got a farm somewhere. Living off the land, far away from any civilization…and I just can’t see it yet, it’s just past the horizon. But I’ll check every house, every barn, every broken down car I see. Once I see any of those things. If—if you are hearing this, just…step outside and start shouting. Wave a flag, flash a light into the sky, anything. I’m pretty sure I can hear and see for miles out here. And I’m so close. I can taste it, we’re so close. [click, static]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] They’re coordinates. That’s—they’re coordinates! I think. 46 degrees 40 minutes North and 100 degrees 52 minutes West. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. Any other combination of North, South, East, West puts me into the ocean or…Mongolia, so I’m just going to go with my gut here. It’s North Dakota. I would guess maybe a ten hour drive—I’m already on the road and driving fast. Maybe I’m completely wrong and you’re yelling at your radio begging me to pull over and look at the numbers again and understand something but I… Maybe I want them to be coordinates. I want you to be real—to be someone other than Birdie and to be telling me where to find you. I haven’t been to North Dakota yet, there’s still a chance that people are out there, that you want me to find them. To find you. (laughs) I don’t know what—what am I gonna say to you? Would it—would it be strange to give you a hug? I’m not even that affectionate of a person but it’s been so long since— [click, static] Who is the last person that you hugged? Is it someone that you’re with? Are you with people? Looking through the messages I’ve received, I think you started to talk to me around my birthday. If I had to guess. Which means that you’re the one who told me the tornado system wasn’t automated, which makes sense, maybe Birdie didn’t know that either. It also means that you’re the person who told me I didn’t belong. But I’m choosing to see that as a…problem with tone. You can only convey so much meaning with dots and dashes and maybe you were trying to tell me I didn’t belong on the West Coast because you’d been hoping I would go North instead of West. I don’t belong where there are no people and you know that—you know I’ve been searching. Maybe you were trying to say I belong wherever you are. I’d like to hug you for that. For telling me the truth about things, about the warning siren, for giving me something to look for. Maybe you’re affectionate with someone every single day but me— Well, Harry was the last person I hugged. Obviously. Six years with someone, it’s bound to happen. But that was a few years ago now. She—maybe she is a physically affectionate person naturally but we rarely— I’d had a nightmare. I get them sometimes, as you know. Or, maybe you don’t know, I don’t know how long you’ve been listening. Maybe everything I said before getting to Vegas was lost to you. Surely you would’ve told me about the warning system before then if you had heard me. But, well, anyway, I get nightmares sometimes. About…well, it’s not important, but Harry—no matter what she felt about the situation that led to the nightmares, she never judged me too harshly for having them. And a while back, I—I think I woke up screaming. It was a bad one, it felt so real, and she came rushing in, thinking that something was really wrong and then she—- Human comfort can mean a lot even when it’s given by someone that—that you—someone who doesn’t— Well, our relationship has always been about as clear as mud, but she comforted me then. Held me until I stopped shaking. And that wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that, but it was the last. But then again, sometimes, when she cut my hair, she’d…well, I thought… She lingered. Her fingers in my hair, on my neck. Touching longer and more tenderly than they had to. [click, static] Just…when I get there, whoever you are…you can hug me. I give you full permission. And whoever you are, just…stay there. I’m coming as fast as I can. [click, static]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 am…losing my mind. I cannot for the life of me figure out what this means. Together, it’s 464,010,052…or, I mean, I guess if it’s together, it could be a phone number, though I have no idea if 464 is an area code anywhere…certainly not to my knowledge. Besides, I do think they’re separate numbers. Which brings me to 4,640 and 10,052…or they’re not values at all. 10052 does look like a zip code and a New York one at that—100 is Manhattan, but, unless I’m seriously misremembering something, there is no 1005. And what would the other number be? An address maybe, 46 40th Street…no East or West but both of them would be Midtown. Or, in the outer boroughs, I guess. Some kind of code? It’s not any morse code shorthand I know, like CQ or SOS…numbers aren’t really used for that kind of stuff. It could be a book code…page 46, 40th word; page 100, 52nd word but what book would it be? I wish Harry was here. All those random bits of trivia she has stored in her head, her love of puzzles…she’d be able to see a pattern that I’m not seeing. …But then she’d probably figure it out and also figure out a reason why we shouldn't trust it or follow it or whatever it is you want us to do with it. Me. Want me to do with it. Not us. Because she’s not here. Because she didn’t trust me enough to come with me, didn’t trust me to keep her safe, didn’t trust that this journey would be worth taking. And maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy for trusting that a totally new stranger who didn’t even bother to say hello or introduce themselves is worth deciphering a message from but…if I die, I die. There’s only so much uncertainty and loneliness a person can take before they’ll accept any risk. I could really use a hand here. If you’re trying to tell me something, I’m not gonna get it on my own. [click, static]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] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out for— [click, static] Well, I’m not sure, actually. I thought…I thought Birdie had started transmitting again and even though things sounded a little different to me, I didn’t think much of it, thought maybe the signal was just getting weaker, except… Birdie has never sent me numbers before. Let alone a string of them without any other information. And listening to them over and over again, trying to understand what they mean…it’s hard to deny that something is different. I thought I’d just gotten so good at translating morse, but you—whoever you are—you’re transmitting slower. I’m sure of it now. Which begs the question…how long have you been transmitting? When was the first time I noticed things sounding a little different? When is the last time Birdie sent me something? I have all the messages written down, so I’ll go back through and see if I can pinpoint… Okay. But first: 4640 10052—those were the numbers you sent through. And I’m damned if I have any idea what it means. It’s not a phone number, or a zip code…it might not even be two separate numbers, though there was a significant gap between them. Math has never been my strong suit. So if you want to give me a hint, mysterious stranger… [click, static] God, you really are a stranger, aren’t you? There’s someone else out there. I—I can’t believe it. If this is Birdie and you’ve just changed the style of your transmissions, please tell me? I can’t bear to get my hopes up. [click, static] And if this is Harry messing around somehow, I will come back to Pennsylvania and destroy all your paintings. Whiskey out. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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] I found the tornado warning system. The one that I’m pretty sure I heard, based on its location. And it’s… Well, you were right. It has to be triggered manually. But not only is no one here or anywhere nearby, not only is there no sign that anyone has been here, in this room, this county, this state, beside me, but… It’s broken. The siren, it’s broken. It doesn’t work. It looks like it’s been broken for a while. I’m going to drive around and check as many systems as I can but… What the fuck. [click, static] [beeps] ....- -.... ....- ----- / .---- ----- ----- ..... ..--- 4640 10052See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, fruitlessly searching for the grail. I found what I’m pretty sure is the spot I pulled over to when I heard the siren and I’ve gone north, east, and west, with absolutely nothing to show for it. The flat, empty and open nature of driving through Kansas was bad enough when I was doing it for the first time, now that I’m back in places I’ve already been, I feel unbelievably trapped. No matter what direction I go, I feel like I’m driving in circles. The only direction left to go is south. And then…if I can’t find anything in that direction, I guess I’ll try every direction again, just with a larger radius. The problem is that I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ve been checking government buildings and anything that looks remotely related to the government or the military—I’ve even been checking schools. And…nothing. Quests really aren’t what they seem like in fantasy novels, are they? I'm glad I don’t have monsters to fight, but I wouldn’t say no to some degree of eventfulness. Anything to shake up the tedium of driving, driving, driving. [click, static]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] No dog. I didn’t really expect to find one. And I told myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up and yet I’m still disappointed. That’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? Disappointment finds you no matter how much you try to protect your heart. I never really believed that I’d find the dog again—at this point, I’m not sure I believe I even saw it—and I never really believed that if I did, it would lead me to answers, the truth, people. And yet, here I am, let down. I’ve been thinking a lot about the dog, about what I said after I’d seen it. That I wanted to be taken care of like that dog. That I was jealous of it. And the more I think about it, the more I’ve reflected on the last six years, on what they were like, on what they weren’t and on what I know now that I didn’t know for most of those years… Were you keeping me like a loyal dog, Harry? Giving me just enough affection and positive reinforcement to keep me from biting your hand? Making sure that my kennel was comfortable so that I didn’t try to leave it, but never giving me too much because, after all, I’m just something to share space with, to bark at the door when there’s danger. It isn’t even like I was some kind of lapdog, a pet that got nothing but love and gave nothing in return, but there’s an…obedience, that you brought out in me that I hate. Even in all our disagreements, in all my frustrations with you, I still always listened to you. Because there was always hope. There was always the possibility of something and I know you said that you never could— [click, static] You knew. You knew that possibility was keeping me at heel. And I’ve been so useful to you. Let’s be honest with ourselves, Harry, for once—you would have died years ago without me. Sure, you’re sufficient now, I don’t think I could have left if— [click, static] You’ve learned. You’ve become more capable over the years. But at first? I did everything. I kept us alive. I kept us safe. I got us out of that prison transport in the first place. And you knew that you needed me. So you took care of me in turn, just enough to make sure I’d stick by you. Even when you also knew that you’d already— [click, static] I’m not jealous of the dog. I’m jealous of my past self. Of her naiveté. Of the hope she felt. Now I’m left living in the perpetual disappointment. [click, static]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] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey driving East. So Colorado was a bust. Kind of. The polaroids are something, even if I don’t know what they are yet, but I definitely didn’t have some kind of dramatic confrontation—collision—while I was in Denver. I didn’t even get any idea of what that would look like. On to Kansas then. Back to Kansas. To chase a tornado or, at least, the warning of one. I don’t know a lot about tornados or their emergency systems—obviously—so I don’t have the most concrete plan. I figure…well, I marked on my atlas where I saw the dog, so I’m going to start there. Maybe now that I’ve been gone for a while, the dog has taken to wandering the highway again and I’ll get lucky. From there, I have a general idea of where I first heard the siren. My best guess would be that the sirens can’t be heard from more than a few miles away, so I’ll do what I did in West Virginia and triangulate the epicenter as best as I can. Except, unless the siren is currently going when I get there, I’m going to be guessing on which direction the siren was coming from, so it might take me a bit longer. Then again, I have time. I may have wasted the last six years—maybe if I’d set out a few months after we found the house like I’d wanted to, we’d have a whole community of people already. It doesn’t matter now. You can make the choice to change your life when you make it and not a moment before. And all you have to do is hope you do it in time for you to live a bit of the life you want, instead of the getting of that life being the last thing you do before you die. Well, I’m not near to death. I feel like I have something to do for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—and I’m done wasting time. [click, static]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 thought getting some sleep and getting out of the city might help me clear my head, that I’d wake up and have a cup of coffee and look at the photos I took and they’d be…normal. They’re not. They’re exactly as they were when I last looked at them, which is to say…not normal. Those people—those ghosts—are still there and I’ve spent nearly an hour looking at all of them as closely as I possibly can, trying to find any kind of clue as to what they are. None of the faces—as much as I can see them—are familiar, but I guess that’s not a surprise. I’ve never been to Colorado. But the thing that—I mean, it’s better this way, but the thing that has me truly scratching my head is…well, now that I have these polaroids, some part of me expected to look closely and find all the peoples’ eyes wide in terror, their mouths open in a scream. If this is some kind of…remnant of whatever happened here, shouldn’t there be a trace of terror? But no, they’re just normal people dressed normally, going about their normal days. They don’t look distressed or shocked or like anything unusual is happening to them at all. There is one weird thing. Weird-er thing, I guess, beyond the very fact of the figures. One of them—a polaroid I took of a park—has a man really close to the camera. He’s in profile, like he’s walked into frame as I took the photo, and he’s scratching his forehead or adjusting his glasses or something. The relevant bit is that his hand is up and the watch on his wrist is facing the camera. I first was checking the time to see if it matched the time I took the photo and then, of course, I couldn’t remember when I took the photo, so that ended up not being helpful at all, but the watch itself… Well, I may have never been the hippest or most fashion forward person in the world, but I’ve always worn a watch, like most people. And I have never seen a watch like this—it didn’t have any hands, instead it was like a flip clock, where it’s just the numbers of the hour and minutes. But the strangest of all is that the numbers looked lit up. Almost like they were on a TV screen. As I’m saying it, it sounds like nothing. I know, I can here it. But it’s something that’s out of place. And anything that’s out of place is worth noting. Even if I have no idea what it means. [click, static]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 took a look at the polaroids I got yesterday and there are… [click, static] It doesn’t make any sense but there are people in them. Not—not fully, not completely. Not as if they were standing there in front of me, some kind of reverse vampire that can only be seen in photos. Though, that’s mirrors, isn’t it? Vampires can’t see their reflection. It doesn’t matter— [click, static] It’s like the nuclear shadow thing I was talking about except, they aren’t shadows. They—they’re both more and less distinct than that. Not stark and clearly visible silhouettes, but with more…dimension. More detail. I feel like I can see a real face in one or two of them. [click, static] How is that…how is it possible? What are they? Is this what Birdie was talking about? Am I in a city of ghosts? [click, static]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] Breaker Channel 19, this is WAR1974 in Denver, CO. [click, static] Breaker, breaker, does anyone read? [click, static] (sigh) Yeah. Figures. I’ve combed every inch of this city, I’m sure of it. Driven every highway and side street, gone into any building that seemed to have electricity, even climbed to the roof of one of the taller buildings and looked over the whole goddamned place and there’s… There’s nothing. Lights and sounds, yes, but the lights are unreliable and the sounds don’t seem to be coming from anywhere. I feel like a crazy person, darting back and forth across the city, chasing phantoms. I’ve taken a bunch of photos throughout the day. I don’t know why. I guess because I can now, and because… It doesn’t make any sense. This has to mean something. Whether it means that I can’t see whatever it is that makes this place worth avoiding, or it means that Birdie wanted to keep me out of here and was lying about it being dangerous…there’s something here that I’m not getting. And meanwhile, the CB stays quiet. No morse, no old radio broadcasts, nothing at all. If you are somewhere in this city, Birdie, you may have gotten what you wanted. I’m not sure I can find you. [click, static]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] There’s…there’s music. I don’t—I don’t know where it’s coming from but it’s—it sounds— [click, static] I took my time to actually drive into the city—so much time it was dark by the time I was done circling the place. I just wanted to be careful, you know? And the darkness actually sort of helped in some ways—it made it easy to see that the city has a lot of electricity—almost as much as Vegas, which is weird, because it’s not like this is the kind of hot destination Vegas was. But maybe that’s what you meant by “collision point”—that there’s more power here for some reason. But despite the flickering lights, I didn’t see any movement or anything that looked remotely dangerous so I figured it was safe to drive into the city, even if it is getting late. But the further I got in, the more…sound there was. I even turned off the CB for a bit and rolled down my windows to listen—it’s not like I was receiving any transmissions anyway. And there were sounds of…cars. Not…consistent, not like the sound of a busy road or a highway in the distance, but the occasional far away honk, the pop of a backfire, the screech of a skid. I tried to follow the sounds, find whatever was making them but there hasn’t been anything and then…the music. It stopped a few minutes ago. And it was almost like there was—well, if I didn’t know better, I would say that there was the murmur of a crowd. Applause and then… I don’t know, I’m clearly hearing things. I followed the sound as best I could and it actually seemed like it was coming from one place. And when I got close, I could hear—singing, actual singing, not from a record but— I didn’t recognize the song, but it was something about a “green-eyed lady”, those were the only lyrics I was able to pick up on. And then the song ended and there was that rumble like an audience and then…nothing. I’ve run up and down this street half a dozen times looking for any sign of a record player or electricity or anything at all that would explain why it sounded like there was a concert here a moment ago but— But there’s nothing here. Well, that’s not true—there’s a half finished building. A skyscraper, actually—maybe not by New York standards, but certainly compared to the rest of the buildings—still covered in scaffolding, a crane on top of it. Not exactly a concert hall. Maybe I am truly losing my mind. Maybe I just need some sleep. [click, static] Harry has green eyes. [click, static]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] Tire chains. All that preparation, packing the car with everything I could possibly need for any contingency, and I forgot snow chains. The West is strange. Just this morning I left the beautifully alien desert-like world of Utah and four hours later, hit a snowstorm in Colorado. The snow is beautiful too—a different kind of beauty from Zion, but beautiful all the same. It keeps knocking me over, the grandeur of this land, the…breathtaking splendor of it. And what did we do with it? We preserved some of it, sure, but at what cost? It’s hard to look at all these places and not see what it cost us. It’s hard to look at perfect white snow blanketing the world and not see the red that stains it all. I don’t know, maybe I’m just feeling maudlin. It’s this feeling of dread inside me—not the feeling that I had in Estes Park, this dread is all mine. But I’m dreading going to Denver tomorrow and finding out that Birdie was right, and that it’s too dangerous and I’m woefully unprepared. I’m dreading going to Kansas afterward and finding nothing and no one at all. I’m so goddamn lonely. Not the normal kind of lonely either, the kind of lonely I’ve been most of my life. I mean, god, I’ve been lonely a lot these last six years sharing one house with another person and… I miss people. I don’t know why it took me so long, but I really miss people. It isn’t abstract anymore, the way it was when we were holed up in Pennsylvania—now I see it every day, how empty this place is, how beautiful but empty. How I’m the only one around to appreciate it. And that’s wrong. I don’t know that we’ve ever had it right, but I know this isn’t right either. We drove out so many people, killed so many people—people we thought were different from us and people we probably considered family—just so we could take everything the land was worth and then put up a sign saying it was protected now, and you have to move through it by our rules. And yet, still, I goddamn miss people. In all their messy flawed selves. And this—where we are now, where I am now—it must have cost us something so much worse than anything before. I’m just not sure why I’m paying the price for it. Or maybe I’m the one that got off easy. [click, static] Anyway, I got tire chains. Picked up a polaroid camera too, finally—I’m going to stay the night in whatever this city is that I’m in and hope the storm lets up by morning. [click, static]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] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, calling out from Zion National Park. I found an old guidebook to the country’s parks a while back—and some history books too, figured I’d finally give myself that higher education I never got—and while I haven’t exactly shaped my trip around the thing, I like to take a gander every now and then and figure out if there’s anything off my route worth taking a detour for. And while I might be on more of a mission than I have been up to this point, I still think this detour was worth it. It’s as stunning as the book says it is. And I’d heard about it of course, it’s probably one of the more famous parks, but I’m not sure I had any idea what it was supposed to look like. Not that knowing would have prepared me at all. It’s enormous and colorful and…overwhelming. That’s the only word I seem to have. Like so much of the land out here—the grand canyon, the pacific coast—it feels like the land of giants. Like I’ve been shrunk down and need to be careful where I tread, in case I step into the shadow of a canyon and become invisible to the giant stomping around above me, ready to be crushed under its foot. Zion means something, I think, to people, but hell if I know what that is. Aside from the occasional holiday or, I don’t know, food, Harry and I never talked much about religion. But it is a religious word, I’m pretty sure. Or a political one? I remember it being in the papers a few years before everything went all wonky. I never spent that much time on the news beyond who was running for President and lord knows I haven’t thought about any of that stuff in years. There’s no more news now that there are no more people. I wish I’d paid more attention. But anyway, I guess it meant something to the Mormons, because that’s where the park got its name. Or, something like that, the guidebook doesn’t go into detail beyond saying that it used to be called the Mukuntunweap National Monument, which is a Paiute word—and I’m probably butchering both of those pronunciations. But they changed it because it was too hard for people to spell and because the Mormons looked at the land and saw some kind of holy temple, I guess. I’m not sure what to make of any of that, if I’m honest. Other than to say that I sort of get what the Mormons were feeling about this place—it is so beautiful, I think I would see God in it if I believed that He existed. And I’m glad that people thought to preserve it, make it a park; I’m glad we didn’t stick a highway through it or tear down the trees to build a suburb but at the same time… Well, was it holy to the Paiute people too? Did we drive them out before declaring this place ours and worth protecting? That sounds like something we’d do. Were the Paiute the ones that named it Mukuntunweap in the first place or did we do that after we took it from them? I doubt they found that word hard to spell, so why is it that the name had to change? Who gets to make these decisions? And why? I keep thinking about what you said. That I don’t belong. And maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t belong in Los Angeles, maybe I don’t belong in Pennsylvania or New York or America or anywhere. I’ve talked about my fairly itinerant life and what it means to build a home and maybe home where you hang your hat or maybe it’s the people you belong to. I belonged to my parents, I belonged to Pete’s crew. I thought I belonged with Har— [click, static] All I know is that you don’t get to decide where I belong. And maybe I don’t get to decide either, maybe no one is the master of their own fate, or maybe all of us are. Maybe the earth decided that human beings didn’t belong in it at all anymore, and like a New York City exterminator trying to get rid of cockroaches just…missed a few. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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] It’s been exactly six months since I left. I can’t quite believe it. It feels so much longer than that in some ways and in others, it feels like it was yesterday that I took my keys and went. It’s funny, reflecting on that day now. I can’t remember if I’ve talked about it before, but I sure think about it a lot. The day of my liberation. I’ve been referring to it like that in my head for six months, with a grand story to go along with it. Me, getting so fed up with Harry, with being stuck in that house, with not knowing what was going on, that I tugged on my boots and put on my coat, grabbed my keys in a huff and started the car, no destination in mind, just driving to drive and then not stopping. Like some kind of grand escape—and I know about escapes. That’s not how it was at all. It was deliberate. It was planned. Anything else would’ve been stupid as hell—I didn’t know what was out here, I needed to make sure that I had food and clothes and clean water and extra gasoline and whatever else I might need. I’m back on the road this morning, heading East once more, like hitting the far west coast slingshot me right back toward the way I came. I don’t know why really, but part of me is…sad to be leaving so soon. Maybe because I haven’t had that feeling of rightness—of belonging—before. But belonging in a place pales in comparison to figuring out what’s going on. To possibly meeting someone. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Even if you say that someone would’ve had to be there to turn on the alarm, I can’t—I can’t bear to get my hopes up and be disappointed. So I’m choosing to believe that it was somehow…tripped, and if I find something different, great. But I’m not going to expect it. I was mapping out the route and it would take me about three days to get back to Kansas if I really hustled. But the fastest route is going to take me straight through Colorado again. So I might as well hit Denver first, try to understand what the hell that whole thing was about. With the supplies I picked up yesterday, I should be prepared for…well, for anything. I hope. [click, static] 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] Alright, I think I’m nearly ready to hit the road again. I drove around a bit today, partly to see more of LA in case I don’t come back and partly to look for supplies. And I hit the jackpot. There’s this enormous supply store, army surplus place—I’m not really sure what it is, but it’s right off Santa Monica Boulevard and seems to be an emporium of anything you might need for the end of the world. I refilled all the basics—first aid kit, kerosene, lighters, C-rations—grabbed some new knives and tools now that mine have dulled a little. I even found a ton of batteries that hadn’t corroded, so, yeah, jackpot. This place even had fucking potassium iodide tablets, which I guess are supposed to help with radiation poisoning, so I grabbed some of those, you know, just in case. I don’t know how I could possibly encounter radiation now, but, you know, I want to be prepared for every eventuality. So I stocked up on weapons too. Which feels…odd. And to be clear, to anyone who might be listening, my first instinct is not to treat any potential other survivors as hostile. I’m certainly not hostile. But, I don’t know, anything could happen, right? With all the weird shit of the past six months…I mean, not that a machete or a gun could help me against a tornado or a ghost, and that dog certainly didn’t seem rabid or dangerous but… I’ve stuffed them deep in my trunk. The gun and the machete. This place had fucking machetes for god’s sake. I’m not planning on using either of them, at any point, but…well, I don’t know what I don’t know, right? That’s really what it comes down to. Anything could happen. [click, static]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] Well, not quite as quick as I’d wanted but thanks for getting back to me within a day at least. Yes. You said yes. Which means…shit, Birdie. That’s…I’m not sure even how I should react to that. It feels—I mean, its revelatory, isn’t it? I— [click, static] Sorry, I’m…I’m overwhelmed I guess. The thought that, after all this time, there really is someone out there to find… [click, static] No, you know what? I can’t think like that. I can’t assume anything. Not yet. Not until I found out for certain. Which I guess…I guess that means I’m going back to Kansas first. So…so much for California sunshine. I wonder what Kansas in January is like. Probably not as nice as LA. Not that it matters. This is obviously more important. If someone— [click, static] Nope. Not going there right now. You know what I am thinking in this moment though? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this at the time? Why are you telling me now? What kind of game are you playing with me? I swear to god, Birdie… [click, static] Did you ever see that movie “Gaslight”? You know, the one where this shitty guy tries to make his wife believe she’s going insane? He keeps dimming the lights but when she notices, he just tells her she’s seeing things? This feels a little like that, Birdie. Like I get on here every day and talk about how the lights aren’t as bright as they usually are and then you send me a message saying that the lights haven’t changed at all. And then when I start to believe you—start to trust you over my own eyes—you change your tune and tell me there are no lights at all. Well, fuck you. I’m going to go see for myself how bright the lights are. And if I find that you’re the person that’s been hiding away in Kansas…well, I’m not sure what I’ll do. [click, static]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] “Tornado not automated”—at least this message isn’t as cryptic as the last but…it’s unsettling in a different way. Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Birdie? That the tornado warning system is…what, triggered by a person, not the tornado itself? That it would’ve been turned on by—by an actual human being? That that’s the only way it would’ve been turned on? I—yeah, I’m actually going to need you to answer me before I do anything else. I need to be certain that I’m understanding you. So. Please. Don’t go dark again. Tell me if I’m right. Did a person turn on that tornado siren back in Kansas? [click, static] [beeps] -.-- . ... YesSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Breaker, breaker, this is WAR 1974 calling out from Los Feliz, Los Angeles. Huh. Low-s Feliz. Loss Angeles. Is it Loss Feliz? Loss Fell-IS? Lows Fell-IS? Francis always said Low-s Feel-iz, but I have no idea if he was right. I know nothing about Spanish, so I’m pretty sure I’d butcher any pronunciation. Anyway, it’s a new day, I’ve made a shit ton of lemonade with all the lemons I picked in the neighborhood and I’m feeling…well, if not good. Motivated. I’m setting the gloves and Harry aside, the cryptic message and Birdie aside, and I’m ready to start anew. Except…I don’t actually know where to start. I’ve written down everything I know, gone through it over and over and none of it is clicking together in any kind of coherent way. The best lead I have is what happened in Estes Park and, by extension, whatever the deal is in Denver too. That’s as good a place to start as any. Circle back to Denver, danger be damned, and try to see if that city holds any answers. But if there really is something there that could harm me…how do I prepare myself? What kind of danger am I looking at? I guess I could get some weapons, get a bigger, sturdier car— Oh yeah, I didn’t mention the car I did settle on after the old one broke down. It is a thing of beauty—a 1965 Ford Thunderbird. Red and hardly driven based on the mileage. I picked the first car that worked on the 210 in order to get myself here but then when I saw this baby a few streets over I couldn’t resist. It might not be the most practical—not a ton of storage space—but who needs stuff anyway, right? It can hold all the essentials. That’s what matters. But would it hold up in whatever…collision is in Denver? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to find out. [click, static] [beeps] ---- .-. -. .- -.. --- / -. --- - / .- ..- - --- -- .- - . -.. Tornado not automatedSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Fuck you, Harry. You absolute goddamn sneak. I threw everything from the old car into the new pretty haphazardly, and I decided to really organize it today, take stuff out of my bags, switch out my cold weather clothes for warm weather ones and I guess I haven’t dug into all the pockets yet, because I found… You knit me goddamn mittens, didn’t you? Snuck them into my bag before I left like some kind of… I packed this bag myself, it was empty when I did, so I know these aren’t left over from…I mean, even if I hadn’t packed it myself, what would they be left over from? A trip we never took? And the mittens, they’re blue, which you know is my favorite color you goddamn— [click, static] Of course I find these when I’m in Southern California. When I need them the least. There’s something…there’s something in you hiding a fucking handcrafted thing that took you time, you hiding it for me to find, me only finding it when I no longer need it. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. But I’m too…I’m too taken off guard to try and figure out what the hell it means. [click, static] 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] Okay, laying everything out for myself, part two. I got so distracted the other day with all the Birdie bullshit that I didn’t even think about the stuff I do know because I’ve experienced it. Once again, seeing my world through the lens of someone else instead of just fucking trusting my own instincts. I’m going to try to go through anything and everything that’s felt slightly off or unusual, no matter how small or inconsequential. So, let’s start small. The dog in Kansas. Stray dogs are one thing, but that one looked so well loved. So clean. But Kansas was so empty—felt like one of the emptier states I’ve been to—and I looked. I tried to find the dog, to see where it lived, to see if anyone was there taking care of it and came up with nothing. Speaking of Kansas, the tornado. The tornado isn’t weird in of itself—Kansas gets tornadoes—but the alarm…there wasn’t very much power in Kansas. And I’m not sure how those sirens work, but presumably they’re on some kind of grid, which would suggest that I would’ve seen some kind of power on somewhere, but there wasn’t. So another case of phantom power? A grid for just the warning system that didn’t power anything visible? I have too many questions about it. Vegas had a lot of power, so the fire alarm going off makes a little bit more sense to me, especially since a fire alarm system is contained within one building. But was there even any fire? That’s the question—did the alarm just get tripped somehow, with a power surge or by something else…by someone else. Power in general! It doesn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason why sometimes it’s on and sometimes it’s not. A jukebox playing music, but no power on the electric stovetop. Like someone bothered to fix the wiring just to play music but not eat. Maybe I’m putting personification where there is none but it’s…weird. It’s all weird. Then there’s all the lack of evidence—the lack of damage, the fact that stores are still well stocked instead of picked over…all the cars just left abandoned even though they’re all full of gas and perfectly fine as far as I can tell, beyond the wear and tear that happens when a car is left to the elements for years on end. Harry trying to contact me. That’s maybe not evidence of anything important but, um, it still feels…noteworthy. And finally, the big one—the Stanley Hotel. There were so many weird things. No power but my radio turned on. That feeling of dread. Seeing that…vision. A man. An ordinary man. Who could he have been? What could he have been? Was he really seeing me? I’ve been thinking about nuclear shadows. Apparently, when you drop a nuclear bomb, the blast bleaches everything, that’s how strong the light from the explosion is. So when something—or someone—is in the way of that light, their shadow doesn’t get lightened. The shape of them is left behind, so they say. Sometimes I feel like that. Like I’m a blast shadow of my former self. Maybe that’s what he was too. Some kind of…remnant. Echo. Of some time before the blast. [click, static] I don’t know, none of it makes sense. I can write it all down in ink and still can’t read what any of the words mean put together. [click, static]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] 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— [click, static] 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— [click, static] Jesus, this whole neighborhood is going to be out of fruit by the time I’m done! [click, static]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] 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. [click, static] 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. [click, static] 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? [click, static] 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… [click, static] 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. [click, static]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] 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. [click, static]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] 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. [click, static] [beeps] You don't belongSee 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 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. [click, static] 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. [click, static]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] Harryyyyyy. [click, static] (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— [click, static] 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— [click, static] 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. [click, static]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] 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. [click, static] 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. [click, static] Here, listen to the ocean for a bit. Maybe it’ll bring you peace like it is for me. [ocean sounds] Happy New Year. [click, static] 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] 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. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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] 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.” [click, static] 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. [click, static] 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] (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. [click, static]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] Breaker, breaker, this is WAR1974 broadcasting live from Las Vegas! [click, static] I assume cheers went up around the world at that. Merry Christmas everyone! May you all be safe and sound and warm and full of good cheer, merry and bright, whatever sounds most festive. Speaking of festive, I did find a Christmas record and while I’ve been indulging myself most days with whatever music I can—I finally got to play those records I picked up in West Virginia, so I’m glad I took them—it occurred to me that you, dear listener, may not have had the same luxury. So, here you go, a Christmas medley to bring you that holiday spirit: [click static] [Christmas music plays, Whiskey hums occasionally] Merry Christmas, world. [click, static]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] It’s Christmas tomorrow. I don’t know how that’s possible but it is. You’d think it’d be easy for me to keep track of, especially considering my birthday is five days before, but in some ways that makes it harder. My parents—they got that it could be hard for a kid to have a birthday so close to a big holiday. It was hard to have any kind of celebration with fellow kids, what with most of them being with family for the holidays and what not. But thankfully, my parents were never very religious, so Christmas didn’t need to be a huge deal. Mostly we would bake and eat and I’d get presents on my birthday, not Christmas. And then with Harry, well, I’d try to cook some of my favorite holiday dishes that my mom made—yorkshire puddings and hollandaise sauce and all those delicious fatty things that stick to your ribs—but inevitably the ingredients we had access to would lead to some very lackluster meals, especially with me at the stove. Harry’s Jewish anyway, so she would mostly let me do whatever I wanted on Christmas. She likes the…the frippery of it, she said. New York at Christmastime, fancy shop windows, roasted nuts on street carts, garlands everywhere, that kind of stuff. But, unlike everything else in our lives, it wasn’t something she had a strong opinion about, so it usually fell to me to decorate or bring in the holiday cheer if I wanted it. When it came to celebrating any holidays—Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, Yom Kippur, Halloween, whatever—we were sporadic at best. Sometimes it was nice to give the months and years some shape and sometimes we’d look up and realize it was mid-December and we’d missed all the fall holidays. Birthdays were the only things we were consistent on. It helped that mine is in December and Harry’s is in June. A nice six month gap to give us a good rhythm. Anyway, I was planning on leaving for LA today but then when I realized…well, a Christmas in Vegas sounds as good as a Christmas anywhere else. At least here I’ve got good champagne and scattered access to a working record player. Maybe I can even dig up some holiday records. [click, static] 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] (sighs) I suppose I should thank you for the birthday wishes, but I’m not feeling particularly gracious. Instead, I’m frustrated. I’m nearly to California—I think LA is going to be my next big stop, seems like a good place to ring in the New Year—but, I’m nearly to the other coast and it has me thinking about…what this is all for. I came out here to find other people. That’s what I told myself. But after the first week, when it became so clear that other people were going to be hard—if not impossible—to find, it became about something else. Or…I allowed it to be what it was always about. Which was me. I needed to get away. I needed to move forward. Literally, I guess. And then you. Even in my heart of hearts I’m not sure I expected to find you. I’m not sure I thought I would ever speak to another person ever again. And it brought hope back into my life. I hadn’t realized how much I was missing hope. How vital of an emotion it is. But with hope comes disappointment. And I didn’t think I could be disappointed with people anymore, not after— [click, static] Anyway. I’ve made it all the way across the country, nearly, and what do I have to show for it? A weird ghost story, Dean Martin’s suit, and a fair-weather friend. And maybe I was focused on just getting out, getting away, but I’m tired of not understanding the world. It’ll be a new year soon. 1975. Halfway through a decade—a decade in which I’ve seen exactly one other person in flesh and blood. I don’t know that there will be people to find in Los Angeles—or any answers at all—but I think it’s time I settle in somewhere, maybe just for a bit, a few weeks, and figure out what the hell I’m doing. Because I can’t drive around this country forever. Moving continuously is not the same as moving forward. [click, static]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] Dear Harry, I’m goddamn sick of speaking to you already. At least with Birdie, there was some kind of response. And maybe you are responding. Maybe you’re somehow hearing this and shouting into your radio, trying to get me to hear you. That’s sort of a funny image, actually. Finally, I’m frustrating you as much as you frustrate me. Do you remember my last birthday? The bottle of wine and the game of Clue? Of course you do, you remember everything. Every shortcoming, every perceived slight, This is the first birthday I’ve spent alone since my sixteenth. Isn’t that strange. And that birthday…it snuck up on me. My dad had died so recently and—well, anyway, you know most of this already. Know more about my teen years than anyone in the world. We had to have something to talk about for all those years. The times before we knew each other always seemed like safe territory. Even before I got to New York, before I made any kind of friend, I would at least try to celebrate in a bar, or a diner, or somewhere with people around. And then there were those years where I did have friends, even if they were fair weather ones, and then there was you and it’s hard to have a birthday party and not invite the person you live with and sometimes I think—well, we had fun sometimes, right? Celebrating things? Anyway, it’s strange to be alone now. Stranger today than all the other days, though I can’t really explain why. There’s no difference in this day, not really. I’m not sure what I expected in choosing Vegas to spend my birthday. It isn’t like I can play any of the games on my own or catch a show or go to a steakhouse. But it seemed…festive. I keep thinking about what Birdie said when we talked. That I was wrong when I said my choices didn’t change the world. Maybe I misunderstood them, maybe they were messing with me, I don’t know but… Sitting here, in a casino at the Sands, in Dean’s suit, drinking champagne that I’m fairly certain costs several hundred dollars a bottle, and looking out on an empty hall of chance, I… Chance and choice. The only forces in the universe. I have made a series of choices that have brought me here. You made a series of choices that pushed me here. Looking around…well, we — both of us — decided to spin the roulette wheel, if you want to put it that way. But we don’t decide where the ball lands. We have free will, but everything is a game of chance at the end of the day. So why…why should I feel guilty over that? Why should you? I mean, there are other reasons you should feel guilty, but not for that. I know what you’d say—that it wasn’t chance that steered our hands, but choice. And I’d say that the choice to die or not die isn’t much of a choice at all. Choice brought me to Vegas but chance drove me to the Sands and to Dean Martin’s suit and this bottle of champagne. Chance led to both of these things being ultimately valueless, except for the value they provide to me. It doesn’t matter what happened in ’68, what kind of choices people made, there isn’t any choice a single person could’ve made that led to all this. There’s some other force at play here, something bigger than me or you or anyone. Something bigger maybe even than chance. Happy Birthday to me. [click, static] [a voice almost cuts through the static] [beeps] .... .- .--. .--. -.-- / -... .. .-. - .... -.. .- -.-- Happy BirthdaySee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Dear Harry, To think I was craving unpredictability just last week. I’ve had to leave the Caesar—or, I guess I didn’t have to, but—well, I was working on getting the record player going this morning when the fire alarm started blaring. Scared me right out of my skin, let me tell you. So I gathered up my things and did what any sane person would do and evacuated. I’d gone through my usual safety checks before settling in, but it’s a huge hotel, so I didn’t get to all of it—with all this power actually working, I wouldn’t be surprised if something sparked and caught fire. But there wasn’t any evidence of smoke or fire, so who knows. Better safe than sorry, I say. God, thank god for automated emergency systems. Whoever came up with those really did the apocalypse a favor. Without the tornado warning and the fire warning and everything…well, I could be dead several times over. It’s a pretty good argument for sticking to hotels over homes, I guess. If only people had these things in their homes. Anyway. Fire or not, I’m out of Caesar’s now. And moving hotels actually proved to be an excellent choice, because I got to the Sands—that’s the only other hotel I recognized the name of, mostly because of Frank Sinatra at the Sands, the record. And I guess he and the rest of the rat pack must have come here a lot because guess what? I think I’m in their room. That’s right—I got to the Sands and came up to the fanciest suite I could find and what does the wardrobe have in it but Dean Martin’s suits. His name is stitched right into the collar and everything! I couldn’t believe it. It’s pretty late now, but tomorrow is the big 3-5 and now I know what I’m going to be wearing as I fix myself up whatever celebration I can. I think I’ve earned a day of treating myself, even if treating myself in this case means wearing a dead man’s suit. Night, Harry. [click, static]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] Dear Harry, You would hate Las Vegas. There are so many places I’ve gone over the last few months that you’d hate. The cheap roadside motels, the kitschy tourist attractions, the dive bars I’ve frequented. That’s something I haven’t been all that forthcoming about. I mean, there’s plenty I do during my days that I don’t talk about on here. Some of its mundane but some of it is… Well, I have a ritual, of sorts. Before I leave a state, I find a bar—usually a dive bar, but sometimes I go for the really fancy hotel bars if I’m in a city—and I pick a bottle from the very top shelf and I pour myself a finger of whatever it is and I toast to all the people who have passed through that state, that city, that bar; all the people who are no longer here for reasons that I don’t understand and it’s…well, it helps keep me grounded, I think. Doing that in each and every state I go to. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to praying in a long time. You’d like the hotel bars, I think. Maybe you’d find some of the stops I’ve made silly or unappealing, but there are things about this whole winding road trip that I think you’d enjoy. Fancy hotels being one of them. I’m staying at Caesars Palace right now because…of course I am. It’s the most iconic hotel on the Strip and I don’t have to pay anyone to stay at it. I’m actually not sure if it’s the most iconic, it’s just the first one I saw that I recognized the name of. As much as you would hate Vegas—and you would, you would hate it—I do think you’d appreciate just how plush the beds are and the soft hotel robes and the truly top shelf liquor they’ve got. My stately toasts aren’t the only time I pour myself a glass of something, obviously, so I will definitely be partaking tonight, once I’ve figured out how to route the power to a record player in this place. I shouldn’t be surprised that the one place I’ve been to that has multiple buildings lit up in power is Las Vegas. Whatever grid they’re on, whatever generators they had running the lights and the slot machines and the stages, well, they’re clearly powerful as hell, because huge portions of Caesar’s has power. Currently, I’m talking to you from my hotel room. Well, apartment more like. It’s got a fucking staircase in it. A little balcony that overlooks the living room, where there is, I kid you not, a grand piano. And everything is really…pink, for some reason. It is the biggest and nicest hotel room I have ever been to by miles. And there’s a record player here—with a huge, phenomenal sound system, but for some reason that’s not working, I think because some of the outlets in here are dead. Once I get off the horn, that’s going to be my project. Well, maybe my project for tomorrow, it is pretty late. I took a big break in the middle of the day today and sat out on top of my car just…looking over the desert. Nevada really is something else, like being on another planet. And then to have Vegas just pop out in the middle of nowhere, like a mirage—it’s a real trip. Beautiful, in its own way, but weird. And weirdly exhausting too—you see Vegas long before you get to it, which makes driving down the road toward it feel like you’re not moving at all. You can see it, you can see your speedometer all the way up at eighty and the city isn’t getting any closer. It’s like you’re standing still. All in all, it’s been a pretty tiring day. And I’ve got lots to explore tomorrow so…I guess I’ll go now. Goodnight, Harry. [click, static]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] Dear Harry, I have no postcard to write on, but I’m still going to address this missive to you. I need to—it’s hard, to go back to talking to everyone after so many months of talking to someone. And you’re the only other someone I know, so you’ll serve as stand-in for the time being. You’ve probably never been ignored by a friend. You’ve been ignored by me, but I’m not sure you ever considered me a friend. I don’t know what I consider you. A pain in the ass, a force of nature, the only person I trust. That’s…that’s quite the realization to have, actually. But it’s true. You’re the only person alive I trust. Though that trust is conditional. It didn’t used to be. I used to trust you with everything—the truth, my life. I thought I could trust you with— [click, static] Well, the truth and my life should have been enough. And it wasn’t…it wasn’t just because I had to. It wasn’t just default. You’d always been honest with me—brutally so—and you’d kept me alive these past six years, even when it would have been easier not to bother. But then you had to go and— [click, static] I don’t know why I still trust you. With the truth and with my life. Maybe it’s because I think you should trust me. I think I—I’ve earned it, I— And not because—I never wanted you to trust me because how it all began, I never wanted to hold that over you. Make you feel as though you owed me. Maybe you do owe me. I don’t know, I don’t know what to think now. That was something you put on yourself. You could’ve left at any time, you didn’t need to repent or— [click, static] I think, you know, if you can hear this, you’re probably disagreeing with me out loud as you sit in your studio. That’s where I’m imagining you’re keeping the radio. But maybe that’s wishful thinking, maybe I just like the idea of you having it nearby, so you can hear anything that might come through— [click, static] Oh, you got me all mixed up. [click, static] Anyway. I know you disagree with me. I know you think that the choice I made was extreme, that we could’ve figured something else out, but…I don’t think that’s true. I think it was the best option we had and I think if I hadn’t been there, you would, you would have made the same choice. You think that you can outsmart anyone, that you can clever your way out of any situation, but that is provably not true. You would do what had to be done. “But that’s what I’m saying, Abigail, it didn’t have to be done at all” —that’s what you’re saying right now, I can hear it perfectly in my head. And not just because it’s a conversation we’ve had before. Because I know—I know you. And I know…I know you. Despite everything, despite what you— [click, static] See? I don’t even need you to radio back, I can do both sides of this conversation. I don’t need anyone to be on the other side. [click, static]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] It’s been nearly two weeks since I last heard from you, Birdie. You asked about the difficult choices I’ve made in my life and then fucked off and it’s a little hard to think that those two things aren’t related. God, to think I almost told— [click, static] I don’t know what’s going on with you. I don’t know why you haven’t sent me any messages since that one. I don’t know why you missed our…radio date, or whatever you want to call it. It’s not like this is the first time that you’ve gone silent for days or weeks, but this is the first time since we actually spoke to each other. And it’s a little hard to think that those two things aren’t related. Wherever your head is at, I’m not interested in obsessing over it. I’ve done that before, the “I have all the freedom in the universe but I’m trapping myself in a cage on someone else’s behalf” and let me tell you, I have no interest in doing it again. If you exist, Birdie, I have to believe that someone else does. Possibly multiple someones. And as long as I keep moving, I increase my chances of actually finding one of those someones. So you do whatever it is you’re doing, Birdie, and I’ll be just fine. [click, static]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] Snagged another postcard today. Just a generic landscape of Utah, but it’s pretty. Rich oranges and warm sunlight. I’m not filling out an address obviously, which means I’ve got the whole postcard to write on and…anyway. [click, static] “Dear Harry, It feels strange writing these postcards now, knowing you might be listening. My friend, Birdie—that’s right, I did meet somebody out here—picked up your transmission but I didn’t. They’ve got some wild setup that allows them to pick up a lot of frequencies from enormous distances. If you hear any morse code on your radio, that’s them. So I’m not really sure that you are listening. I can’t hear you, so there’s a good chance you can’t hear me. But if you can… The truck still works. Or, it should, if you’ve been taking care of it like I showed you. You could get in it right now and start driving. I’m going to Las Vegas for my birthday. You could meet me there.” [click, static] Anyway, I should get on the road. Whiskey out. [click, static]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] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, sitting on the hood of my car, looking at newspaper rock. You know, the further West you go, the newer all the buildings get, but the older the land. Does that make sense? Maybe it’s just that there’s more of it out here—more land I mean—but it feels like back East we completely destroyed what evidence there was that people have lived on here for a long time. I don’t know of any place like this on the East Coast. So. What is this place, you ask? Newspaper rock. Well, it’s a rock, obviously. And it’s got all these carvings on it. Petroglyphs, I think they’re called. From…I don’t know, thousands of years ago? And they’re of all sorts of things—animals, people, animals and people together, people riding horses, that kind of stuff. I can’t…I’m not sure if it’s telling some kind of story, but given the name, I assume historians think it’s a depiction of a significant event, or a few significant events. I wonder how much we were really able to figure out about it. I don’t know anything about archeology or translation or if this is even a language or just, you know, a nice painting. I recognize the shapes, but I don’t understand what it’s trying to say. There’s a metaphor for my whole life. Or, at least the last six years of it. Even now, talking to you, Birdie, I understand the words you’re using, and the order you’re putting them in makes sense, but I don’t know what you’re saying. Harry always spoke deliberately, with perfect diction and five dollar words and I’m not sure I ever really understood her. I’m not sure she ever really understood me, either. At least, not what I was really trying to say. How do historians learn to translate dead languages? How do they know they’re right? How do I know that anything I ever say is being heard in the way I mean it? Maybe this is all too philosophical for ten in the morning. I just…I wish I had my own Rosetta stone, you know? Something to make it all make sense. Something to tell me the meaning behind the words. Signing off. [click, static]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’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— [click, static] 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. [click, static]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] 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. [click, static]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] 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. [click, static] 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. [click, static]See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday. [TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] “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… [click, static] “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. [click, static] See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.