Breaker Whiskey

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] I was writing a postcard from the Grand Canyon to Harry and my pen exploded. My fingers are covered in ink and it made me think— [click, static] Harry’s hands always had something on them. Paint usually, or dirt from the garden…ink even. She found this old typewriter in the house and got me to fix it up for her despite the fact that I knew nothing about typewriters. I was able to figure it out—you work on enough mechanics, including really tiny ones, like the electrical wiring for the miniatures, and you can figure out pretty much anything that’s designed well. And typewriters are beautiful machines it turns out. I hadn’t used one very much before then—it’s not like I ever needed to for my job and I never took typing classes or anything—but I fell in love with this one. It was an old model—from the thirties, if I had to guess—and the design was both beautiful and complex. Intricate but obvious. (huff of laughter) God, what a metaphor that is, huh? (mumbling) Harry sure knew how to pick interests that perfectly reflected her. But anyway, Harry spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to refill the ink reel. It had obviously dried out long ago, but she was convinced she could resoak it in ink and it would work again. Turns out, it’s not quite as straightforward as that. But she kept at it, trying paint, ink from the pens we had, whatever she could. After the first few attempts, it was something she only ever worked on when she was particularly angry with me. That’s how I knew we couldn’t repair what got broken in that last big argument. Every day, she had ink on her hands. [click, static]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’m on my way to Salt Lake City, land of the Mormons. I have no idea what to expect from a city built by people who don’t drink or smoke or, god, even have caffeine. Maybe it’ll be just the same as every other city in America - half of the ones back East were founded by Puritans and teetotalers. I never had much use for religion. I remember my parents bringing me to church sometimes when I was a kid, but they weren’t that devout themselves so it never really sunk in. And no, my weeks on the road have not changed my mind about God. Not even that weird encounter in Colorado. Whether it was a trick of the light or a hallucination I was having… [click, static] Who am I kidding. Trick of the light? It wasn’t a trick of the light. And I’ve never hallucinated in my entire goddamn life, I can’t imagine that all this driving has had such an impact on me that I’ve suddenly started now. I’ve mostly been trying not to think about it. A ghost, a spirit, some kind of angel or demon…whatever it was, I haven’t seen anything like it since and I’m— Even if it was a ghost, just because I believe in the afterlife doesn’t mean I believe in gods. And I’m not sure that’s what it was! I’m not sure I do believe in the afterlife! Maybe it was just… [click, static] Maybe I should pick up some Mormon writing in Utah, see if they have anything to say about it. I have always wondered about the multiple wives thing. How does that work exactly? Even if all the women really were happy with the situation—which I’m not saying is impossible, it just seems like a system where maybe they don’t get that much say either way—I can’t really fit the puzzle pieces together in my head. Is it easier if you all have one relationship within the larger…structure, or does everyone have relationships with everyone? I mean, I lived in New York for years and hung out in the art scene, I knew people who had both kinds of situations, and it never made sense to me in those cases either. Not to say it didn’t work for the people I knew, I’m just not sure it’d work for me. With the benefit of hindsight and plenty of time to reflect over the last few years, I’ve come to recognize that I…fixate. It hasn’t happened very often in my life, but when I lo—when I like someone, really like someone, I get a little bit of tunnel vision about them, whether I realize or not. And if I ever got that person, I don’t think I’d be selfless enough to share. Maybe that’s unhealthy, I don’t know. It certainly hasn’t helped me have good romantic relationships. I think one of the reasons I never was really able to commit to Martha is because by that point I was already crazy— [click, static] It wasn’t fair to Martha. The way I was I just wish I’d figured it out at the time, either to tell Martha the truth, make her understand it was never about her or to, ideally, give myself a smack upside the head and get over whatever feelings my heart decided to develop without my consent. If I’d known what I felt back then—really felt—I would’ve done everything in my power to make sure I stopped feeling that way. [click, static] What about you, Birdie? Did you leave a partner behind? If the world were suddenly full of people, is that something you’d want? I guess I can ask you about it on Thursday. Whiskey out. [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 so… (sighs) “What choice marks”. That’s what you sent. I guess I should have seen that coming. It’s the question I’d ask too. [click, static] I’m surprised you haven’t put it together yet. We both know I haven’t been careful about what I say on here, what I say to you. I know you figured out that I was an art thief long before I told you. And I’ve already said a lot about… [click, static] We got caught, right? I’ve told you that. That last job…we got caught. I’m still not sure how, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. And that was a few months before we— [click, static] We were being transported. Harry and I. There’s a—um, there’s a federal prison in Pennsylvania and the two of us had gotten into a little trouble at the county jail that we’d been in before that so we were sent up the river. I guess it isn’t really called that if you’re sent to Pennsylvania. We weren’t going up the Hudson to Sing-Sing, we were— [click, static] You know, I don’t actually like talking about it very much. It wasn't a particularly shining time in my life, you know? It’s not like I hadn’t spent time in jail before—a night here or there throughout my twenties for one thing or another, but this was… I don’t even know where the guys ended up. I guess I should’ve been thankful that Harry was on the job with us, otherwise I’d have been entirely alone. It’s not like we shared a cell or anything, though if you count six years trapped in a house together in the woods then… [click, static] I shouldn’t joke about that. It’s not the same. Yeah, I complain about the last six years with Harry, how suffocating they were, how lonely and isolating and stifling it all was, how frustrating to be stuck with her and have no idea what was going on in the wider world but it beat the alternative by a long shot. Even before I knew there was a chance I could go back into the world, even when it seemed like the smart thing to do was stay in that house with her for the rest of time, it was still better than being where we were headed. A cage of your own choosing right? And even if the world hadn’t been flipped upside down, maybe enough years would’ve passed that we could’ve gone somewhere and started over. [click, static] I don’t mean together necessarily. I mean, we each could’ve gone wherever we want, taken on new names, dyed our hair…I don’t know. We assumed that our escape would’ve made us wanted fugitives—and I’m sure it would’ve if there’d been anyone to do the chasing—but I don’t know, I have to think that two art thieves would hardly have been on the FBI’s most wanted list forever or even to begin with. We could’ve figured something out once the initial heat had died down. I mean, it’s not like we were murderers or— [click, static] I don’t— Look, it’s not important. What’s done is done and I’m not sure I owe you an explanation, not when you haven’t given me one for why you feel so guilty about your job. Other than the vague assertion that you’ve “hurt people”. And you know what? You don’t have to tell me. Let’s just agree to skate past those parts of each other and move on, okay? There’s nothing to be gained from pulling out the skeletons from each other’s closets. [click, static]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] Hey Birdie. I got to the Grand Canyon. I can’t believe I called it a hole in the ground. It is…so much more than that. I’ve never seen anything like it. I drove right up to the edge—who was gonna stop me, right? And now I’m sitting on the hood of my car, watching the sun rise. The colors are extraordinary. The light and the shadows, the different shades of the earth. The bits of reflected light from the river down below. This isn’t—I don’t know what you meant yesterday in saying I was wrong about the impression I’ve left on the world, but I don’t think you really appreciate the comparison I’m making. I’m not denying that I’ve made choices that have had…devastating consequence. Even if you take some of the lesser choices—the ones that I don’t feel regret over—they obviously still had an effect on people. Every piece of art I helped steal had some kind of ripple effect. But the real mark—the one, the last one I left, I guess…I know—I mean, I can only imagine the, not even ripple, the wave that that left. I know that there are some decisions that will leave permanent marks. On you just as much as others. But I’ve—I guess I’ve comforted myself with the fact that it didn’t matter after all. Even if we hadn’t—even if I hadn’t done what I did, everything was about to change anyway. The “incident” or whatever it was happened and changed the world overnight—or maybe really gradually, I don’t know. Everyone either died or was…raptured? Moved into underground cities? Abducted by aliens? I was a meteor, maybe. But the crater is impossible to see because a much bigger meteor came along and blew away the earth around my crater. I’m one wave inside of a tsunami. I—I think maybe I know what you were trying to say though. I’ve been thinking about it—and about you and what I know about you—and you seem to walk around your life with this immense burden of responsibility on your shoulders. You told me that what you did—whatever happened with your job—still matters. And I'm sorry, I’m sorry it’s still haunting you. But if you’re trying to tell me that what I do matters, that it matters just as much as whatever happened with you? Trust me, I get it. I heard that particular lecture pretty often, for six straight years, I don’t need it from you. Don’t project your guilt onto me. So I’m just going to sit here, watching the sun rise over this beautiful, natural phenomenon, and marvel at the fact that as much as I matter, nothing I could ever do would erase this view from the world. [click, static] [beeps] .-- .... .- - / -.-. .... --- .. -.-. . / -- .- .-. -.- ... ..--.. What choice marks?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 Birdie. You here? [one beep] Hell yes. How long’ve we got today? [five beeps] Five…five minutes? We have five minutes? [one beep] Okay, Jesus Christ. Well, I’ve been thinking about this, what I would ask. So let’s go, one beep for yes, two for no, three beeps when the answer is too complicated, and one dash for I don’t know. Alright? [one beep] Okay. Have you known who I am this whole time? [two beeps] No…okay, did you guess my name? [two beeps] Then how— Have you—have you seen me, in person somehow? Not that that would help you know my name… [two beeps] Did I—this is embarrassing but—have I told you my name and I just forgot? [two beeps] Okay, well, that’s a relief that I’m not broadcasting my name everywhere. [two beeps] No? I am broadcasting my name? [two beeps] No again— [dash dot dash dot; dash dash dot dash] Can you do that again? [dash dot dash dot; dash dash dot dash] CQ - oh, seek you. Um…there was—there was a CQ for me? [one beep] What—you mean, so, you did hear my name over a broadcast? [one beep] Holy shit…what else did they say? [two beeps] So you just heard my name? [one beep] Do you know who it was? [two beeps] No, why would you. I don’t even know why I’m asking really…there’s only one person it could’ve been. And considering you sent me a message of my full first name, despite it being more to tap out…well, she’s the only one who doesn’t use the shortened version. Harry, that is. She’s the only one who knows I exist other than you. Who else would it have been? So…Harry got a radio, learned how to use it, and broadcast something to me. Looking for me. [one beep] Jesus, okay. How did I miss this? [click, static] Right, um, was it the middle of the night? [two beeps] Hm…oh- was it while I was camping? When I left the radio behind? [one beep] Shit. I wonder—god, I mean if I had been there would I have been able to… Have you been able to get into contact with her? [two beeps] Have you tried? [two beeps] Would you try? I mean—what am I saying, I don’t know why I— [click, static] Do you think I should try to contact her? [click, static] I guess that’s not something you can really decide, huh? Do you think you have the capability to contact her? I’m not sure I do. [one long beep] One dash— don’t know, right? [one beep] Okay, so you’re not sure if you could contact her, but you did pick up her broadcast. But not on purpose? [one beep] Yes, it was on purpose? [two beeps] Wha—oh, yes as in ‘that’s right’, it wasn’t on purpose. Okay, I clearly need to be more intentional in my phrasing. Do you think you picked her up on skip? [one beep] Right. Okay, I…I don’t know what to do with any of this, to be honest. [click, static] Shit, okay, I don’t want to run out of time with you. I need to ask about the message you sent last night. You said “you’re wrong”. [one beep] Wrong about what? I mean—was it something I said yesterday that I was wrong about? [one beep] Okay, I was talking about the meteor crater, right? So…I mean, I’m assuming it wasn’t about the crater itself. What else was I talking about… The fact that we have no control over the impact that we make? You disagree? [two beeps] No, that’s not it. [dot dash, dash dot dot dot, dot dot] I recognize that—my name, right? Well, the shortened version. [one beep] So it was something about me that I said? [one beep] What, that the choices I’ve made didn’t change the world? [one beep] What? That’s what you think I’m wrong about? [one beep] Birdie, what does that mean? [two long beeps] What? Oh that’s—that’s goodbye isn’t it. [one beep] Wait, you can’t leave yet, what do you mean? [two long beeps] Ugh, fine. But you’ll be here next Thursday? Same time? [one beep] Alright, I guess I’ll have to just live with that—but explain in your next transmission please. [two long beeps] Whiskey out. [click, static]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] So, I’m on my way to the Grand Canyon, but apparently Arizona is full of cavernous earth. Because I’m standing in front of an absolutely enormous hole in the ground. A meteor crashed here. I had no idea. Which is weird, right? Isn’t that something that everybody should just know? That we have an enormous meteor crater in our country? It feels noteworthy. But no, I only learned about it from a road sign on Route 66. Thank goodness for tourist trap advertising, I guess. There’s a little viewing deck and everything—apparently, the meteor crashed here over fifty thousand years ago. The viewing deck has a pair of binoculars pointed at an astronaut suit they put in the middle of the crater. Which is a bit of an odd choice if you ask me, but looking through it does give you an idea of the scale. If this is just a random meteor crater, how big is the Grand Canyon going to be? Was this all mundane to the average Arizona resident? I don’t know that I could handle it—the idea of driving around my state and stumbling across these massive voids of space. It’s too much—it’s too much of a reminder. A rock—a fucking rock—fell from the sky fifty thousand years ago and even now, this land is unusable. The Colorado River pushed through the ground for so long that it wore away at the very earth. Random chance versus persistence. Two opposite ends of a spectrum with the same result—nothing where there used to be something. The world, reshaped. There’s nothing we can do, is there? To ensure that we carve the path that we want or to be certain that we’re not eroding everything around us. It doesn’t matter if we make one spontaneous decision or we work hard at something for years—the result could be exactly the same. It could be the opposite of what we were going for. There are plenty of rivers in the world that have been flowing for just as long and haven’t made that kind of impact. There are plenty of meteors that hurdle through space without creating mass destruction. I don’t know whether to be comforted or disappointed by that. I told you I left my mark on this world already and that I wasn’t sure if I liked what shape it took and that’s true—but maybe there was nothing I could’ve done to make it different. After all, I haven’t had the power of a strong current or a burning meteor. I guess I should just be grateful that the impression I left wasn’t a mile wide. I left my mark, but it won’t still be visible in fifty thousand years. It didn’t change the curve of the world. [click, static] [long static] [beeps] You're wrongSee 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 haven’t heard from you, which I’m trying not to read into too much. It’s not like we haven’t gone days—or weeks, even—without talking but I guess I’m feeling— Well, between talking to you—actually talking to you—for the first time and you knowing my name… Is this what it feels like to be…vulnerable? I know I’ve told you about K not calling me back and Millie moving away and my parents dying and—it’s not like I haven’t been vulnerable before. I have. Of course I have, I’m human. But it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to be. Well, I guess not that long if you count— [click, static] It doesn’t work out that well usually, does it? Caring about someone. Caring what they think about you, how they feel about you. Wanting to talk to them, to know them. There’s no way to do any of that—to have anything meaningful—without rolling over and showing your soft underbelly. And I’ve been kicked in the gut one too many times, Birdie. I thought the last one might kill me. But nothing has yet. [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] [beeps] [click, static] I—I’m not sure I translated this message right. Except, I must have. I’ve gotten pretty good at this over the weeks and I listened again and again to make sure I had it right but how— [click, static] How do you know my name? That’s—I have to think that’s what that message is about. You wouldn’t send that randomly, it wouldn’t make any sense. Which means you know, you know that’s my real name, and that would be a hell of a first guess if you were just going off of the fact that it starts with A. You better start explaining yourself soon, Birdie. If you’ve known who I am this whole time, then…Well, Jesus, I’m not sure we can ever build that trust back. I assume—well, I’m counting us on still being on for Thursday, so I guess you can do your best to explain it to me then. But the explanation better be fucking good. Whiskey out. [click, static] .- -... .. --. .- .. .-.. AbigailSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Hey Birdie. I’m still… [click, static] I can’t believe we talked yesterday. It doesn’t feel real, it happened so fast and it still doesn’t feel real. But it is. It is real. You’re real. You’re real and you can hear me and I know that we’ve been communicating for months now but I didn’t realize just how different it would feel to have you responding in real time to me. Is it a sort of cumbersome way to have a conversation? Yeah, maybe. But it’s still the most scintillating interaction I’ve had in years. The same message came up a little while after you signed off—which was pretty abrupt by the way. Th, 9AM, Thursday 9AM. It broadcast for a little while and I’m not sure if its a holdover or you saying that you want to talk again next week? I hope it’s that. Either way, I’ll be sitting by the radio waiting. Just like you’re a date that has no interest in me. You said you don’t want me to know you. But I—I want you to reconsider, Birdie. I’m not going to—to hurt you, I’m not going to judge you, I’m not going to ask too much of you. Or, at least, I don’t think I will. I’ll try not to. I know what it’s like to have something that you want to hide. Or to want to hide from the world completely. I’ve felt that—I’ve felt that for most of the last six years. And I know what it’s like to not be able to hide. I couldn’t, after everything that happened, because Harry was there. And I could never hide from her. But I think even hiding would’ve gotten tiring after a while. Aren’t you tired? [click, static] [beeps] .- -... .. --. .- .. .-.. AbigailSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Birdie? You there? [one beep] Is that…is that you? Are you really here? [one beep] Okay—okay, jesus christ—wow. Hi. Oh my god, hi. [click, static] Right, I guess we’re not gonna have me translating full morse sentences in real time. Though—I’m up for that if you are? [two beeps] Two dots…that’s the letter “I” but…maybe you’re thinking what I’ve been thinking if we ever got a chance the talk. One beep for yes, two for no? [one beep] Yeah? Okay, do it again. One beep for yes. [one beep] And two beeps for no? [one beep] Okay, how long do we have? [two beeps] No? Oh—yeah, I have to ask yes or no questions, huh? Can you stay for an hour? [two beeps] Half an hour? [two beeps] (sigh) Fifteen minutes? [five beeps] Five…five? You can stay for five minutes? [one beep] Ugh, okay. I guess I’ll take what I can get. What are you doing that you can only stay on the radio for five minutes? I’ve got all the time in the world, I could sit by the radio all day. Where do you have to be? [click, static] Right, yes or no. Um…are you safe? [one beep] Okay, that’s good. Will you tell me where you are? [two beeps] Why not? [click, static] Yeah. Alright, Whiskey, focus on the important questions… Huh. That’s funny, I guess I really have started to think of myself as Whiskey. I mean, obviously that’s not my name, but after so many months of referring to myself by it, I guess it’s starting to worm its way in. Jesus, sorry, I’m so used to just saying every thought I have out loud but you’re here, you’re really here. Is Birdie your real name? [two beeps] That’s what I figured. Did you—did you pick a code name because you’re talking to people you don’t want to know the real you? [one beep] Really? How many people are you talking to?? [one beep] Yes—yes, what? [one beep] Oh, one. One person. You’re just talking to me? [one beep] And you don’t want me to know who you really are. [click, static] (sigh) Okay. Right. That’s—well, you don’t know my real name either. But you do know everything else about me. Are you…this is a stupid fucking question maybe, but are you a young person? An old person? A kid somehow? Um, okay, wait, so I’m thirty-four, I’ll be thirty-five in a few weeks actually. Are you older than me? [one beep] Yes. Okay…um, I don’t know why I asked that, what does it matter. Are you—do you know what happened in ’68? [one beep] You do. Well, can you tell me? [one beep] Yes? You will? [two beeps] You won’t? [one beep] Well, which is it? [three beeps] Is it too hard to explain over morse code? [one beep] Do you think we’ll ever talk face to face? Or…voice to voice or, I don’t know, some other method? [one long beep] One dash, not dot. Is that…I don’t know? [one beep] Right. Okay. Um, whatever happened in ‘68…did it happen everywhere? The whole world? [one beep] (sigh) Okay. That’s what I thought but it’s still… I don’t know what to ask you, Birdie, I’m sorry. I—there’s too much! There’s too much I want to know. I want to know what you know about what got us here, I want to know who you are, I want to know what your job was, but I’m running out of time and I— Is whatever’s in Denver related to what happened in ’68? [one beep] It is. If I went to Denver, could I figure out what happened? [two beeps] Are you just saying that because you don’t want me to go? [one beep] Yes? You are just saying that? [two beeps] No. Oh, yes, you don’t want me to go? Because it’s dangerous? [one beep] Okay but…look, it’s great to be talking to you and all but why the hell should I trust you? [click, static] Birdie? [one long beep] You don’t know. Great. Helpful. Denver, the collision point. Does that collision have to do with other people? [three beeps] Three dots. Too hard to explain over Morse, huh? Yeah, that feels like it’s going to be a pretty convenient excuse. [two long beeps] Two dashes, what does that mean? That’s…M, what does that… [two long beeps, then one very long beep] Birdie? Birdie. [click, static] Oh. I guess our five minutes are up. Two dashes is goodbye. Then, goodbye, 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] Um, so…I translated your most recent message. Sorry for getting distracted—I was figuring out what the best way to go to the grand canyon was and it seems like there’s…basically one way from here, so that’s sorted now. But, well Birdie, you did it again. You left me a fucking cryptic message. “Th. 9AM.” That’s all. I’m assuming the “Th” stands for Thursday? Day and time? Which is…tomorrow. And I really hope this isn’t a Denver situation and there isn’t something I need to avoid at 9AM tomorrow, because I would really need more information than that. The other option—and maybe I’m crazy for thinking this, for hoping this. But maybe you’re telling me to be on the radio tomorrow at 9? You know where I am so you know my timezone—at least, I hope you do. I’ll probably just sit on the radio starting at 6AM to be honest. I have to assume you’re somewhere in North America. If you are telling me to be on the radio tomorrow, I have to think it’s not just another morse code message. You’ve never told me to listen at a specific time before, you seem to have it rigged up to continuously broadcast. So that means… Birdie, are we going to talk? Really talk? I guess…I guess I’ll find 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] “It still matters” - I asked you a question ages ago. I only just remembered. I asked you if what your job—if what happened with your job—if it still mattered. Now that we don’t have jobs and careers and all that. And you’re saying it does. Which could mean…a lot of things. It could mean that your job has something to do with…all of this. Or it could just mean that you still care. I really hope it’s the latter. [click, static] I’m a little—I’m kind of embarrassed about yesterday. You were trying to share something about you—about the way you feel, answering one of my questions—and I made it about me. About me and the person who annoys me most in the world. Which is the opposite of what I want to do when I talk to you. So I promise. I’m listening. I care about you and what you have to say. I promise I won’t make it all about me all the time. And I will definitely stop talking about Harry. [click, static] [beeps] - .... / ----. .- -- Th 9AMSee 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 heading west from Albuquerque. [click, static] “It still matters”. That’s what you said: it still matters I’m not sure what you were referring to with that…I don’t even know what I was talking about. My…friends? Or—my crew, that is. I was telling you about Harry and I being nice to each other…is that what still matters? I’m not sure what matters anymore when it comes to Harry. I’m not sure what ever mattered with her. With…us. All those years together and what kind of impact did it have, really? None. Our existence left the barest footprint these past six years. We might as well have not existed. Why does any of it matter? I guess you could say we mattered to each other? In the sense that the only thing we touched since the world emptied out was each other. Each other’s lives, that is. We didn’t—not that— [click, static] I do…there are things that feel like weird echoes of the lives we lived in proximity to each other. I’ve finally cut my own hair, but it’s… I’m not sure I would’ve taken that painting if it weren’t for Harry. I’m not sure I would’ve bothered to go to that museum at all. I don’t like paintings that much. But it felt like I had to. Like I’m—like I’m doing it for her because she can’t. Which might make sense in a sad sort of way if she were dead but she could’ve— (sigh) I’m so fucking mad at her. [click, static] I…I haven’t told you this, Birdie. I don’t know why, I’ve told you everything else. But I’ve picked up something to the tune of seven postcards since I last told you about keeping an eye out for them. And I’ve written to Harry on each and every one of them. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I keep putting cinnamon in my coffee even though that’s how she likes and I never did it before I met her. I don’t know why the few times I’ve passed a sign for a town or road or anything with the name Franklin, I’ve circled it on my atlas, thinking about how Harry grew up in a town called Franklin and always complained about being from a place that shares a name with a dozen other places in the country. I’ve even—my perfectly organized trunk? All the tools just where I want them, the food in one place, the cookware in another—that perfect system that I’ve had in every car I’ve ever owned and the few places I lived long enough to implement any kind of system—the system that Harry destroyed within two weeks of us settling into a permanent spot? That system is useless to me now. I put the coffee can in the food section because I’m not an insane person, but I keep looking for it next to my toiletry bag because Harry liked to keep the coffee and tea next her toothbrush on the kitchen sink so that she could brush her teeth while she brewed her morning cup. That’s nuts! Just walk the extra two steps to the cabinet! (sigh) Everything that used to work just…doesn’t anymore. I guess, in that sense, it does still matter, the way we treated each other. Maybe if we’d been kinder to each other the whole while, more accommodating, I wouldn’t be looking for tea bags in my toothpaste. [click, static] [beeps] - .... / ----. .- -- Th 9AMSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Harry was right. Santa Fe is gorgeous. You know, being here, thinking about it being Harry’s favorite, thinking about the fact that she could be here, right now, with me, and she’s not… (sighs) It wasn’t…it wasn’t all bad. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Since I arrived, since going to the art museum, it’s like I see her around every corner, and I imagine what she’d look like going through the galleries, or pointing out the unique architecture, or insisting we find ingredients to make one of her favorite Santa Fe meals, whatever that might be. It’s—it’s made me—I’ve been remembering the good times, I guess is how you’d put it. There was this one time, before everything happened actually, before that last job, way before— Richie had this unbelievably shitty loft in Alphabet City. Barely any heat, exposed wires, groaning pipes, warped glass in the old windows, just the whole thing. He was the only one of us who lived on the East side—even me of the unpermanent address tended to stick West—but he was also the only one who owned his place. Well, and Pete. We were all pretty sure that Pete owned a whole fucking brownstone in Brooklyn, but we were never able to confirm it. He was pretty secretive about his personal life. But, anyway, Richie would sometimes let me crash at his loft and he had us all over with some degree of regularity—the place was huge, so great for big parties. The crew wasn’t big of course, but he’d invite all his weird beatnik friends and Harry would bring her art friends and Don would bring the guys he grew up with who’d always have some kind of Italian fruitcake with them and Pete and I would stand in the corner friendless and drinking heavily. And one night, we’d all been there for hours and the crowd had dwindled and it was really just us and Don was doing his truly awful Perry Como impression and Harry and I were on the couch just…in stitches. And I think both of us were pretty sauced by that point, because once Don took mercy on all of us and stopped, someone had the brilliant idea of doing a game of charades. Harry and I were on the same team and we just…I don’t know, it was fun. It was really fun. We kicked everyone’s asses, it was…we were so in sync, it was strange. But Harry didn’t make fun of me for my pedestrian choices of what to act out and she didn’t pick anything that she knew I wouldn’t get and it was like… “Oh. This is what it could be like if we were nice to each other. I didn’t expect it to feel this wonderful” Anyway, then we sobered up and everyone went home and I passed out on Richie’s couch and then I didn’t see Harry again until our next job nearly two months later. And it was like that night had never happened. She was just as cold and condescending as ever. And I was just as snide as I always was. But for that one night…I don’t know, it felt good. It felt like how things were supposed to be. With your mysterious job and all, I wonder if you had any friends in it. If you ever goofed around with them. Or if it was all serious, all the time. It must have been, right? If it went as badly as you say, hurt people, it must have been serious right? I mean, I dn't know why I’m even asking, I— [click, static] I still don’t trust you, but not talking to you is worse. [click, static] [beeps] .. - / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / -- .- - - . .-. ... It still mattersSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] The painting is sitting in the passenger seat now. It is my companion. I wish I could explain why I took this one in particular. But I just…I liked it. It made me smile the moment I saw it. Gave me a kind of good ache right behind my ribs. It reminds me of my mom. I don’t know why. She never went to Santa Fe, I don’t think. I don’t know that I ever heard her even reference it. It’s about as far from what she knew in her life as you can get in this country. But there’s something about the colors in it. They just made me think of her. So I took it. I don’t know why I said I don’t know what caused Harry to change. Of course I know. Or, at least, I think I do. But she…it’s been six years. Not to say that she should be over it, or even that I’m over it but…at some point you have to move on, right? Yeah. You have to move on or you’ll die driving yourself insane. [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 a saying about bad habits. Or maybe it’s just habits. Habits die hard. Bad habits die doubly hard, I guess. Although maybe I shouldn’t be considering it a habit—it is what I did for a living. And is it really bad now? I don’t think so. I stole a painting. That’s what I’m trying to say. Just the one. Because I could. Because I wanted to. “Santa Fe Mountains in October” by some Pearson guy. I’ve already forgotten his first name. Maybe I should’ve taken the placard too. It was the New Mexico Museum of Art - nice place. Harry’s favorite, as it happens. I don’t know how she would’ve gone through the museum, what she would’ve paid attention to. We’d probably still be inside, to be honest. I have no doubt that she could spend hours and hours and hours inside an art museum. Isn’t that funny? That Harry and I have never been to a museum together? I mean, not to actually go to the museum. We’ve been in plenty museums and galleries before, after hours, illegally, taking stuff. And she’d make a comment here or there about a piece of art—not even the stuff we were taking, though that she’d always give a lecture on on the way there or after the job. Why it was important, how much it could really be worth, why it had to be transported the way it did. But she never tried to fence anything herself. I don’t know why. She could’ve moved to that part of the whole process and made just as much money—maybe more—and would never had to have left her home. She could’ve been like Francis, living amongst her own art, working with Pete and me to get what we stole to wherever it would fetch the highest price. But she didn’t. She wanted in on the action. She wanted to take the art, wanted to be there as we broke in, wanted to run down the clock as she carefully stored each work of art for transport while the rest of us stood lookout, terrified that we were always seconds away from being caught. I think she liked the risk too, is what I’m saying. I think she liked it just as much as me, or she would’ve made a living doing a million other things. I don’t know what happened to take her from the woman I knew, the woman who’s eyes would light up any time we were taking on a job that had new complications we had to solve to the woman who refused to venture into a world with no one in it. [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) Alright, you sent me a message last night that just said “Santa Fe”. That’s fucking… Well, I assume it means you want me to go to Santa Fe. Well, I am. I’m already here, actually. And not because of your message but because I was close and it’s November and I’d honestly rather be in New Mexico than Colorado, so. I’m not even really a hot weather person, to be honest. I wasn’t raised in a hot climate, I’m not built for it. But the dryer and the warmer the weather, the easier the driving is. To a point, anyway. Too hot and driving becomes a misery. (groaning) Ugh…I don’t know, Birdie, I’m—when I’ve talked to you lately, I feel like I can hear myself better. Like the words I’m saying are really landing in my ears and it’s all so…. I can feel myself being sanded away at the edges. Becoming less interesting, less engaged. Becoming a shell. [click, static] That was always my greatest fear with staying. That we’d become husks, living simply to stay alive and for nothing else. Harry seemed content to garden and cook and read and paint and I… I just wanted to live, you know? Really live. Harry says that I’m just an adrenaline junkie who hasn’t done anything risky or stupid for years and I should just go jump in the lake in the middle of January because “what could be more adrenaline inducing than freezing to death?” but I think she’s wrong. It’s not…danger that I miss. Sure, my job had risks to it, but I was careful. I didn’t want to get caught. I didn’t get any thrill from the chase. I was never chased, actually, outside that one time and look at how that turned out. I liked the unpredictability. Every job had new challenges and sure, new risks, but no one day was ever the same. That’s what I miss. And lately, I can feel my days becoming the same, even if I’m in a different place. What happened in Estes Park wasn’t…good or fun but at least it was something different. And now I’m just right back where I was months ago, which is listening to someone else, following the directions of someone I’ve been forced to trust because of circumstance and it’s putting two things into clear focus: I don’t want to passively live my life by someone else’s rules—not yours, not Harry’s. And I don’t trust 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] Alright, your most recent message. Let’s talk about it. “Collision point in Denver” Birdie, what the hell? [click, static] You can’t just leave a message like that and not follow up. We’ve talked about this. I know that our communication capabilities are limited but this is completely absurd. “Collision point”?? What does that mean? Maybe I should stop expecting things from you. Maybe you simply being there, being someone to talk to, is enough. Maybe it isn’t fair to want answers on top of that. But the least you could do is stop sending me fucking cryptic messages that I can’t do anything about. [click, static] Then again, if Denver really is that dangerous somehow, I guess I did do something. I drove around. I guess you did me a favor. It doesn’t feel like a favor. [click, static] Because…collision point…collision is a fucking weird word to use. If some kind of bomb had gone off, I don’t think that’s the word you’d pick. So what’s colliding? In order for a collision to happen, there needs to be some kind of…what, an immovable object and unstoppable force, right? Or two unstoppable forces, I guess? And that—well, that would imply other people. You can’t have some kind of momentous force without something putting it into action. And the most likely catalyst for something that would be dangerous enough to avoid would be…other human beings. So if you’re telling me that Denver has other people and you’re trying to warn me off them—Birdie, I don’t care if they’re the worst kind of apocalyptic barbarians. They’re people. And I want to see them. If you’re just trying to manipulate me or—or hoard me for yourself somehow, well, I’ve had enough of— [click, static] It’s not too late for me to turn back and go to Denver. It’ll never be too late for me to turn back. And I don’t know that you’ve given me a good enough reason not to. [click, static] [beeps] ... .- -. - .- / ..-. . Santa FeSee 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 think…um, I’ve been on edge. All week, ever since I left the Stanley. Maybe it was driving past Denver that set me off, set me thinking about Harry again. You ever gonna tell me what the hell that was about? You ever going to respond to any of the bonkers transmissions I’ve sent in the past week or so? [click, static] I’d…I’d really like to come see you, Birdie. The loneliness of this—of this weird stilted conversation of ours—it’s…profound. A profound loneliness. The kind that’s so deep I’m worried if I leave it in my bones for any longer it’ll just stick to them like tar, never to be scrubbed clean. This isn’t what I signed up for. I came out here because I wanted to see things yet, but mostly because I wanted to see other people. Harry knew what she was doing—she didn’t want to leave and she didn’t and she knew that would mean being alone. Even if I’m the one who eventually drove off, she might as well have handed me the keys. If I met you, I don’t think I’d miss her as much as I do. I miss her like you miss…a loose tooth that you’ve gotten used to poking with your tongue, that you’ve learned to eat around. And then you finally go to the fucking dentist and get the thing fixed or torn out and it’s better, you’re not in pain anymore, but it’s also…strange. You got used to shaping your life around this terrible, protruding sharpness and now it’s gone and suddenly your tongue feels too big for your mouth. I don’t know how to eat anymore. How to talk, how to bite down, how to fill the space where that tooth was. It’s just…a hole. [click, static] Whiskey out. [click, static] Collision point in Denver -.-. --- .-.. .-.. .. ... .. --- -. / .--. --- .. -. - / .. -. / -.. . -. ...- . .-.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] Hey Birdie. I’m, uh, I’m on route to Santa Fe, now, I guess. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to go—it’s supposed to be beautiful, and cultural, and it’s very much on my route, so… Not that I have a route. I have to stop following invisible rules. Just because it’s the next major city on the highway I’m currently following doesn’t mean that— (sighs) Harry fucking loves Santa Fe. She’s been a bunch of times. I guess they have—had—a pretty vibrant art scene out there and she used to talk about how gorgeous it was, how delicious the food was, how much she’d like to show me— [click, static] Actually, maybe I don't want to go, I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to see it with— [click, static] No, no, I should go. I’ve never been. I haven’t traveled very much and basically never for the purposes of leisure—a trip taken for the sole purpose of eating and drinking and looking at extraordinary things, that’s… …well, I guess that’s what I’m doing now, kind of. Even if it…feels different. If I really could send a postcard, I’d put one right in the mail for her from…whatever Santa Fe’s most famous museum is. Show her what she’s missing. Show her what she could be doing if she would just stop— [click, static] That—that was our last fight. Well, our last huge fight. I think I—I maybe mentioned that we weren’t talking all that much the last few months before I left and that’s true. What we did say to each other wasn’t particularly civil, but it was all…inconsequential. Bitching to each other about house chores or making snide comments… The fight that led to that cozy atmosphere was—it wasn’t about Santa Fe, specifically, but about…the outside world. I wanted to—well, I wanted to do this, what I’m doing, right here. What I’ve been doing, for the last four months. And she… [click, static] She wanted to stay inside. She wanted to protect us from the world by keeping us from it. Even though we had every reason to believe that we wouldn’t get caught if we ventured further out. And I tried to convince her, I tried to explain that even if there were other people out there, clearly we wouldn’t be a priority. I tried to make her see that the likelihood of running into anyone who even knew who we were or what we did was so slim, but she just… She dug her heels in, like she always fucking does. She’s intractable when she wants to be, and trust me, she wants to be a lot. It’s what made living with her such a fucking nightmare. Everything had to be just so and she would be so condescending when I didn’t get the temperature of the tea right or whatever the fuck it was and the most infuriating thing is that I know she didn’t actually care if I did it right, she just enjoyed riling me up, wanted to pass the time somehow, wanted to exert control over whatever she could, which I get because I was the same way with the endless house repairs, which drove her insane because she wanted to build a home and “how can you turn a house into a home when you treat it like the Winchester mystery house!” That’s what she’d say. “Not even the spirits would put up with the constant work.” It’s good. Yeah, it’s good that I got out of there. Because I haven’t been to Santa Fe, I hadn’t been to Colorado, I haven’t seen the Pacific. She has. She’s done all of that. She could stay inside and be content and root where she was planted or whatever but I need sunlight to grow and I tried to tell her that. I tried to tell her that I couldn’t see a future for us if we stayed stuck— [click, static] Jesus christ, I’m—I don’t know what I’m saying. She really…she drives me up a wall and I miss her and— [click, static] I—I’ve gotta— Whiskey, signing off. 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, maybe I’m not doing great. I can’t get his face out of my head. The way he looked as he was leaving, suitcase in one hand, other hand on the doorknob, turning around like he forgot something. Turning around like he wanted to say goodbye to me. But that doesn’t— [click, static] I’m trying to…focus on other things. I took a branch from the national park back in Wyoming—I know you’re not supposed to do that, but it was on the ground, it’s not like I took it off a tree. So I feel like it’s okay. But I was thinking I might whittle it into something. I haven’t whittled in fucking ages, but I used to be okay at it and it’s not like i’ve got any materials to build miniatures. What do you think, Birdie? What shape should I carve this little piece of wood into? A bird? Make a little keepsake that I can give you when we meet? Yes, I said when. I’m deciding to hold out hope. I think I saw a ghost the other morning, so nothing is impossible for me anymore. Here I am, moving about the world, totally alone, and surviving. Thriving, one might say, despite any midnight breakdowns I may or may not have had. They said it couldn’t be done—that leaving Pennsylvania would be the end of me. But it’s not. I’m sitting on the hood of my car on the side of the highway in Colorado, whittling a stick from Wyoming into a bird for an anonymous friend who only communicates in dots and dashes. The impossible happens every day. And I’m not dead yet. [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] The stupid thing is, with all the weirdness at the Stanley, I didn’t even take a look around Estes Park that much. And it looked like it is beautiful. Sure, I got a lot of beautiful lakes and mountains in Wyoming. And it’s not like I can’t come back if I really want to. But I don’t think I’ll be staying at the Stanley again. I forgot to tell you—when I was driving out of Wyoming, right near the highway was this enormous statue of a rabbit with antlers. One of those jackalopes, I think it’s called. Some weird Wyoming legend. I don’t really get it, but it’s kind of cute—a little antlered bunny. [click, static] Where do people come up with this stuff? Bigfoot, the loch ness monster, jackalopes…and how do these ideas gain so much traction with the public? I mean, I know there’s actual myth and legends from different cultures and religions but that’s not what these are. These are…these are made up by somebody who tells their friends, you know? But what makes it so that those friends want to share it with their friends and so on and so on? How many potential monsters are out there ready to become myths and are just being held back by the fact that their creator just doesn’t have very many friends? [click, static] Do you believe in stuff like that? The…legends, the urban myths? Ghosts? I never really did. I like a good ghost story as much as the next person, don’t get me wrong, but it never struck me as…real. There’s way too much evidence to the contrary and I always felt that if any of it was real, no matter how rare it was, surely it would be unavoidable to hear about. Surely there would be real evidence. If people were experiencing real ghost encounters, there’s no way we’d all go about our business as if everything was normal. People aren’t that good at keeping secrets. [click, static] But now…after everything that happened… There still isn’t hard evidence. How much can I trust my eyes really? There was already so much about the world that I didn’t understand before this and now I understand even less. And I fear I’ll never fully understand anything ever again. So, I guess, sure, why can’t jackalopes be real? Nothing about this whole place, this whole country, driving around it, feels real. Nothing about my life feels 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] Breaker, breaker, this is WAR1974 calling out from Route 36, heading South. Don’t worry, I’m not going to Denver. I’ll drive right past but…I assume that’s okay? You still haven’t told me anything about why I should avoid it, so— [click, static] I think—I think my last transmission probably cut off. I was in the hotel, in that room, Room 217, talking on the CB somehow when all of a sudden, whatever phantom power had been keeping it going just…died. The moment it did—in the exact moment the radio went dark, not a second before—there was this flicker. The man that I’d seen, the—the ghost? Hallucination, whatever. He appeared again, just for a moment. By the door. Suitcase in hand, looking over his shoulder as he put his hand on the doorknob. He was looking around the room like he was expecting to see something. And for that one second, I could’ve sworn that he saw me. That’s impossible right? I mean, the whole thing is impossible. The weird feeling, my CB turning on by itself, with no power hookup, seeing a person who isn’t there…none of it makes sense. And he looked…he just looked like a normal person. He wasn’t dressed in, I don’t know, old timey clothes, he didn’t have chains around his arms or gashes in his face or any of the things you would expect to see on a ghost. He didn’t look like a ghost. [click, static] God, am I a person who has opinions on what ghosts are supposed to look like now? Anyway, I’m doing better now that I’m away from there. It was—it wasn’t scary exactly— [click, static] Alright, no, it was fucking scary. But it was scariest when I was in my room alone that night, not when I followed the feeling and saw the apparition the next morning. That was just— That was walking into the wrong room and seeing another hotel guest checking out. That’s all it was. Except there were no other guests. There’s never any other guests at any of the places I stay. And maybe…maybe he never checked out. [click, static] I’m glad to be putting that place in my fucking rearview. [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] So I…I followed the feeling this morning. Somehow, I managed to fall back asleep last night. I didn’t sleep well—I don’t remember any of my dreams, but I think they were nightmares. They must have been. Because I woke up and that feeling wasn’t gone. That feeling of dread. Of something standing, just off to the side. And it still doesn’t feel like mine which—that doesn’t even make any sense to me so I can’t even imagine what it sounds like. I keep a little running calendar in a pocket notebook—not that dates are important, but it’s helped me feel a little more sane over the last six years. Today is Halloween. I’m sure there’s some kind of joke in there, but I don’t know what it is. [click, static] Why did you tell me to stay out of Denver, Birdie? Does it have something to do with what’s happening to me now? I don’t believe in ghosts, or hauntings but— [click, static] Room 217. That’s where the feeling took me. That’s where I am now. I’ve been walking around with the CB and— I wish I could tell you how this worked. But I left my room on the top floor and just started walking. It was like playing a game of hot and cold. Stepping slowly down long hallways, waiting for the dread to get worse. Following the dread all the way down, the feeling growing stronger and stronger like a screeching sound that gets so loud it almost buckles your knees. Like tuning a radio. Searching through the static to find a frequency you can click into. The CB is still on. It—it doesn’t make any sense. I’m holding it, completely detached from any source of power and it seems to be—I mean, it’s working. The light is on, all the frequencies seem to be receiving, even if it’s just static. I don’t know if it’s sending any signals out but— How is this happening? Someone explain this to me. And it…it changed. As I walked, the static changed in time with that feeling in my gut. Like my hand was on the dial, turning, turning, except it wasn’t. It wasn’t picking anything up—just static—but the static changed. Like it’s responding to something here. Like it was waiting to be in the right place. Room 217. That’s where the static cleared. That’s where the feeling led me and it’s— [click, static] It’s just a room. An ordinary room. There’s nothing here. [click, static] I thought—for a moment, I thought— [click, static] When I walked in—all the curtains were drawn, it was dark. Hard to see anything beyond what was illuminated by me opening the door. I saw a man. Dark hair, beard. Packing a suitcase. As ordinary as the room he stood in. The door swung shut behind me and he vanished. But I could have sworn that, before he did, he looked at me. Like he was surprised by the sound of the door. Like he could hear it. I checked the whole room. Threw open the curtains, checked every channel on the radio. But no, there’s nothing here. There’s— [sudden dead air]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] (heavy breathing) [click, static] (whispering) I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I…I woke up a few minutes ago, heart pounding. I don’t know why. [click, static] There’s nothing…wrong. I looked out the window, there’s no figure in the trees, the door is locked, the entire hotel is empty, I checked. I wanted to be sure that there weren’t any wild animals that had gotten in, or any hazards that could lead to a fire or— This hotel is somehow even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside. Or at least, it feels bigger. Its winding and rickety—charming in the daytime and now that it’s dark… No, it’s still charming. It’s charming. It’s just a historic hotel in a vacation town and the only reason I’m feeling like this is because I spent a whole week sleeping outdoors and now that I’m back in what passes for civilization these days, everything is off. It did make it easier, coming into the mountains. Getting out of the feeling that the world stretched on, endless and empty—it was the right choice. But now I’m claustrophobic. Nothing fits in my body correctly anymore. Like I’m Alice in Wonderland, and at first I took the potion that made me too small and now I’ve taken the one that makes me too big and nothing fits. My bones hurt, my chest is tight, and my vision is blurry, like I’m looking through a window streaked with oil. And I woke up, all of a sudden. That doesn’t happen to me. I’m a good sleeper—I wake up to sounds, but even when I do, it happens gradually. I arrive at consciousness by degrees. When enough of my brain is awake, I decide if I need to get up and figure out what the hell the sound was, and if I don’t, I fall back asleep easily. There was no sound. There is no sound—this whole place is as quiet as a tomb. But I woke all at once; deep in sleep one moment, wide awake and springing out of bed the next. And still, there’s no sign of what jarred me from sleep. Maybe I had a nightmare. If I did, I don’t remember it. But I have this lingering sensation that something is wrong. And the feeling itself, it sits wrong in my body. Does that make sense? The feeling is one of—of dread, I think, but it also—it doesn’t feel like mine. [click, static] God, that’s fucking insane. I sound totally cracked. I didn’t used to be like this, I don’t think. But first the tornado, now this…you must think I jump at every mouse and spider that I see. But I don’t. I worry about stuff, yeah, sometimes I feel anxious, but I don’t get scared. The only times I’ve gotten scared are the times that are appropriate—nearly getting caught, running for my life…the tornado, I think that was justified. But nothing is happening. I’m sitting in a nice hotel bed, in a nice hotel, in a nice town, and it’s like there are claws hooked into my chest. Pulling. And not like they’re trying to rip out my heart, but like I’m supposed to follow. I don’t know what I’m saying… Maybe it’s a panic attack. Maybe it’s fucking heartburn. But I can’t shake the thought—the one that’s been running through my head since the moment I woke up—I can’t shake the thought that this feeling, whatever it is, is not my own. [click, static] I didn’t find a generator or a battery last night. But when I woke up, the CB was already on. It’s…Birdie, it’s not plugged into anything. But it’s on. [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 feel like I can breathe again. I’m in Estes Park, a beautiful little…resort town? I don’t know, it seems like a place the fancy muckety-mucks would come to. It’s tucked in the mountains, but not so far that I’m worried about Donner Party-ing it. There’s a gorgeous lake and a cute little downtown and this stunning great white building overlooking the whole place. The Stanley Hotel—it’s pretty old, according to the plaque on the front, and it’s enormous. And I’ve got it all to myself. I haven’t actually gone inside yet. I wanted to radio you to let you know I’m okay before I settled in for the night. I’m taking the CB with me, but the chances of the place having power to plug it in…maybe I can grab a battery from a car parked out here, or maybe if I’m really lucky, they’ve got a back-up generator. We’ll see if I get lucky. If not, I’ll talk to you in the morning . [click, static] But for now, I’m okay. I’m not in Denver, and I’m fine. I’m still a little annoyed with you if I’m honest, but as long as you get back to me soon with some answers, I’ll let bygones be bygones. This is Whiskey, going dark. [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 barely slept last night, thanks to you. I know you’re probably thinking, “yeah, Whiskey, you idiot, you slept in your car in October in the middle of Colorado, of course you didn’t fucking sleep”. And sure, I was a little cold, but I’ve got thermals. Mostly it’s the—you don’t realize it. Just how unnerving open spaces are until you’re in them. It should be better, right? It’s not looking out on our backyard and seeing a figure amongst the trees. When you’ve got woods around you, the whole world becomes a series of shadows. Shapes and forms with dimension, ever shifting and hard to parse for how they blend together when the light changes. But you get used to the shadows. And they create a sense of place, a sense of being. The openness of where I am—the infinite horizon and endless sky…you start to lose yourself in it. It was the same feeling I got in Lost Springs—because you can see everything around you, your brain starts playing tricks. What aren’t you seeing? Surely it’s impossible to perceive every object, every figure for miles and miles. Surely, there’s something just off in the distance waiting for you. At least with mountains and trees, you know there are things you can’t see. You know where the shadows are. You know where not to tread. [click, static] I need to get out of here. Go toward the mountains, where the shapes are more discernible, the dangers more obvious. 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] What does that mean? [click, static] Birdie, I’m serious, if you’re listening to this right now, tell me what that means. [click, static] “Stay out of Denver”? That’s all? You knew I was headed to Colorado, why didn’t you tell me before now? [click, static] Is this a prank? Is that what you’re doing? Trying to pull some kind of sick joke? Because I’m going to be furious if that’s the case. Why? Why do I need to stay out of Denver? What’s there? What do you know? What aren’t you telling me, Birdie? I mean, I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me. I mean, I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me and there’s plenty I’m not telling you. And I know that you’re trying to convey the most vital information the quickest, but the directive of “stay out of Denver” with no other explanation is pretty disturbing when I’m an hour from the city. What if I hadn’t heard it? What if I hadn’t pulled over to fucking translate it? What then? (sigh) God, Birdie, I’m grateful for you but sometimes… [click, static] You know, I only pulled over to decode your message because it’s already dark and I figured once I got to Denver I’d just pick a hotel and pass out and I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I’m tired. All day—all week, I’ve been— [click, static] And now what am I supposed to do? I’m close to Fort Collins, I guess I could find something there, but is that…is Fort Collins…should I stay out of Fort Collins too? You’ve got me freaked out, Birdie. It’s so open out here. I’m on I-25 and…I don’t think I realized how flat Colorado could be. The Rockies don’t look that far but… It’s too open. I—maybe I’ll just sleep in my car. It has locks that work, I know every sound it makes, I’ve got several knives in here… “Stay out of Denver”. Jesus Christ, Birdie.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] Lost Springs, Wyoming. The smallest town in America. I don’t know if that’s actually true. I passed a little rundown sign outside of Cheyenne advertising it—or, I guess not advertising it. Proudly proclaiming it. There’s nothing really to advertise. According to the sign at the town’s edge, the population of Lost Springs is five. As far as I’ve been able to tell, the population is now down to zero. I— [click, static] I’m not sure why I wanted to come here. I thought—well, this is going to sound fucking stupid, but seeing that sign and thinking of a tiny town with a tiny population made me think of my miniatures. Like Lost Springs would be a tiny dollhouse set. I mean, with a name like Lost Springs, you know… [click, static] It’s not like that really. It’s one road, obviously—there’s a post office and store and a bar. And to be clear, the post office and store are one building, the bar’s on the other side of the street. There’s a few other buildings but I can’t tell what they are. I did go into the bar and, I guess it should come as no surprise, but their liquor selection was not particularly impressive. But I’m wandering around the main street and it’s… [click, static] I don’t know. The weather is turning. Makes sense, I guess, now that we’re in the final days of October. It isn’t raining or anything but… Well, maybe I’m a little suspicious of gray-green skies now. [click, static] I thought it’d make me feel better, coming here. That there would be something idyllic in it—surely those that chose to live in a town with only a few other people did it for a reason. They removed themselves from society, entrusted themselves to a few other hands for something. It isn’t that it’s a bad place. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s…a town. It’s a town that’s small, yes, but otherwise looks just like half the towns I’ve driven through in this state or any state. It isn’t special or…somehow magical. There probably isn’t any reason why the people who lived here lived here other than it’s where they ended up. And it just… See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] Hey Birdie I— (yawning) [click, static] Man, I guess it’s been a while since I slept in a really good bed because I found a motel last night and I knocked out like the dead dead. And I am feeling better—less like roadkill (yawning) and more like a person who might even consider hiking again someday. [click, static] I, uh—I got your message. I think maybe you started broadcasting it late last night, I thought I heard some beeps from the car as I was falling asleep. [click, static] But I can’t have, can I? The car wasn’t on. So I guess I was just hoping to hear from you. But… Regardless, I got it this morning, um, I’m really sorry I worried you. I’d promise that I’ll never do it again if I thought I had any hope at all of keeping that promise but I don’t think I do [click, static] Would you be mad at me if I said it’s kind of nice to be worried over? Is that shitty of me? [click, static] Because it is. It’s nice to know that someone’s worrying. That someone would notice if I suddenly fell off the face of the earth. And you know, it goes both ways—how are you doing, Birdie? I don’t think I’ve asked in a bit, which shows exactly what kind of friend I am. But I’d love to hear from you—about you—more, if you’re willing to share. [click, static] Alright, I think Denver is gonna be the next big stop. There’s a town on my way out of Wyoming I want to check out first, and I’d love to find another not-too-dusty motel to sleep in, so it might be the day after tomorrow that I actually get to the city. Um, it’s been a while since I’ve really gone to an actual city, I don’t know what I’ll do there, but I’ve never been and I’ve heard good things so…why not? [click, static] [long static] [beeps]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 getting fucking old. Between sleeping on the ground for a week and all the driving…I am feeling it in my back. I never really thought about how much exercise I was getting in just the daily upkeep of the house and everything in it, but now that I’ve gone several months with little physical activity beyond driving and walking around a little, I am feeling the last weeks’ hikes deep in my body. I should probably figure something out—some way to keep myself in good physical condition when I’m doing this much driving. Stretch more or something. Harry was into this…yoga stuff? I never really understood it but seemed to involve a lot of inhuman bending, so maybe i can figure out something like that. Doing shorter drives might help too. I haven’t done any crazy long days in a while, but it might be worth it to keep to only two or three hours every day. I have no idea what I’ll do with the rest of my time other than scavenge for food. [click, static] I haven’t heard from you since you asked where I was a few days ago. I hope you’re getting these. I hope you’re okay. And I hope I’ll hear from you again soon. Whiskey out. [click, static] [beeps] .-- --- .-. .-. .. . -.. WorriedSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

[TRANSCRIPT] [click, static] Hey Birdie. Officially on I-25 and on my way out of Wyoming. I doubt the whole state is a dead zone, but…I don’t know, I guess I’m getting a little superstitious. I’m sorry I was MIA for so long. I thought…I don’t know, I thought it would be good for me, to get out of the car and sleep under the stars, spend some time in nature. And it was nice, it was, but I still— [click, static] Well, I miss you, I guess. You know, even though I was still hiking back to the car most every day to broadcast. Not that you heard any of it, it seems, um, I don’t know, I still, I missed— [click, static] Talking to yourself when you don’t have a PTT to your face and you’re looking over a beautiful placid lake is not quite the same as talking to yourself when there’s the possibility that someone might talk back. It got me wondering what Harry is— [click, static] You know, it’s funny. I haven’t thought about Harry in…god, I mean, how long was I out camping? In that long. And how refreshing that was. I do wonder how she’s getting along. Not that I ultimately care all that much for her happiness, but I don’t want her to die or anything, mainly because she is the one other person who I can confirm is alive and present on this godforsaken planet. [click, static] I don’t want you to think badly of me Birdie—I’m not…I’m not heartless. I’m not callous. I— [click, long static] I’m a liar. I did think about her when I was out in the woods. I don’t know why I’m lying about it like you’re somehow going to judge me for thinking about her. Why would you? Better question—why wouldn’t I think about her? She’s been the only person I’ve had contact with the last six years and she’s… [click, static] Well, whether I like it or not, she’s been a staple in my life. You know, made important simply by being the last one standing. So it isn’t that I wasn’t thinking of her—or that I didn’t think of her. I haven’t been talking about her much lately, but that doesn’t mean— [click, static] I’m not sure how to describe it. There were moments out there, in the wilderness, where it was so…peaceful that I… I didn’t forget about her. I forgot about…everything. I forgot about Harry, I forgot about the world being empty, I forgot about what we did six years ago, I forgot about me. Or—I don’t know if forget is even the right way to describe it. How can you forget something that never was? That’s what it felt like. Like nothing that existed in my life, including my life, ever existed at all. That I was just some kind of energy, existing in the great outdoors, with no past, no history. Something that leaves no mark on the world. Just…part of it. Seamlessly, effortlessly part of it. The moments were brief, but they were beautiful. The sweet oblivion of never having been 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] [beeps] [click, static] Birdie?? [click, static] Birdie? Are you still there? [click, static] Birdie? Dammit. [click, static] I think I’m in some kind of dead spot still—goddammit— [click, static] (deep breath) Okay, okay, sorry. I’m—I’m here. I don’t know how long you’ve been sending this message and I’m not even positive I got all of it, because it keeps going in and out, but I’m pretty sure you’re asking where I am? Which means that you probably haven’t been receiving any of my transmissions. Which means…I should probably get out of goddamn Wyoming. I’m in Wyoming, that’s where I am. I’m still on pretty rural state routes—I’m headed to I-25, so I’ll try you again when I get there. [click, static] .-- .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- ..--.. Where are you?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] Hey Birdie. I think—I think I need to get out of this park. Out of Wyoming. I still don’t understand how the hell you’ve been managing to reach me this whole time, no matter where I’ve been, but I feel like maybe— [click, static] Huh. Well, actually, I’m realizing that I’m not even sure you’ve been reaching me wherever I am. For all I know, you’ve been sending messages every single day for the past three months and I’ve only received a quarter of them. And you’re having the most frustrating conversation of your life. [click, static] If that’s the case…christ, I’m sorry. Here I am gabbing onto the airwaves every single day and you’re desperately trying to tell me something. Then again, maybe you’re receiving only a quarter of my transmissions. I guess there’s really no way to know for certain. [click, static] Whatever’s actually been happening over the course of our conversation, I’m pretty sure that I’m in a hard to reach spot right now, no matter what you’ve got rigged up. I think you were trying to send something the other day, but I was only getting every tenth beep, so it’s impossible to tell. But scanning through the channels every time I’ve come back to the car, it’s been almost entirely static. And less varying static than normal, which probably sounds like nothing, but when you’ve been listening to so much static, you start to learn the slightly different flavors of it. Trust me. [click, static] Anyway. This whole diversion has been…well. Diverting. I needed it, I think, on some level. I’m not entirely certain why, but I do feel more grounded. Maybe it was seeing that dog, or nearly getting caught in that tornado, but I’ve been feeling… I’m feeling better now. So I’m gonna hike back over to my campsite, break everything down, hike back, and then get on the road. Leave national parks exactly as you found them, right? This place doesn’t need people intruding on it anymore. [click, static] I’ll get back on the horn when I’m on a major highway again. I hope I hear from you the moment I do. 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] (out of breath) Oh my god, oh my god— [click, static] You will never believe what I just saw. [click, static] But, go on, guess. [click, static] Okay, yeah, I figured you wouldn’t. A moose! I saw a goddamn moose! [click, static] Thank god it didn’t see me, because I’ve heard those things can run fast. But it was just…I mean, it was huge. I thought I knew how big moose are, but I really, really didn’t. [click, static] Of course, there’s been a lot of beautiful nature around - more sheep, deer—or are they elk? Tons of neat little birds. I even saw a coyote off in the distance, I’m pretty sure. And I think there are bears and wolves too, but thankfully I haven’t come across them, the moose is by far the most dangerous animal I’ve encountered. [click, static] And it looked dangerous. Like it could knock me out with one hit, which I’m sure it could have. I didn’t take my chances—I backed away slowly and then I ran here to tell you, which, um— [click, static] I’m not sure, uh, why I did that. It’s not like you can see it too, or that you’re even listening— [click, static] I don’t know. It’s…it’s the most exciting thing to happen to me in a while and I guess…I guess I just wanted to share it with someone. Yeah. [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] [stray morse beeps] [click] Birdie??? Birdie, are you there? [click, static] Birdie. Do you read? [click, static] Goddammit. I could have sworn that I heard… [click, static] I was tuning through the channels and there were beeps that sounded like you. Like you were trying to send something. [click, static] (sighs) Maybe I’m imagining things. Wanting to hear from you. (laughs) You know, it sort of reminds me of sitting by the phone waiting for a date to call, or whatever. Not that I ever did that much dating, but I remember the first time I had a genuinely good date, I was twenty-one, living in that terrible shoebox apartment with a million other people, and I went on this date with this—uh, they were a friend of a friend of a friend, one of those set ups that happens when you’re in your twenties and you know a ton of people but you don’t really know any of them. Did you experience that? (mumbling) I guess I don’t even know how old you are. Anyway, I’d met a bunch of people through my roommates and my job and a few of the bars that I would frequent and I had this one friend, Sissy, who made it her life’s mission to set everyone in the world up. It didn’t matter how tenuous the connection between her and the two parties were, she was shameless anyway. So she set me up with—lets call them “K”. K worked on Wall Street, which made me immediately suspicious but Sissy assured me that they were cool because the friend that she knew them through was a choreographer and had good taste in people. I don’t know, I agreed because, again, really lonely and also I thought if K was a Wall Street person, maybe I’d get dinner at a really fancy restaurant out of it, somewhere I could order a twenty dollar glass of wine or something. But it wasn’t like that at all. K took me to get gyros at this street vendor that they swore was the best food in the city. And it was pretty good and K paid, so I was plenty happy. And then we went to a jazz club where they knew the owner, so we got the best seats and really good service and…I don’t know. It was nice, to be somewhere that treated you like you were special. And that all would’ve been enough for me to go out with K again—I was twenty-one and dead broke, I would’ve gone on as many dates as I could if it meant I got a free meal or a good night on the town. But, much to my surprise, I had fun. Sissy had been right. K was funny, and smart—one of those people you’d never run out of things to talk about with. I hadn’t really experienced that before. So we exchanged numbers at the end of the date—kissed on the cheek to say goodbye, I think maybe we were both nervous—and I waited by the phone for days. I drove my roommates insane—any time I came home from work I’d hound them about if anyone had called when I was gone. We didn’t have a phone service, so we were pretty reliant on one of us being home at all times, which usually someone was. But there was nothing. Eventually I just bit the bullet and I called K—who did have a phone service, of course, which is what I got when I called. It’s what I got every time I called. And I’d leave my name and number with the service every time—even starting saying when I’d be likely to be home so they could tell K when was best to call back and…the phone stayed silent. [click, static] Please don’t stop answering my calls. Or, if you do, at least give me a reason. K never did. [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] (yawn) Good morning, Birdie. [click, static] Sorry—good morning, Birdie. Man, sleeping in my car is not as tolerable after sleeping in a comfortable sleeping bag on the ground for a few nights. Not that sleeping on the ground is all that comfy, but at least I could stretch out. I’m headed back out to where I made camp in a bit—I really just wanted to come and grab some more food and check to see if… [click, static] Well, I assume you’re still busy doing whatever it is you’re doing. But I don’t know what on earth could have kept you occupied this whole time. Are you talking to someone else? Is that even possible? If you are, would it be weird to ask for an introduction? I just hope you’re not hurt or—or worse. I don’t know what I’d do if, um— [click, static] I’ll be back tomorrow morning. The exercise is good and maybe I’ll even try to find a good campsite closer to the car so I can check more often. Just…if you hear this—please send something along. Anything. A single beep. Just to let me know you’re there. Um.. Yeah, okay. Talk to you tomorrow. [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] Hey, Birdie. [click, static] It is really goddamn late. And goddamned dark. I wanted to wait for the worst of the heat of the day to pass before hiking back to the car, but I think I miscalculated, because I’ve been hiking in the dark for way too long. Not that it’s been so hot here, but the sun is strong. All that big sky, I guess. The sun is strong and my skin is pale. All my freckles are popping out like it’s the middle of summer not October. I’ve been out in the wild for the last couple of days. I packed up my backpack after the last transmission and set out into the great unknown. I mean, not entirely unknown—I’m not stupid, I made sure to get a map of the area I’m in, but just 10 minutes on foot away from where I parked the car, and I felt like I was in some version of the world that had never had any people in it at all. Any semblance of a hiking trail is long gone but the terrains not that bad, especially now with my new boots. I don’t know how far into the wild I got exactly. I walked for a couple of hours so a few miles at least, but I found this beautiful spot by this little pond with this little waterfall, sunlight streaming through the trees. I set up camp there and slept under the stars for a few nights. And with being by the pond I can actually see the sky—it wasn’t blocked out by the treetops. My god, the stars. I guess I haven’t looked up in a while because I was shocked by how many there were. I mean, there hasn’t been light pollution in six years, so I think probably most of the sky in the whole country is like this, but I guess I’ve never really looked. I wish I knew something about the constellations. I know the big dipper and Orion‘s belt and the little dipper and I think I found Polaris? Although I don’t know, is it even the right time of year to see Polaris? Can you see it all year round? Can you see it from the hemisphere I’m in? I don’t know. Clearly I don’t know anything at all about the night sky. But it does make me wonder…you know, are there any other people up there on those other planets somewhere amongst the stars? I think—I think we were pretty close to actually, you know, exploring space. We got people up there at least, even if they just you know, spun around a bit and came back. But that in of itself…I mean, that felt insurmountable when I was younger. So who knows what we could’ve accomplished with more time. [click, static] But it’s a really nice thought—that we’re not alone in the universe. Not in a god way or any kind of higher power way, just…it’s lonely. All of it. [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] [static] (morse code, tuning radio, radio snippets, sonic chaos) (a voice tries to break through) [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, talking to even more of no one than before, because I am deep in the Wyoming wilderness. I mean, most of Wyoming is wilderness. But I’m intentionally heading off the well beaten path onto the road less traveled. I raided a camping store in Jackson—the whole town was untouched. Pristine, almost, if you ignored how overgrown the streets have become. I even saw—I even saw some Bighorn sheep wandering through main street, though they bounded off before I could get close. I still need to get that polaroid. Or maybe I should go to a library again and learn how to develop film. Not that I’ve been paying close attention to how many film cameras are lying around. But, well, I guess I haven’t been looking all that hard for a polaroid camera either. Anyway, the camping store was a gold mine. I got a much more modern camper stove, a tent, some knives, a new axe, fire starters—you name it. But the stuff I’m really excited about is my new winter coat and new winter boots. They didn’t have very many women’s clothes—really just some gloves —but I’ve always liked shopping in the men’s section anyway. It took me a bit to find boots small enough but I’m not that small myself and with all the thick socks I got, I think it’ll work out fine. So, this is all to say—I am going camping. Honest-to-god camping. I haven’t been camping in...jesus, maybe twenty years? But I mean, but what have I been doing the last six years if not a weird form of camping — [click, static] It’s surprisingly warm here. I don’t know why I expected October in Wyoming to be below freezing, but it’s in the low sixties today. Practically bikini weather. I doubt I’ll stay when the frost comes, unless I want to hole up in cabin somewhere, but, I don’t know, a week or so of sleeping under the stars instead of roadside motels or my passenger seat might be just the thing. I’m not going to be able to take the radio with me obviously—I don’t have any way to power it outside of the car. I guess I should add a battery-powered radio to my list of things to pick up. So, it might be a few days before you hear from me. I think I’m going to hike into National Park a little, find a good spot to camp. But I don’t want to carry all that much. So. You know, I’ll be back. Not that you’ve said anything in a while. It would be good to hear from you, Birdie. [click, static] But for now, this is Whiskey, going quiet. [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] So if you’ve got a question, send it on over. I’m bored. I’m stopped right now, eating some dinner, and—well, if I thought That’s not fair to Colorado—I don’t know that there’s any purpose in comparing the two. Wyoming is just...its even more untouched by... anything. It’s empty in the same way the rest of the country is empty, except it doesn’t feel so hopeless here. The emptiness sits well inside of Wyoming, like that’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s—it’s overwhelming. Is that silly? To be overwhelmed by the beauty of nature? I would not describe myself as a particularly sentimental person. I know that might come as a shock, considering all my reminiscing yesterday and...well, all the other days, but what else is there to do but reminisce? It feels like my entire life is in the past and all that’s ahead of me is thinking about the days that have already gone by. All I have is nostalgia Maybe that’s why looking at the Grand Tetons feels so...(deep breath) enormous. Like I’ve just breathed fresh air for the first time in a long time. I’ve been on the road for months and... the minimum they should picked up stakes and moved on to find whatever bits of land weren’t already occupied, I don’t really know how much of that kind of land there was back then but— All I’m trying to understand is that I think I understand a little why the Donner Party risked it. I lived in the Midwest and the Northeast pretty much my whole life and there is beauty there—there is so much beauty —but...maybe it’s the emptiness, maybe its the bigness, maybe its just the sheer fucking novelty of it but I...I feel free. [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] Another gas station today, right over the border in Wyoming and they had this tiny little buffalo toy at the counter. He’s sitting on my dashboard now, watching over the road as I drive. Maybe I’m overthinking it. [click, static] [click, static] You know, he’d talk to the farmer for a while, ask them what their speciality was, if there was a jam they liked best, or if they had any fruit [click, static] Maybe that’s why I’ve never really needed very much to be content. [click, static] I don’t really like blackberries anymore. Just the smell of them makes something inside me ache. Harry... Harry stopped growing them in our garden after the first year. I think, somehow, she knew. 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 Alpha Romeo, staring at the Rocky Mountains. [click, static] Colorado is...it’s beautiful. I don’t know what I expected, but somehow the mountains are even larger than I ever thought they would be. They just... loom over everything. And yet, the sky is still so huge. I didn’t know the sky could be this big. I can’t quite explain it, the sky gets big in Kansas and Texas too but it just feels...it feels different here. Have you been to Colorado, Birdie? Or seen the Rockies at all? I look at those and I think...yeah, I’m not driving over that. I do want to go to Wyoming—I mean, I’m so close—but then I’m going to go all the way south before trying to get to the coast. Seeing just how enormous—and how absolutely covered in snow—the mountains are, it’s obvious how the Donner Party happened. I can’t imagine trying to trek over those peaks, through that snow, with wagons and children and... [click, static] Would it be easier, do you think, if I had people with me? Not getting over the Rockies, but any of this. Not that I’m having a hard time surviving, not really, but would it be easier to...I don’t want to say “stay sane”, but I— [click, static] I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just keep thinking about the Donner Party trying to get somewhere new, somewhere they could start a life, build a life, and then being trapped all together, basically just waiting to die. Was it better to know that you weren’t alone? Or was it worse because you’d failed to take care of the people around you? Is survival worth it if the only person that survives is yourself? [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’ve been trying to think of a question to ask you, Birdie. It is my turn after all. But I’m coming up short. [click, static] It’s not that there aren’t a million and one things that I want to know. There’s too much. That’s part of the problem. The other problem is that...well, uh, I’ve never been good at small talk. I’ve never liked it all that much. That’s not to say I can’t do it or that every conversation I have needs to be deep and important and without a single wasted word —I mean, obviously that’s not true. But I guess what I mean is, I don’t know how to ask a question small enough that it’s answer can be contained in dots and dashes. [click, static] Is the answer to ask yes or no questions? Play the most elaborate game of twenty questions that doesn’t just go on for twenty questions, but goes on forever? [click, static] This is a strange kind of intimacy. You know so much about me—more than I likely would have ever told you had we met in person. I’ve never been in the habit of disclosing my profession or talking about my family to...anyone? There’s a space between small talk and telling someone anything personal and that’s the space I usually try to occupy. And I know so little about you. But I’d like to think that what you’ve told me—or tried to tell me—has been significant. Whatever happened with your job is clearly important to you, or had some major negative affect on your life—and then you asking about my job got me thinking... [click, static] These things don’t matter anymore. The entire structure of our society is gone. So why is it still bothering you? There are things that still bother me, still keep me up at night, but not the fact that I used to steal art from rich people or expensive museums. I barely cared about the legality or morality of what I was doing while I was doing it, I certainly don’t give a shit now. I could go and steal the goddamn Mona Lisa and it wouldn’t matter. So why do you care? What difference does any of it make? [click, static] I guess that’s not really an easy question to answer succinctly. So let me put it in yes or no terms: do you think it still matters? Whatever you did before, whatever happened with it, does it still matter? [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 stopped in at a gas station when I got over the Colorado border and there were some brochures about, you know, various stuff in the area, including a petrified wood building. So that’s where I am now. It looks like it was actually a gas station itself, or an auto shop, or something. There are a bunch of broken down cars here at least. And it’s...it’s weird—yeah, it’s weird. I wish I could show it to you. It doesn't look like wood at all, it looks like someone very haphazardly mortared together a bunch of misshapen rocks. [click, static] It’s...(laughs) it’s ugly if I’m honest. There’s something charming about that. According to the sign in the front, it’s made of wood that’s 175 million years old. The fact that something that ancient and incredible—I mean, what is petrified wood, even?—has been made into something so...mundane and unappealing is...I don’t know. There’s something very American about it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still very, very cool. There’s almost a castle-ish quality to it, the way it’s all jagged at the top. Or like it, I don’t know, like it grew up from the ground. [click, static] I wonder what compelled someone to build this? Where did they get all the wood. Why did they choose this of all things as the purpose to put that wood to. [click, static] No postcard to get this time, so I’ll just have to commit to memory. And maybe you can too, and it’ll be like we both saw it. [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] [beeps] [click, static] Yeah, okay, I guess I really had given up trying to be subtle about it. [click, static] You didn’t put a question mark at the end, but I’m going to assume it’s a question anyway—or, asking for confirmation at least. I’m glad you’re okay—thanks for sending me something, even if I’m not totally sure what to say in response. I’ve never really, um...talked about this. At least not to anyone not in it with me. [click, static] But, yes, I was an art thief. I mean, that’s the easiest way to describe it anyway. And, you know, it wasn’t always art-art— like with Sylvia, it was sometimes antiques and what-not. I’m sure you’re wondering how I got into it when I’m clearly not an art connoisseur and the answer is really that I fell backwards into it. To finish my story from the other day, I guess, and completely incriminate myself I met Pete trying to rob him of some jewelry he’d robbed from some Park Ave fat cat—that was mainly my thing at the time. Burglary. Um, I didn’t—when I got to New York, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, so I got a job at a hardware store in a really nice part of town and that led to me doing in home repairs for some folks in the neighborhood and...well, you fix enough wall sconces in five bedroom apartments while you’re living with four other people in a shitty downtown box and you start to have some feelings about some things. I am as good at breaking things as I am at fixing them, so it was easy for me to get into empty apartments, into locked drawers or safes and it was easy for me to case a place if I was already there doing repairs— [click, static] God, it’s weird to talk about this out loud and on a public frequency. I don’t know what you might be thinking of me, finding out I’m some kind of common criminal, but I never stole from anyone who really needed it. I always tried to make sure to leave alone the stuff that seemed like it might have real sentimental value to, but of course you can never really tell— [click, static] Anyway, Pete—rather than punching me in the jaw for trying to rob him, he offered me a job. He said he liked the way I had broken in, leaving no trace. He needed a yeggman—um, a safecracker—and I wasn’t too shabby at it, even as inexperienced as I was. So that’s what I did. [click, static] I was twenty-two years old and I’d been in New York for all of...eighteen months? And I had somehow fallen in with one of the best thieves in a city filled to the brim with expert criminals. Up until I got stuck with Harry for half a decade, I had pretty good luck with the people I fell in with. And now I’ve got you, Birdie—or, I hope I do, after all this. So I think my luck is turning back around. [click, static] .- .-. - / - .... .. . ..-. Art ThiefSee 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] Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, finally leaving Kansas. Up next: Colorado. [click, static] I did not see that dog again. I knew it was a long shot, but I still felt disappointed. How stupid is that? I could have driven around more maybe—spent more time driving through all the little towns that surround the highway where I saw him. But to be honest, I really want to get the hell out of Kansas. The tornado, it— [click, static] It was terrifying. I didn’t—it was one of, I think, the scariest things I’ve ever experienced, I think. I never would have guessed that—that a tornado was actually that terrifying. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I would’ve thought different. I used to love storms as a kid—actually, you know, as an adult too. There’s nothing quite like cozying up with a good record and a little project during a thunderstorm. [click, static] This is a little embarrassing, maybe, but I used to—I used to, um, build miniatures. Like, furniture and other things for dollhouses. [click, static] I know, I know. But it can’t be car engines and spackle all the time. It was good to work on smaller things. More delicate things. Usually there’d be a toaster or a lamp or a typewriter for me to tinker with, but when there wasn’t... I always wanted a dollhouse as a kid. I wanted one so badly, but we could never afford it. Not a real one. My dad and I tried to build one out of an old milk crate once, but neither of us had the eye for it. At least not then. It was actually, um, another fence of ours—Sylvia—who got me into it. She owned this weird little curio shop in Soho and would usually be able to find a buyer for any antiquities or, um, what’re they called—objet d’arts—that we might come across. Stuff that wasn’t your typical six figure painting or what have you. And her shop was legitimate and it was full of so much interesting stuff. I may have not ever been an art person, but I love...stuff. You know? The ephemera of peoples’ lives, the clocks, the letter openers, the desks and the paperweights. Some of it is beautiful, of course, but I was always more interested in the function. Or the marriage between function and form, as Harry would say. She tried to convince me that I did appreciate art after all and I would tell her that I appreciated beautiful things that had a purpose and that that was different. And she would say ‘being beautiful is a purpose’ and I would roll my eyes and she would snap at me and we’d just go— [click, static] Anyway, before I met Harry, I was in Sylvia’s shop and somehow we got on the topic of her repair work and how, as much as she loved doing it, she was getting too old for it—her eyes too weak, her hands were too shaky from her arthritis. And I needed a little extra cash, so I started helping her out with it. She taught me pretty much everything I needed to know—fixing the lining inside a piece of vintage luggage is not the same as rewiring a toaster—but I don’t know, found I liked most of the work. And then one day she asked me to repair this gorgeous dollhouse. And it was so frustrating and fun and opened this whole world to me of making tiny little things—tiny chairs and tiny settees and tiny little lamps that really lit up and... [for the rest of the transcript, visit breakerwhiskey.tumblr.com]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’m...I’m okay. [click, static] I don’t know if you were wondering about what happened to me—or if you even heard my last transmission at all but um— [click, static] I’m okay. Turns out you can outrun a tornado so...take that Dorothy. [click, static] I—um, I hope everything’s okay with you. It’s been a week of radio silence now and I’m, um... [click, static] Well, yeah, I hope you’re okay too. [static] [radio noise] [click off]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] (siren sounds) [click, static] Can you hear that? (siren sounds) [click, static] There’s um—there’s a tornado. There’s a goddamn tornado. [click, static] When it first sounded, I thought it was an attack siren, like the ones they used to play for school drills. When we’d have to hide under our desks and clutch onto the table legs like that would save us from a nuclear bomb. [click, static] I don’t know who they thought they were fooling. [click, static] I can’t believe I’m in actual fucking Kansas and there’s a tornado. It feels too cliche to be real, somehow. [click, static] Everything I know about tornadoes, I know from The Wizard of Oz. (chuckles) That’s really not fucking helpful at the moment, is it? I don’t have Toto or ruby slippers or a basement to hide in. I can’t remember anything about what you’re supposed to do in a tornado other than going into a basement. But the siren started going when I was on the road and like I said I thought I was—I thought we were, you know, under attack because its the same goddamn noise, um, but then I—I saw in the distance—and you know, there’s nothing around me. I pulled over obviously but I don’t know if I should be driving away or if I should be looking for a bridge or an overpass...I think there’s something about bridges. They’re either the worst place to be or the best place to be. [click, static] Really fucking helpful, I know. [click, static] I’ve already gone on a journey to a strange land, you know? That’s what the world feels like—like waking up in technicolor after being in black and white but...um, the reverse I guess. If I get caught up in the tornado, do you think I’ll go back? To the way that things were? [click, static] Back? I don’t know what I’m saying. Back where? I didn’t travel anywhere, there’s nothing to go back to unless I can figure out a way to invent time travel and stop whatever it was that happened. [click, static] I keep thinking about hell. In the sense of...is this hell? Sometimes I get that feeling of unreality, the strange sensation that I’m somehow outside of myself, looking at myself from just off to the side. It’s gotten worse since I left Pennsylvania. Maybe I really should look in the mirror more often. I barely even use the car mirrors, it’s not like there’s other drivers to be aware of, and maybe that’s the problem, there’s so little to be aware of around me that I feel hyper aware of me. [click, static] But what if we died? What if we died when we were trying to get away and all of this has been a kind of purgatory, a terrible punishing afterlife from a god with a twisted sense of humor? [click, static] Never mind, I’m just wigged out. The sound of the sirens is, um...it’s spooky, you know? Eerie. I guess that makes it a good warning system for tornadoes and potential nuclear threat because there’s something in the sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. [click, static] It’s rattling me, somewhere deep down, in some hind brain that triggers my fight or flight. The tornado is still really far away and... [click, static] I thought—I thought I saw a tornado, but I can’t—I can’t see it anymore, but, who knows, maybe the emergency system is just malfunctioning but the sky looks so terribly gray, a kind of gray that’s got a little bit of green to it, like the atmosphere itself is feeling sick. [click, static] I don’t know what’s going to happen to 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.