3 P.M.

A Stage Play by Hawksmoor

He wasn’t exactly a shock jock when it came to gaining and keeping attention. Any befuddled, bored, or accidental listeners had to be able to hear that much in his fumbling, stumbling efforts.

It had been planned out as a lively discussion of Science Fiction and Fantasy writings; specifically, how certain authors use, or have used, these genres as entertaining fronts to speak personal views on serious matters such as politics, lifestyles, and various social issues.

He’d spent an entire day (a warm and excellent day, full of sunshine and near-Fall smells and that sort of thing) thinking about how his first radio show would go, what he’d have to do in order for it to go smoothly. He’d even asked a friend to help him do a test run, which had gone quite badly, although it had served its purpose. It had shown him what would have to happen in order for things to go properly.

“I think I’m all set,” he told the helpful friend at 2 in the morning, the morning of the abysmal dry run. “Talking and running the switchboard at once will be a little tricky for a mortal enemy of multitasking like me, but I think I can manage it. Thanks, Angel.”

The next day, the man who was definitely not a shock jock wrote out his plan (which was really naught more than a glorified script) for the show, sneered at it, and then tore it to shreds. After breakfast, (a strawberry bar with authentic strawberries and a glass of Sunny D) he sat down at the house pc and wrote the final draft of what he would speak into his cell phone at three o’clock that evening.

When he'd finished writing the script, he smoked a cigarette and flopped down in front of a large television to wait out the hours until the show.

And then, quite unexpectedly, it was 3 o’clock.

The man’s heartbeat sped up, and then, all at once tripled. Sweat broke through pores. Eyes swiveled over the pc screen as fingers dialed a special number on a beat up old cell phone. A smooth, however slightly creepy voice, said something about talk radio before a shrill beep, and all of a sudden, it was show time.

It started easily enough. Smooth voice, humor in all the right places; an easy, comfortable disposition that was absolutely necessary in order to make listeners relaxed enough to settle down and listen…at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.

That was the first deadly mistake. At a time of day when anyone not on welfare or in a rest home would be at work. Either that or just getting away from work.

The man slid into his intro in a way that impressed him, given his nervousness at speaking to a potential crowd of people, some he knew, most he didn’t know. First, he made a weird comment about hurricanes to lighten his own apprehension. Next, he set his topic down, nice and flat, stable. He edged into an easy pace, explaining in a bit more detail what his show, his radio f****n show, for God’s sake, was going to be about.

All this, and nothing but dead air. The man was tempted to offer a drunken pig slaughter on air, but he had no pig, and it was too late to go out and steal one.

Ten minutes into it, his internet connection crashed.

He panicked, terrified that his first real show would fail. He tried everything. Refreshing the page. Refreshing the page again. A connection check. New page, new page, new page.

Nothing worked.

Wrapped in the material of absolute disgust, he apologized to any disgruntled listeners and cut the cell's connection.

Just as he came within a stone’s throw of giving it all up, there it was…the connection, back again.

Fingers stabbed squares, and a line opened again, ushering him into his own show with the same slightly creepy machine voice.

“Sorry about that,” said the man, wiping sweat from his brow. “Technical difficulties.”

With that, the man swung back into the nature of his show, shaken, but determined to ride thirty extra long minutes out.

Even if the show had pretty much been blasted straight to hell in gasoline drawers (draws), he saw nothing noble or sensible in giving up. Hell, to give up, all he had had to do was not call back. But he had called back, so what else was there for him to do but carry on until the thing was done?

A tall and slender bar on the right on the pc screen popped into view. A number appeared beside a tiny microphone.

The man clicked his mouse to answer.

“Hello. You’re falling into The Bleed, this is Hawksmoor. Tell me who you are and why you’re calling.”

It was a friend, a good friend. He said who he was, what he was calling for, and then there was silence.

The man who was most definitely not a shock jock explained the topic of the show again, quite happy in doing it. Now, though there were only ten minutes left in the show’s broadcast time, it would begin. Deep and engaging discussion would make all the bullshit quite worth it.

Only, the caller, who was nonetheless still a very good friend, wasn’t interested in the topic being discussed.

The man was horrified. Stumped. Even a little disgusted.

Why would someone call if they had no interest in the discussion? It was utter lunacy.

Then, out of the blue, through his disgust, the man understood something. The friend who had called had called to show support more than to take part in the discussion. The show runner, rather appropriately, felt ashamed of himself.

Nine minutes of agony that had nothing to do with the topics at hand later, the show was over.

For an hour after the show, the man considered never doing such a foolish thing again. What had he been thinking, doing a show in the middle of the day when everyone with sense and drive were clearly at work?

What had he been thinking, imagining that he could actually pull something like this off?

“It did start ok, though,” the man said to himself.

In the end, that was what really did it, what really made him decide to carry on with a weekly radio show. An ok start; a graceless beginning, perhaps…but a beginning no less.

“I’ll knock it up a notch next Thursday, at five o’clock in the evening,” said the man to himself as he retired that night.

“It’s gonna be awesome.”