Force of Will

By Tan Swiftwater

It all started just before midnight in July, Gil Oldfield gets a call from his son that shocks him, but leaves him unprepared for his later arrest and the downward spiral that would follow. In rapid succession, he loses his wife, his children, his livelihood, all his assets, his reputation - in essence everything that is important to a man. Determined to live with whatever means he can, Gil embarks on a healing process that leads to discovery - discovery of who shared in the immense web of lies that started well before that fateful Independence Day in 2012, and the value of trust, real love, and authentic truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543924916

Book preview

sense.

Part I

A Tree Falls

Chapter 1

A forlorn, somewhat disheveled figure of a woman walked slowly and without purpose down the 83rd Street sidewalk toward New York’s East River. She took no notice of the people she passed on the way – a woman walking her Yorkshire Terrier, three teenagers who nearly knocked her over as their collective gait emulated the locomotion of an amoeba, a thirty-ish man with one foot planted on the ground, the other against the brownstone wall he was evidently supporting... she didn’t even know why she was walking toward the water or what she might do if and when she arrived there.

Occasionally turning her head to momentarily spy in a basement window as if looking for her next place to live, she noticed a sign on the door of what would normally be a walk-out basement apartment. It was a framed, cream colored, wooden sign, rectangular, about six inches high and two feet wide, with black lettering that read ‘Joseph Rossi’ on top, and separated by a horizontal line, ‘KNOW YOUR FUTURE’ on the bottom.

She continued walking as she pondered what exactly that sign meant, changing it, in her mind, to ‘Joseph Rossi, FORTUNE TELLER.’ She suddenly decided to insert some purpose into her late afternoon, turned around, and walked back toward the ‘fortune teller’ building. Without knocking, she opened the door and walked into what she thought should be a foyer, but turned out to be the only room besides an adjoining hallway. A desk and chair sat at the far end of the hallway, just after two doors, one to a coat closet and the other to a small bathroom. The hallway led nowhere else.

She was greeted at the entrance by a man who stood just shy of six feet, academic looking, not at all what one would expect from someone who makes his living reading tarot cards, palms, or whatever Mr. Rossi’s specialty was. Draped across his left forearm was his corduroy sport coat that complemented his crisp, business casual attire.

Good evening. May I help you?

Are you the fortune teller?

Did you read the sign?

Well, I thought maybe you’re a customer who’s just leaving, or the office manager or something. I don’t know, what do I know about the fortune telling business?

So it’s your first time?

Not exactly. First time in a building, yes. I go to fortune tellers all the time in Jackson Square, New Orleans, just on the street, you know? Like I said, first time with, you know, with four walls. I feel like I should be in a doctor’s office.

Should you be?

No. Yes. Maybe... You know what I mean. So where’s the person that’s gonna help me?

I’m the guy on the sign. Joe Rossi. I was just leaving for the day. A little early, I know, but I work on an appointment basis and have no patients... cli- customers for the half hour until quitting time, so I’m closing up shop.

Patients? Do I look as sick as all that?

No, he said through a forced, momentary laugh, it’s just what you said about being in a doctor’s office. Got me thinking ‘Me doctor, you patient.’ Anyway, you can call for an appointment, or I can get out my book now and pencil you in.

She silently wondered, "A fortune teller that only works on an appointment basis? Who is this guy? Why do I feel like I’m in a quack medical office? She fidgeted around in her purse as if looking for the pencil that wasn’t there and Joe didn’t need, and in a feint of self-pity designed to bend Joe to her will, dropped the purse and slowly muttered, Maybe you can pencil in my obituary. I probably won’t be around by morning to call for an appointment."

Joe’s instincts and professional skills told him not to fall for that old trick. But those same devices also told him not to ignore a plea for help. It had only been a half decade since his front door sported a more professional shingle, and his caring, sensitive side kicked in.

Why don’t you tell me briefly what brought you here today? But first, as I said, my name is Joe. And yours is?

Attempting to mask her willingness with reluctance, she began without providing the name that Joe had requested. Truth is, I was just walking by and saw your sign. I wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just roaming the streets, trying to figure out why life always has to be so freakin’ hard, and what lovely surprise of a pothole somebody upstairs has waiting for me next.

Gesturing to a chair, Joe said, What do you think I can do for you? and took his own seat simultaneous to her doing the same. Grabbing the nonexistent whiskers on his chin between his index finger and thumb, he raised his eyebrows as if to say Speak to me, hmm?

Can you tell me my future? I mean is it good or bad? The same old shit or something worse, or maybe a little relief for once?

Perhaps you can tell me a little bit about what’s been going on in your life, what’s troubling you?

Oh no! I don’t wanna talk about that crap! The past is the past, and the present is no better. Just tell me my future!

With a slight shrug of one shoulder and a shake of his head that signaled resignation, Joe answered, You’re going to be unhappy, stumbling from problem to problem, never getting any farther than your greatest past failure, never achieving anything significant.

She looked at him all at once incredulous and frightened at the possibility that he was correct. After gazing into her lap for a moment, she slowly raised her face and asked, Is that really what you see?

I don’t SEE anything.

What? Are you kidding me? You’re a fortune teller but you can’t see anything?

Oh, I can see the past and the present, if you open them up. But no, I can’t SEE the future... nobody can. Anyone who claims they can is a charlatan.

Listen, you better not be charging me for this ‘session,’ and believe me, it’s gonna be the last one anyway. You don’t see anything, but you’re telling me my future’s gonna be unhappy and shit storm after shit storm. And you got this sign out there that says ‘I CAN TELL YOUR FUTURE!’ What are you even talking about?

He replied genially, You misunderstand me. Let me explain. I only know two things about you. One is that you are experiencing and have in the past experienced some sort of trauma, or at least a series of dramatic disappointments, and the other is that you’re now seeking either advice or some sort of guaranteed vision from a man you’ve never met before, just because he has a sign on the front of a building and you imagine he has some uncanny gift to know the unknowable. Based on those facts, I can predict with near certainty that your future will only be a series of chance disappointments at best. Of course, I could be wrong, and hopefully I am. But I seriously doubt it.

She stared at him in confused disbelief.

He continued, YOU have the power to make your future reasonably happy and productive, and I may be able to help you see for yourself that you can do that. And you have the ability to not use that power and allow your life to bounce from rut to rut. It’s your choice.

The stare continued for another few seconds, until she suddenly broke her trance, grabbed for her purse, stood up, and without yet turning toward the door, said, I gotta go.

Sounds like you have something important to do. Good. Don’t let me detain you. But please do come back when you feel inclined – I’ll explain a little more about how I work and we can go at your own pace.

Genuinely considering the offer, she responded, Maybe you can explain how you work NOW. I don’t know if I’ll BE coming back.

Well, I mainly just listen to you talk - about whatever concerns you, what makes you happy, how your day is going, what your plans for tomorrow are... whatever you want to talk about. Oh, I may throw in a question or two once in awhile, but it’s your time, not mine. Then at some magical point, just when you forgot what you originally came in for, YOU’LL be telling ME your future... in so many words. And if all goes well, it’ll be good news. Joe produced a fatherly, knowing smile with one half of his mouth, shook her hand warmly, and said, Call me.

He would never hear from her again.

Hey, Irv, sorry I’m late, Joe said as he approached his old friend at one of four tables in the small delicatessen on 2nd Avenue, three blocks from his office.

Fifteen minutes is not late in New York. Last week I was only an hour late for a party, and they had me arrested for impersonating an alarm clock. Besides, I just got here myself. Had a call from my publisher, and unless I’m unconscious from a stab wound somewhere in Central Park, I always pick up when it’s my publisher calling.

News about your latest book? Last you told me it was in editor-land.

No, no such luck. Believe it or not she called to ask for recommendations for a good restaurant in the Meadowlands. I haven’t lived in New Jersey for fifteen years. It’s like asking Charles Manson to recommend a good suntan lotion...

The waiter interrupted with Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I start you out with something to drink?

Irving went first. Unsweetened iced tea with lemon, please. And I know what I want to order, if you’re ready, Joe. After an affirmative gesture from Joe, Irving ordered a curried chicken salad sandwich with field greens on whole wheat toast.

Joe added, Just coffee for me, black. No sugar… On second thought, maybe you can bring me a croissant with that coffee. Do you have any spreads, like fruit jam?

We have grape of course, um... orange marmalade, boysenberry...

Bingo! You said the secret woyd! Boysenberry it is!

The waiter thanked them for their orders as Joe continued the conversation. So, I’m a little late because I had a last minute walk-in. An aimless woman in the throes of despair, who really just wanted me to predict her future, but threatened suicide to get her way. I have to take such a threat seriously, in case there is even a tinge of honesty to it.

I’ll never understand your business model. I mean, I give you credit for bouncing back from the brink of disaster, but a disenfranchised psychologist with a vague, ambiguous shingle that seems designed to attract the shallowest of the shallow? Those people aren’t looking for help, they’re looking for a magic wand, a... a lottery ticket with the grand prize of happiness and a free life-time subscription to cable TV. And yet you’re as busy as a Las Vegas hooker. I swear you could sell pork rinds on a kibbutz.

I’m just as surprised as you, Irv. It seems like working without a license has been my formula for success. Financially, I’m doing better than ever. And I’m still helping people, just in a different way. It’s a no-advice, no-risk practice. I just ‘tell’ them their future based on the facts they give me, and it’s up to them to believe in themselves and make that future happen... Pork rinds on a kibbutz, that’s a good one. Teh!

Irving rerouted the conversation only slightly. Which leads me to something I’ve been thinking about. You know how years ago I floated the idea of writing a book based on a client or clients of yours, but at the time you didn’t want to take the chance of revealing confidential information?

Right. Standard physician/patient privacy rules, exacerbated by my own standard of ethics and an obsessive desire to stay in business.

You’re no longer bound by that law now that you’re no longer licensed, right? So what prevents us from embarking on that little journey?

Ethics. Law or no law, I still live and work by certain ethical standards.

Yet an ethical lapse in the confidentiality arena is exactly what brought you to where you are now.

Yes, thanks for reminding me... But look, Irv, there is a big difference between consulting with close friends and relatives of a client in order to probe deeper with the aim of finding a workable solution for that client and making a conscious decision to publicize someone’s life.

So, that’s what you did wrong? Asked a few questions of a client’s relatives and friends? And that client put you out of business?

It had to do with the overall situation and the timing of things.

What situation?

Oh-ho no. Our little lunch is not going to turn into an interview for your proposed book.

Irving’s mouth dropped and his expression changed to that of disappointment and mild but genuine sadness. Sorry, old friend, the writer in me is ever inquisitive. Suddenly elevating his expression, he went on, But look… see? No notepad, no pen, no voice recorder... just two ears, a heart, and a stomach that wants to know where the hell my chicken sandwich is.

Joe let a little laugh leak out, paused for a moment, and in a flash of moderate guilt, said in a low tone, It is I that should apologize to you, Irv. You’ve never done me wrong in all the years we’ve known each other. I didn’t mean to express any mistrust toward you. After another brief pause, he continued, We therapists, or ex-therapists, therapists-in-waiting, whatever... We sometimes need our own therapy, to talk about things. To sort through the maze of options and non-options and to make sense of it all. We don’t have a monopoly on clarity.

Joe, remember about twenty years ago, when you told me about the estrangement between you and your father?

I remember it like it was yesterday. I had made a conscious decision to not contact my father, assuming the situation was hopeless. And it all started out with an argument over the most petty nonsense. Sort of like the old cliché about the cobbler whose kids have no shoes. Here I was, a therapist. Allowing one of the most precious relationships a person can have to slip into oblivion. He continued, Ironically, it was the therapy with the client who eventually put me out of business that inspired me to finally do something about it.

Hey, stranger things have happened. Think of the irony of the first guy that served snails and called it escargot – made his living from selling slime to the rich. Sensing that Joe rightfully made no connection between his circumstances and the original escargot salesman, Irving continued seamlessly, And while that has nothing to do with anything, I will say in all seriousness that what amazes me about your professional skill set, is that you took a client from a genuine, albeit failed, suicide attempt through the labyrinth that went beyond the obvious to his relationship with his father. In the process you made a connection to your own situation and FIXED it.

I told you all that? And you’ve never repeated it until now?

They both paused to thank the waiter as he delivered the coffee and iced tea, and then Joe mused, You know, Irv, you can never tell what profound impact meeting someone will have on your life, either for good or bad… or a combination of both. The client you’re referring to, Gil, did indeed come to me after an honest-to-goodness suicide attempt that nearly worked. Our journey together took us all the way from religious abuse, his upbringing, his then-current marriage, back to even more serious religious abuse, then to the most incredible story I’ve ever heard, a story cooked up by his then wife and played out like a bloody chess game.

Religious abuse? You never told me about that.

A subtle form of religious abuse. Basically, the application of man-made rules that trump loftier principles, in other words, abuse of authority. Gil was so conflicted by the complete lack of forgiveness for an indiscretion of his, so full of unrelenting emotional pain, and so confused by the misapplication of authority within his religion of choice, he felt the need to end the pain anyway he could. He chose what he thought was the least messy technique – asphyxiation by carbon monoxide. He was medevaced from his home in Sparta, New Jersey to a hospital in the Bronx, put in a hyperbaric chamber, and finally transported to another hospital’s psychiatric ward. It was during therapy there that he was referred to me by a mutual friend because I have... because I HAD the not quite unique distinction of being a psychologist who specialized in emotional/psychological problems peculiar to Jehovah’s Witnesses. Fast forward about ten years and the REAL religious abuse starts.

Looking a tad confused, Irving objected, Wait a minute. You lost me. The kind of abuse of authority you’re talking about isn’t exactly the Spanish Inquisition. Not that a good stretch on a rack is required to qualify for abuse, but...

His elders, what other religious groups might refer to as pastors or priests, were basically meting out or denying forgiveness as they saw fit, making punishing decisions based on complaints by people that are too petty and narrow-minded to even consider being consoled as an option. They even coined a phrase, ‘organizational forgiveness,’ to be distinguished from ‘personal forgiveness.’ That’s a big deal to someone who has put a lot of faith in a religious structure wherein the authority figures claim to represent God himself with some degree of collective infallibility. It wreaked havoc on his self-esteem, his relationship with his God, and his hopes for the future. Believe me, it’s a common phenomenon, but his case was uncommonly extreme.

Shaking his head, Irving muttered under his breath Infallibility... sheesh... those kind of people put the Bull in Papal.

Grimacing mildly at that last incomprehensibly bad but unintended shot at humor, Joe returned to where he was. "So ten years later, which is ten years ago from now, the real abuse starts. In a nutshell, Gil was being gaslighted by his wife, who was working in collusion with authority figures, all men, that she all but worshiped. I mean making up major charges of ‘non-scriptural’ behavior and tendencies, supposedly from virtually everyone they both knew, first a few people, eventually scores of people, with no substantiation as to who was doing the complaining, where, when and how his various ‘infractions’ occurred, what practical steps he could take to ‘improve’ his behavior, and so on, just to support their contention that their ‘discipline’ of him was justified and correct. Translation: ‘covering their own tracks.’ Ever see Cool Hand Luke? Remember the scene where the prisoner, Luke, was forced to dig a big hole? First dig, then back-fill, then dig again, fill, dig, on and on and on... It was sort of like that in terms of purposelessness, frustration, and, and never-ending... emotional brutality. Of course Gil allowed them to drive him crazy because he took them too seriously, but he was SUPPOSED to take them seriously, unconditionally respect and obey them, according to dictates of the religious structure he was beholden to. So that’s what I was working with. It’s a systemic problem throughout the JW organization, a seriously flawed ideology that emanates from the top down, and mainly what keeps me busy to this day. So, meanwhile, Gil is sleeping on the couch for about five years. Five years that include hearing from multiple eyewitnesses about his wife’s infidelity."

Irving interrupted, Great, some sex in the story! Every story needs a little gratuitous seasoning... But I’m NOT taking notes!

Your chicken curry sandwich and one croissant for the gentleman on the other side of the table. Will that be all?

Thank you, that’s it Joe and Irving said in unrehearsed unison.

Joe took a sip from his coffee cup and said, So the REAL story is first about a marriage that fell apart in spectacular fashion, but, more importantly, it evolves into a story about a man who refused to stay down when pummeled to the mat. How much time do you have, Irv?

I have until 11:59, May 2nd of next year. Speak, for I am listening, M’Lord.

"Okay, but remember, you might not believe some of this, that is unless you believe that Grisham wrote Alice in Wonderland on LSD while watching the first five seasons of Law and Order."

Chapter 2

Gil and Marta Oldfield were spending their July 4th in much needed and deserved tranquility, by themselves, at their home in Sparta, New Jersey. The last of their four children to move out had got married just a month ago, paving the opportunity for Gil and Marta to either enjoy their marriage of some three decades in new ways, or fall apart altogether. The last five years had obviated the fact that the latter choice was the only clear path at the moment.

Theirs had never been a loveless marriage. To the contrary, Gil would often surprise Marta with a bouquet of flowers, or leave love notes in the mailbox or on her dresser, whether there was an occasion to do so, or he just thought it was time to say ‘I love you’ in some special way. Marta would sometimes surprise Gil with some recorded music she bought for him, recognizing his passion for music. Both had always lived for each other, Gil often making whatever sacrifices would benefit Marta, and Marta likewise putting Gil ahead of herself.

But the five years leading up to this beautifully temperate summer day had seen the romance cease.

Gil is a tall, handsome man, the sort of handsome that invites stares and compliments from a variety of women, yet not all women would claim him as their ‘type.’ He is of mixed Anglo-Saxon heritage, a heritage that produced a man more comfortable spinning records than dancing to them and whose appearance and demeanor are concomitant to that characteristic. He never did figure out how to use the power of persuasion that so often comes with good looks, nor did it ever occur to him to try – Gil is the no-bullshit, what you see is what you get-type, who just speaks and acts his mind with no clue as to how to alter reality in order to obtain something desirable. His propensity for logic often takes him down a philosophical pathway, but whenever that pathway leads to a fork, logic wins.

Marta, whose Mexican descent appears to have created a lighter skinned version of Amerindian with virtually no discernible Spanish characteristics, is about a half foot shorter than Gil, but all five and a half feet of her has always been filled with love, kindness, generosity and caring. Nearly everyone falls in love with Marta within seconds, and as Gil would often say, If anybody doesn’t like my wife, the problem is their own. What Marta has never understood is how those qualities make her more physically attractive than she imagines, especially to Gil. Instead she exists in a constant, almost crippling state of insecurity about her appearance and value to others. Perhaps her positive qualities were inventions to make up for those insecurities, since those qualities often disappear behind closed doors and in other rare situations that involve the few individuals that have the misfortune of living on her short blacklist, a list that is impossible to be removed from.

In recent years Gil spent his nights on the living room couch, perched in front of the television set, and words of affection between him and Marta had become scarce. This sleeping arrangement seemed to suit both of them in odd ways – Marta could sleep better without the alleged snoring that motivated her to exile Gil to the couch by poking and waking him up so often during the night that the only way he could get some sleep and maintain his sanity was to sleep anywhere but in their bedroom; Gil could fall asleep by the distraction of the TV that helped him tame his thoughts of worthlessness brought on by years of emotional and mental abuse at the hands of the religious authorities he had always respected. There was another purpose, though, that only Marta could understand, because it was her own concoction. Gil would figure that out over time, once he put many pieces of a very complex and sordid puzzle together.

The morning of July 4th, 2012 at the Oldfield house began with a light breakfast, some reading, and eventually a game of Parcheesi, a favorite game of both of them, accompanied by a collection of Chopin polonaises – Gil and Marta didn’t always agree on musical choices, so there was seldom any playing in the house, but Chopin was suitable for both Gil’s taste and Marta’s desire for non-intrusive background music.

Marta disappeared shortly after midday ostensibly for a couple of hours of shopping, leaving Gil to watch his beloved Yankees beat the Tampa Rays. He always recorded Yankee games whether watching them live or not, in order to watch them later that night or the next day at his chosen, quicker pace, and today’s 3:00 game was no exception. But by the time Marta returned home, this particular game looked like it would be over soon after Gil had to leave for the 45 minute drive to Randolph, where he hosted a weekly FM radio show at Crenleigh College. So he deleted the recorded game and listened to the final inning in the car.

Soon after Gil’s departure, Marta cleaned up the dinner table and began to prepare for a meeting at the Kingdom Hall, as Jehovah’s Witnesses’ places of worship are called. Normally, Gil would have been accompanying her, but a last minute meeting schedule change combined with the fact that he could not get a substitute radio host on a holiday meant that Marta was going without him tonight.

Gil arrived at Crenleigh about 7:30 PM, affording himself his thirty minute comfort zone for preparation for his 8:00 PM one hour show. Being relatively new to the business of radio, he gave a lot of attention to many nuances and details of his show, including having a Question of the Week so that listeners could call in and be in line to win a prize – usually a gift certificate provided by a local restaurant. Over many years he had unintentionally crafted himself into a sort of expert on The Beatles, the group that provided his show’s theme, although he would never admit that to himself, let alone others. He would often say to people who wondered about his apparent vast knowledge of the subject, I just wonder about something, anything that clicks in my head, and if I don’t already know the answer, I start to research it. That’s how I come up with most of my Beatles questions and answers. So I don’t really know anything that anybody else doesn’t or can’t know.

He entered the Crenleigh atrium, an unusually imposing structure for a small college, replete with card access at every door and security cameras virtually everywhere, and then covered the short distance to the studio door. Upon entering the studio, it became obvious that all other DJ’s had taken advantage of the holiday and had recorded versions of their shows – the shelves containing the stacks of Heavy and Light rotation CDs were still arranged as if the day had not yet begun, and the boxes of large index cards with additional suggestions for CDs of other well-known artists to intersperse using a similar Heavy and Light system of rotation was likewise not up to date. Since it was the middle of summer, there were no students or faculty to be found anywhere. It was a veritable ghost town. The only person that would be seen roaming the building periodically during the evening was a security guard, who would almost never enter the studio but simply look through the soundproof window on the wall separating the broadcast studio from the wide hallway. The hallway had windows from ceiling to floor on the outside wall along most of its length, affording a nice view of the northeast campus that included the library, a few academic buildings, and a sprawling lawn. Gil would always know when a prospective student was taking a tour with their parents, or when the matriculating student had some visitors, as there would always be gawking at either set of windows. And a diligent security guard could easily see clear through to the back of the studio, with its series of soundproof glass windows in all of the production room walls.

8:00 Post Meridiem Eastern Daylight Time. Almost showtime. There would be three or four minutes of NPR news, a couple of underwriter announcements (code for ads in the non-commercial radio world), a station identifier, and then The Cavern goes live.

Gil was still not used to the pre-show feeling that roughly corresponded to his performances as a singer ever since junior high school. It was a feeling of inexplicable nervousness for the first few minutes or so, but then if everything went well, he would settle in and relax, and the rest went smoothly. Unfortunately, due to Gil’s near perfectionist tendencies, some error would always occur, which added a certain amount of peril to the rest of the evening, compounding and making things worse – but mostly, if not completely, in his mind.

90.3, WNJI, let the music fly, announces the raspy, recorded voice of Gil’s good friend and fellow DJ, Paul Traynor. Then, with channel three fader on the mixing board at the midway point and the press of the CD player trigger button, the opening strains of Magical Mystery Tour begin flowing into untold tens of thousands of household stereos, car radios, and anywhere else from northwest New Jersey to the Poconos of Pennsylvania where a radio might be tuned to 90.3 FM.

Exactly nine seconds into the song, just after Paul McCartney invites us to Step right this way, the fader goes down halfway and Gil starts his introduction. "It’s the 4th of July, and we are LIVE in the studio tonight with The Cavern, an hour of everything Beatles. I’m your host Gil Oldfield, you’re listening to 90.3 WNJI, and this week is the 4th installment of The Beatles 1967 Radio Experience. So let’s start right off with a song from that year by Smokey Robinson. And with channel one fader up and another trigger button press, Tears of a Clown" takes over the airwaves.

Throughout the next hour, Gil spun CDs that were released in 1967 sprinkled with Beatles songs from the Sgt Pepper and Magical Mystery Tour albums. In some cases songs came from debut albums of artists who quickly went from unknown to household name status; There is a Happy Land from David Bowie’s eponymous release, as well as Velvet Underground and Niko (suggested by a call-in listener), Grateful Dead, Van Morrison as a solo artist, and Cat Stevens were all among that freshman class.

After the first ten minutes of every show, Gil would announce the Question of the Week, along with the number to call and a description of the prize that could potentially be won.

Gil posed the question to his listeners, "What Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band song was featured in the TV film Magical Mystery Tour and provided the name for a band formed in 1997?"

The next forty minutes were spent variously fielding the plethora of phone calls that were typical of any show (but especially shows that included an invitation for listeners to call in and win something), cuing up CDs, scheduling station breaks, announcing what was just heard and what was coming up, making trips to and from the CD library to retrieve fodder for the show, taking a bathroom break or two, entering song information into the online playlist, checking the time elapsed and time left vis a vis all the scheduled material, and just generating a lot of sweat. Then at about ten minutes to 9:00, Gil repeated the Question of the Week, and announced that Bob from Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania was the first caller with the correct answer, Death Cab for Cutie.

After every Question of the Week came the song that supported or was at least associated with the question. So Gil’s listeners were treated to a song they may have never heard before, or had heard once or twice and then forgot about it. "Death Cab for Cutie" by the Bonzos as performed in the film Magical Mystery Tour, followed by the title track from that film, and finally, I Want to Know, a song from Ten Years After’s 1967 debut album.

Gil’s nerves would only return to Earth once he made his final announcements, "Next week on The Cavern... up next: Hippie Dippie Trippie’s Jam It..." et cetera, and ONLY if he used every last second until precisely 9:00, when the automated NPR broadcast would take over at the top of the hour, and not one second more. There is an art to that, and the slightest miscue in those final minutes could throw the proverbial monkey wrench into the works. Tonight it worked out splendidly.

By now, Hippie Dippie Trippie, aka Hank DT Rabin, would normally have been in the CD library for at least ten minutes scouring the shelves for CDs for his show. In fact he would probably have one of those CDs cued up, ready to play. Perhaps he, like everyone but Gil, also took the holiday off? There was no way to know due to Hank’s unpredictable nature and the possibility that he too had pre-recorded a show for the occasion.

In any event, Gil’s evening at the studio was not quite over yet. Next on the agenda was finalizing the CD recording of the entire show, ripping the CD to his laptop computer, then uploading the hour-long MP3 file to his website, updating all the links on the web page, publishing the web page, and finally posting the link on social media. All of that could take as little as twenty minutes on a good night, but for some reason the upload to the website was taking far too long. So he decided to leave the laptop running in upload mode with a written note left on top, instructing the morning DJ to pack up the laptop and lock it in a drawer for later retrieval. It was time to go home.

The 45 minute drive home was more than enough time to listen to the CD recording of the night’s show, since Gil would fast forward through most of the songs, mainly listening only to segues and his announcements - it served as a sanity check to prove to him that it came out better than he imagined. It was also an educational moment for someone always looking to improve. So he generally wouldn’t be listening to FM radio on each Wednesday-night trip home from the station.

As was his custom, Gil pulled into a Quick-Chek convenience store to get a cup of coffee and a snack, his personal reward to himself for a job well done. And as was also his more neurotic custom, Gil pressed the button on his dashboard GPS to record the mileage – a habit that was actually useful when performing his day job that involved a lot of driving, frequent stops, and mileage tracking. It served no purpose here, but a habit is a habit.

Just as he pressed the button on the GPS, his cell phone rang. It was his friend from Henryville in the Poconos, Carla Siciliano, who was always listening to ‘our’ station.

Hey, do you know that there is dead air? she asked.

What?

There is no broadcast for like the last 15 or 20 minutes. It’s dead air.

I heard what you said. I meant ‘What?’ as in... oh, whatever. Then, switching his car stereo to FM and verifying Carla’s story, he answered, You’re right, it’s not your radio, there is no broadcast. Okay, lemme hang up and make a few phone calls really quick. Thanks! Talk to you later!

The first logical phone call was to Stu Rydell, the station technician. Stu didn’t pick up, so Gil left him a short but detailed message. The next, increasingly frantic call went to another good friend, Station Manager Andy Statton.

Andy, this is Gil. The station is off the air. It’s nothing but dead air for the last twenty minutes.

Shoot, I would have been listening but I... anyway, did you call Stu?

Yes, but no answer, so I left him a message.

He’s probably down the Shore, where he is every July 4th. I’ll call him right n... oh crap, I’ve got another call coming in that I have to answer. Tell you what, really quick, try calling him again, and text me the results. I will call Stu myself if I need to. Okay, thanks, bye!

The tired old expression The show must go on was taking on greater and greater significance. Five seconds of dead air could mean someone scanning their car radio doesn’t discover WNJI for the first time. Thirty seconds of dead air could mean loss of an underwriter. Twenty minutes of dead air could mean rumors that the station has shut down, and that could mean... Exaggerations or not, this problem had to be solved pronto.

The second call to Stu was also an incomplete. So as instructed, Gil shot a text message to Andy, who then reported the problem to Stu, who in turn asked Andy to call Gil back with some instructions while he tries to get an internet connection to remote in.

Gil was already on his way back to the station when his phone rang again, this time it was Andy calling him.

Hey Andy, did you get a hold of Stu?

Yes. The situation is under control, but before I say anything else, you gotta understand something about Stu. For whatever reason, God only knows, Stu is very selective about whose phone calls he takes. Plus he may be off his meds again. He always answers if he sees my name on the caller ID, but I wasn’t able to call him right away. Anyway, if you’re at the station, stay there and wait for Stu to call you. If you’re not there, please turn around and get there.

Already on my way, be there in a few.

Okay. Don’t sweat it, shit happens sometimes. It’s not a catastrophe. But it is important that we get back on air ASAP, so Stu will either get it solved remotely or walk you through it. Savvy?

Great. Hey, thanks a lot Andy.

Sure thing. And thank YOU! Goodnight, Gil.

Stu’s call arrived on the broadcast studio phone, which Gil missed because he was still driving his car with his cell phone. The second set of rings came as Gil was entering the studio.

This is Stuart Rydell III. Who is this?

Wondering why Stu would expect anyone but him to answer, Gil answered, Stu, it’s Gil. So how can I help?

Okay I’m having some difficulty getting a connection to remote in. What does it say on the Cue screen?

Cue screen, what’s that?

The double screen above the mixing board.

Okay, I know what screens you’re talking about, but there’s an awful lot of information on them. What specifically are you...

Look at the time sync. What does it say?

The time sync? You mean a clock? I don’t know what you’re...

LOOK AT THE LAST ITEM FOR 9:00. What does it say after that?

Oh. Let’s see, there are the top of the hour spots, then...

After that!!

After that there are more spots, then...

"Crap, Jam It dropped off the Cuer. Okay, press the stop button."

What stop button? Where?

I gotta remote in and get this fixed. I need you to press the stop button!

Okay, but which button? Do you mean on the Cuer, which screen, and which of about fifty buttons?

The but-ton on the right Cu-er screen that most close-ly cor-re-sponds to the time of the next i- tem to be played, af-ter the last one that was played.

Okay, stop button pressed. Now what? Gil asked Stu, as he silently said to himself I wish there was a button I could press to stop HIM.

Now go ahead.

Go ahead and what?

Go ahead with your show!

My show’s over. You mean play random CDs or talk until something else happens?

No, go ahead and blow me. Of COURSE play CDs!!

Coming from a man half Gil’s age, it was well past time for Gil to explode, but he kept his composure, knowing something about Stu’s medical history and what happens when he doesn’t take his meds.

Okay, but what about spot breaks? Do I...

NO SPOT BREAKS! Just play CDs until I call you and tell you otherwise.

Okay, Stu. Is that all for now?

No answer from Stu. He had already hung up.

While the next song was playing, Gil stopped the malfunctioning upload of his show to his website, and decided to try it again in a different internet browser with a different upload tool. Within thirty seconds it was evident that it was now working and would likely be done relatively soon.

By the time the second song Gil had selected was half done, he noticed that the CD was still playing, but not in the monitors. Theorizing that recorded shows may not show up in the monitors, he called Carla back from his cell phone.

Carla, it’s Gil again. Hear anything?

I hear HDT playin’ him some Widespread Panic. How appropriate.

Great. Hey, thanks for all your help. You’re a sweetheart... of the rodeo... ugh, I’m tired, you can probably tell. As soon as this damn laptop is done with an upload, I’m outta here.

Carla followed up a snicker by bidding Gil a peaceful and unintentionally sexy Goodnight.

As long as the upload was still in progress, and since he really wanted to monitor the broadcast for a little while just to be safe, Gil changed his mind about going home. Tonight’s experience reinforced in his mind that what he really needed was an Evergreen show, a recorded show to have on the network drive in case of an emergency that prevented him from doing his show live, like a snowstorm or something that might also prevent anyone else from subbing for him. Plus it would be good practice to record a show wherein he forced himself to not go back and correct mistakes, just let it fly. Another part of taming his neurotic self to be less neurotic. And he would be killing three birds with one stone, monitoring the broadcast while recording a future show and getting some practice in.

On his way to the CD library, he took out his cell phone to text Marta that he would be extra late getting home tonight, but she would still be at her meeting, so he turned off his phone with a view to calling her in about ten minutes, a little after 10:00 PM. He always turned his phone off or at least set it to ‘silent’ when broadcasting or recording. This time he set it to ‘silent.’

Recording a one hour show would take well more than an hour, since Gil was using unfamiliar software that he didn’t think could rip CDs; they had to be recorded as they played real time. It would be many months before he found out the secret to ripping them to the software.

After recording the first two of three 20 minute segments, he took a much needed bathroom break. On the way he checked his phone for missed calls, voicemail, email, or text messages, and remembered that he had forgot to call Marta – she would likely be in bed by now, so it was