From Radio Imagination

CHAPTER 1

Good evening. Or good morning. Maybe good afternoon. Welcome to Radio Imagination.

That unmistakable hint of ambiguity in the opening comes from the fact that this program airs around the clock and entirely in your imagination. You can listen to the prime-time broadcast live beneath the pale gleam of silver moonlight, or wake to a dusting of snow on the roads in the morning and open your ears—if you have them—to the late-night show from two days before, and it’s totally all right to replay the invigorating sounds of early morning under the blaze of the midday sun.

But, hey, it isn’t easy to carry on a conversation without planting a temporal pivot foot somewhere, so for now I’ll stick with the time I’m in. Good evening. It’s 2:46—that quiet hour in the dead of night when even the trees and the grass are sleeping. And it’s cold. Freezing cold. In fact, I’m frozen solid—wearing just a red windbreaker but completely indifferent to the falling snow. Thanks, everybody, for tuning in despite the ungodly hour.

But I haven’t even introduced myself yet. Keeping you company tonight is your motormouth master of metaphor, DJ Ark. The nickname riffs off my surname but under current circumstances the idea of a boat that floats doesn’t sound so bad, either.

I’ll get back to that in a bit, but first I want you to know that Radio Imagination has no sponsors. In fact, we don’t even have a station or a studio. I’m not talking into a microphone, and to tell you the truth I’m not actually speaking at all. How is it, then, that you can hear my voice in your ears? Well, as I said at the outset, it’s the power of imagination. Our radio waves, our microphone, our studio, our broadcast towers, my voice—it’s all in your head.

So tell me, how does it sound—this voice of mine? As deep as the lowest note on a baritone sax? Or as thin and shrill as the shrieking of children on the shore? Its texture could be as rough as the surface of handmade paper or as smooth as melted chocolate. The choice is yours, so tune your receiver how you like, to whatever’s easiest on your ears.

I do ask one thing, though. My voice shouldn’t sound like anyone else’s. Sure, I may be a rookie who’s new on the scene, but like any self-respecting radio personality this is one area where I simply can’t give ground.

So there you have it, listeners. I hope you’ll stick with me to the end, here on:

Radiooo Imaaagination

That brash, or soothing, or maybe even thumping bass sound of the program’s jingle is my cue to give you a hint: I’m older than you might think. Let’s see, this year I turn thirty-eight. Did you peg me for a younger man? I’d sure be glad if you did. That’d mean I’ve still got a bit of spring in my voice. When you get to be my age you’ve got to look on the bright side ’cause the world can really drag you down. Heh heh.

So anyway here I am, all of thirty-eight years old, born and raised in this little town by the sea, here in this land of long winters where my body—Radio Imagination broadcast central—lies at this very moment. I’m the second son of a rice dealer. That probably gives enough away that those of you from the neighborhood can figure out which family I’m from. Maybe you’re already conjuring up an image of the old-fashioned storefront. My uncommonly short father and behemoth of an older brother really appreciate your business. Thanks a lot! Just about my only connection to the rice business, though, was as a kid, looking after the shop when there was a funeral in...