by Rob Zombie
“And don’t forget Thursday night at the Cabot Theater,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. He’d always been told that hot radio voices never had a beautiful body to go along with them, but Heidi proved that theory dead wrong. “WXKB’s Fantastic Film Fest continues with a special midnight screening of Frankenstein versus the Witchfinder.”
The what? Herman thought. Just when you think you’ve seen all the Frankenstein movies, a new one surfaces.
Whitey, working the board, played a quick audio clip from the film.
“I curse the day you came to this village, devil Frankenstein!” cried a man’s voice.
“Please tell me this is based on historical fact,” said Heidi.
Whitey began to read off the film’s publicity page. “The year is 1645. Matthew Hopkins, an opportunist witchfinder and his dwarf assistant, Carlo—”
“Carlo?” interrupted Heidi.
“Yes, Carlo,” said Whitey. Must be an Italian dwarf assistant, thought Herman. Whitey continued. “Hopkins and his dwarf assistant, Carlo, visit village after village, brutally torturing confessions out of suspected witches… that is, until they come face-to-face…”
He stopped and fumbled at the board until he found a music cue, a few ominous notes.
“… with the Frankenstein monster.”
“Other than Carlo, it sounds amazing,” said Heidi.
“What’s wrong with Carlo?” asked Whitey.
“No fighting, you two,” said Herman, “or I’ll have to make one of you ride in the front seat with me.”
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” said Heidi.
“We won’t get there any faster if you keep asking,” said Herman.
“Are we done yet?” asked Whitey. Herman looked over at him. He was feeling it, too, ready to cut and run.
“I know I am,” said Heidi.
“Oh God yes,” said Herman. “Let’s get the eff out of here.”
“Language,” said Heidi, shaking her finger and smiling. “The FFA has a big jar and they fill it with money every time someone like you swears.”
“I said eff, didn’t I?” said Herman. “I didn’t say—”
“It’s Monday,” said Heidi quickly, “so you know what that means… ladies’ choice… in other words…”
“Rush,” said Herman and Whitey together, in an exhausted voice. And with that Whitey started up “The Spirit of Radio” and the show ended.
They filed out. Bill Ambler, the lone guy who took the post-midnight shift and who knew more about music than everybody else in the station combined, stepped to one side and huddled near the door as they made their way out.
“Any issues?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Whitey. “Board’s working fine.”
“You should be fine,” said Herman, “as long as two Norwegian black-metal dudes don’t mistake the radio station for a church and burn it to the ground.”
Ambler looked confused. “What?” he said. “Is there something I should know?”
“It’s a joke, Bill,” said Heidi. “Don’t worry about it.”
Ambler looked confused a moment more, then nodded briskly, started to arrange his things.
A moment later and the Big H team was in the break room, starting to relax. Heidi stretched. Whitey sat down and put his feet on the table. Chip would hate it if he saw him doing that, thought Herman, but didn’t worry about it long. Instead, he went after the bottle of wine he’d hidden earlier, found the corkscrew, and began to open it.
“Not our best show,” he said.
“Not every show can be our best show,” said Whitey. “If that happened, one day we’d literally just spontaneously combust.”
“Like a drummer,” said Heidi.
“Like a drummer,” said Whitey, and smiled.
What are they talking about? wondered Herman, not for the first time. The cork came out with a ripe pop. Now all he needed was something to pour the wine into. He looked in the cabinets but all he could find were coffee cups. They’d have to do.
“I hate to admit it,” said Heidi, “but those two kind of freaked me the fuck out.”
“Eh, weird accents always make shit like that sound more intense. If I said that crap you’d laugh at me.” Whitey cleared his throat, tried on a Norwegian accent. “I murder in the name of Satan’s goat.”
“I thought Satan had a dog,” Heidi said.
“Yes, he has a dog as well,” said Whitey. “His name is Cujo. But I do not murder in the name of Satan’s dog. I murder in the name of Satan’s goat.”
“And what’s his name?” asked Heidi.
“His name is Ralph,” said Whitey.
“Satan’s goat is named Ralph?”
Whitey shrugged. “Sure, why not?” he said. “Gotta be named something.”
Herman poured the wine into the coffee mugs, half a mug for Heidi and Whitey but almost full for the mug he’d kept for himself. After all, he’d been the one to buy it. He should get something for his money.
“God-hating motherfuckers is what that was all about,” he stated.
“You don’t think it was just an act?” asked Heidi.
“Nope,” said Herman. “Now Alice Cooper, that’s an act, and a damned good one. But those two drank the Devil’s Kool-Aid, fo’ sure. Like that other metal band. What’re they called again?”
Heidi stared blankly at him.
“You know, the cannibals,” said Herman.
“Mayhem,” said Whitey, staring down at the table.
“What’d they do?” asked Heidi.
“They were always talking about cannibalism,” said Whitey, “pushing it as a good idea. And then one band member killed himself and maybe one of the others, well…”
“Ate him?” asked Heidi, her eyes wide.
“I don’t think so,” said Whitey. “Or not much of him anyway.”
“I think he made a stew out of his brains,” said Herman.
“You’re joking,” said Heidi. She looked shaken.
“I think that’s just a rumor,” said Whitey. “Nobody ever proved it.”
“Yeah, they definitely drank the Devil’s Kool-Aid,” said Herman. “Speaking of Kool-Aid, who’s in?” He held up the cups.
Whitey yawned. “Always thirsty for dinner,” he said.
“Hand it over,” said Heidi.
“A team that drinks together stays together,” said Herman. He passed out the cups of wine.
He’d just settled down and begun to drink when Chip stuck his head through the door. When Herman and the others ignored him, he rapped on the wall to get their attention.
“Drinking at work again, I see,” he said. When nobody chose to answer and Herman didn’t rush to offer him a mug of his own, he turned to Whitey. “So, we’re good for tomorrow, I take it?”
“Good for what?” asked Whitey.
Chip looked startled. “Please tell me he’s fucking with me,” he said. He turned to Heidi. “He’s fucking with me, right?” Heidi just shrugged.
He turned back to Whitey. “Francis Matthias…,” he said, and waited. Whitey’s face remained blank. “The witch book guy…”
Whitey shook his head. “No clue,” he said.
“What do you mean no clue?”
“Dude, you’ve lost me.”
“For the Fantastic Fest promotion,” said Chip, and motioned with his hand for Whitey to pick up the thread.
But Whitey just continued to look blank. Chip’s expectant face slowly took on a frown.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You forgot to book him.” He grabbed his head with both hands. “No, it’s even worse,” he said. “You forgot I even told you to book him. I knew it! You’re the one always screaming, ‘Let me book some talent. Give me some responsibility!’ Jesus!”
Whitey had brought his feet down off the table, was squirming awkwardly in his chair. He started making excuses. “I was gonna… I just had to… this thing came up and…”
“Oh, Whitey,” sa
id Heidi.
Herman took a sip of his wine, trying to keep from smiling.
“Fantastic Fest is important to me,” Chip said. “I need asses in seats or I can kiss it good-bye. I need gimmicks to promote! That is why I asked you to go down to the book signing and book him in person. ‘No prob,’ you said. ‘You can count on me.’ ”
“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” said Whitey. “I don’t remember any of this.”
And then Herman could see that Chip was really going to blow. Enough fun and games, he thought. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I already booked him.”
“You did?” said Chip. He shook his head. “Why do you cover for this fool?”
Herman shrugged. “It’s what I do,” he said. “And you’re damn lucky it is. What, no ‘Thanks, Herman. I couldn’t live without you’?”
Chip gave a little cry of frustration and stormed out.
Herman took a sip of wine and waited. Once he was sure Chip wasn’t coming back, he turned to Whitey, gave him a hard look. “You know how he gets with that film festival shit,” he said. “You owe me, man.”
Whitey shrugged, already returning to his usual lackadaisical self. “What else is new?”
They drank their mugs dry and then clanked them against the table like convicts until Herman sighed and got up and brought them some more. As usual, he took more for himself, but Heidi didn’t care; he was the one, after all, who always bought the wine. And he was older, so maybe he needed it more. And as she’d proven last night, maybe she didn’t need any at all.
She was sipping from her mug, letting her gaze drift around the familiar break room, when she saw it. Something wooden, the wood lacquered but somewhat distressed, had been crammed into her mail slot, on top of some magazines and other mail. An old box of some kind. Where had that come from?
“What’s that?” she asked, and pointed.
“What?” asked Herman. “Where you pointing?”
“The mail slots,” said Whitey, in a way that made it hard for Heidi to decide if he was joking or serious. “They’ve always been there.”
She stood up and went over to the slot, grabbed the box. It was antique, or at least had been made to look like it was. Crazy the things a band would do to get noticed. A folded note was taped to it, and on the top of the box was a symbol. A rough circle, a small upturned half circle within its top and a small downturned half circle in its bottom half, the two connected by a line that was in turn cut across by another line with a dot at either end of it. Pretty cool, she thought. Blixa Bargeld would be proud.
“Check this out,” she said, bringing it back to the table.
“Cool promo,” said Whitey. “Who is it?”
Heidi plucked the note off the box’s lid, read it. “Some band called the Lords, I guess,” she said.
“Never heard of them,” said Herman.
“That’s because they’re not from the seventies,” said Whitey.
“Ha-ha,” said Herman. “Very funny.”
Heidi looked for a way to open the box. She could tell the lid from the rest of the box by a shift in the grain of the wood, but there were no hinges, no hasp either. Maybe it wasn’t locked at all. She tried to push it up with her fingers but something held it closed, some hidden latch.
“Let me try,” said Whitey.
“I got it,” said Heidi, slapping his hand away. She ran her fingers along the line of the lid, looking for something, not quite sure what. Other than the symbol on the top of the lid the box was unadorned, with no marks or carvings of any kind. It really did look antique—whoever had put the promo box together had done a great job of making it look distressed, as if it had been buried for a few hundred years and was just now being seen again for the first time. It even smelled old, and the groove of the wood grain had turned gray in places from what looked like dust.
But what was the point of having a promo that nobody could figure out how to open? Heidi wondered why she should bother, why she shouldn’t just throw it in the trash. The band probably wasn’t all that good anyway—they seldom were. Herman and Whitey were already starting to lose interest, might even have left the table if there hadn’t still been wine to drink.
She let her finger trace the symbol on the lid and then, on a whim, placed a finger on each of the two dots at the end of the crosspiece. Something clicked and the lid of the box came suddenly loose.
“Cool trick,” said Herman.
She carefully worked the lid off and set it to one side. Inside was a record. She cradled it by its edge and lifted it out. It was black and oddly heavy, and when she looked at it from the side it seemed strangely thick. She saw Herman staring at her with a skeptical look.
“Sure as shit… it’s shit,” he said. He drained off what was left in his mug and poured some more.
“Just for that I’m going to take it home and give it a listen,” said Heidi. She lifted it back into the box and placed the lid back on. It clicked into place and once again the lid was latched on, the box impossible to open without pressing on the dots. Then she shoved it into her messenger bag. Should I really bother? she wondered.
Herman raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to you discovering the next Earth, Wind, and Fire,” he said.
Just for that, I will bother, thought Heidi. And if it’s good, I’ll figure out some way to tell Herman “I told you so.”
“You got to update your references, dude,” said Whitey.
Herman stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t have to do nothing,” he said. He stared back without blinking. They held the look until it was too much and they both burst out laughing. Herman got up and opened another bottle.
By the time they were walking out of the station, all three of them were pretty loaded. Heidi was carrying the bottle and drinking straight from it. Outside it was dark. The air, which had been crisp before, was now windy and freezing. Herman shivered.
“Goddamn!” he said, fumbling at his coat’s zipper. “It’s fucking witchy titty cold out here. Man, I hate this time of year.” Still unable to get the zipper to go, he wrapped his coat tighter around his body and crossed his arms over it. “Anyone care for a lift?” he asked.
“My head is spinning,” said Heidi. “If I get into a car, I think I just might puke.”
“All the more reason to get in Herman’s car,” said Whitey.
“Real funny,” said Herman. He bowed. “Enjoy the walk. The fresh air will do you right. Good for the lungs, I hear. Not that I’d know from experience.”
“Thanks,” said Heidi. She took a drink from the bottle and then passed it along to Whitey. Whitey drank as well, wiping his mouth dry with his sleeve after.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said.
Heidi smiled. She stumbled a little, rested her palm lightly on Whitey’s chest. “All right,” she said. “Probably a good idea.”
“Well, la-dee-fucking-da,” said Herman. “I’m freezing. This gentleman is going to try and get home to the warden without racking up another DWS. If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” said Whitey, turning toward him. “You mean DWI.”
“Naw, DWS,” said Herman. “Driving while sexy.” He thrust his head back and gave a James Brown shriek. Spinning around, he soft-shoed off toward his car. How he could manage to do that after having had so much to drink, Heidi wasn’t sure.
“Good luck,” called Heidi after him.
“See you suckers later,” said Herman. Then he shouted, “Fuck, it’s cold!” and jumped into his car.
Whitey and Heidi watched him drive off and then they started walking toward Heidi’s place. For a while they walked in silence, trying not to shiver in the cold.
Whitey was the first to break the silence. “You think Herman’s wife knows he calls her the warden?” he asked.
“No way,” said Heidi. “And he doesn’t mean it. He’s a pussy cat around her.”
They walked along again in silence. The wind was blustery, sending the autumn leaves s
kittering across the empty street and over the sidewalk in front of them. Heidi shivered, concentrated on walking straight. She’d had a lot to drink, as usual, but not as much as the night before. I’ll probably be okay, she thought, as long as I don’t keep on drinking once I get back to the house. She wrapped her faux fur coat tighter around herself, snuck a glance at Whitey. His forehead was wrinkled, as if he was trying to think of something to say.
They stopped at the steps of Heidi’s building. Heidi reached out and grabbed his arm. In a pretend flirty voice, she said, “You want to come up and see what’s cooking in my kitchen?”
“Really?” said Whitey.
From the overexcited way that he said it, she knew she’d stepped wrong. He apparently couldn’t read the difference between flirty and pretend flirty.
“Really?” she said back, imitating his tone. She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean come up so I can suck your dick in the kitchen. I mean come up so I can make us some pancakes or something.”
“I knew that,” Whitey pretended, back to his old non-eager self, but still not quite meeting her eyes. He looked at his watch. “Hmmm? It’s getting pretty late,” he said.
Can’t let him go home with his feelings hurt, thought Heidi. “Come on,” she said. “You got something better waiting than pancakes?”
If it’d been Herman, he would have figured out how to turn that one into a joke, but Whitey didn’t. Maybe they both had had too much to drink. “Ya know,” he said, “the sad thing is… I never have any place better to be.”
Heidi nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “So what’s stopping you?”
He looked at his watch again and then shook his head and smiled, followed her in. Things were back to normal, Heidi thought. Well, if normal was what they’d actually been before.
They were inside and on the inner stairs leading up to her apartment when a door on the first floor opened. Fuck, thought Heidi, we’ve woken the landlady up. She kept walking. From behind her, she heard Lacy call her name.
She turned, putting on her nice company face, trying not to look too drunk. Whitey hesitated a moment, but turned with her. Lacy was standing there, still wearing that same batik wrap, her hair no longer loose now but instead gathered in a ponytail.