The Big Broadcast of 1935 (red COFFEE Chapter 11)

A funny thing happened on the way to the studio, or more correctly, radio station. I was on my way to see philosopher Rama Vishnu at the Sunset and Gower Studios when I saw a small crowd circled around a store front window. They were all staring at something on the ground and I couldn’t help noticing.

“Do you think he’s going to come to?”
“I don’t know, but whatever you do, don’t touch him”.
“Yeah, those things are full of rabies”.
“Sixteen needles to the stomach”.

I pushed my way over and saw a medium sized bat lying unconscious, looking like he flew into the window and got knocked out cold by the impact. He was out but still breathing, his outstretched wings twitching every now and then and his furry tummy heaving up and down. Crazy!

“Who do you call about things like this?”
“You get one of those dog catchers”.
“Dog catchers? Nah, you’re crazy. You call the zoo”.
“The zoo doesn’t catch bats”.
“I don’t know, but I’m leaving before that flying rat wakes up!”
“I’m with you. Don’t want no rabies.”

I continued my walk to the CBS radio studios, slowing down to look at a dance marathon poster. “DANCE FOR DOLLARS! SWING TO THE BIG BANDS, DUSK TIL DAWN, WIN A FORTUNE! LONG BEACH CHRISTIAN VETERANS MEMORIAL BALLROOM!” Are they still having those?

It reminded me of my friend Ida Parker telling me coming out here to dance in the marathons. Since she was passing she danced with a Latino guy and was all set to close out – she was in the final five couples – and then her bad Achilles tendon, which got her put out to pasture in the Negro Womens Baseball League, gave her grief again. She pretty much fell apart. After that she gave up any semblance of strenuous physical activity, whether it was racing to home plate or dancing for dollars.

Rama’s show wasn’t in one of the larger studios usually reserved for the big serials. He broadcasted his lecture from a much smaller room, one as large as a family den. I quietly found a seat in the back as he was already into his lecture. Rama delivered his lecture with a small sheaf of papers and a pitcher of water with drinking glass nearby. He wore a white linen suit, which accented his very dark features. The small audience was hanging on to his every word.

“Progress is estimated by speed, but are people happier if they do things faster or are they just running towards a happiness they never really attain?”
“Darkness bears no relation to evil, it is merely a means of making you see reality without the interference of light”.
“Beauty is sold every day by the millions but the ones who truly possess it paid nothing for it”.

The room was so calm and still as he spoke, his voice so measured and soothing I actually felt myself nodding out from time to time. God, I hope he doesn’t catch me falling asleep, but….his voice echoed in my ears as I felt myself slipping away.

“You may think the life you’re living is your own, but…”
I dreamt I was back on Sunset Boulevard staring at that crazy dance marathon poster, the sky was red and cloudy with the sun fighting its way through them. Standing next to the poster was Ida Parker holding hands with my sailor friend Darby Wells. She was talking to him but I couldn’t hear her, all I could hear was Rama’s lecture. She was smiling and pointing at the marathon poster to Darby. He leaned over to kiss her, and then somebody got up from their seat, waking me up.

I got up myself, embarrassed at the thought of someone catching me dozing off during a cerebral talk about mysticism and existential philosophy. I even think Rama glanced at me for an instant as I walked out of the studio. Perhaps it was best if I walked around the station to get my second wind.

There was a smaller studio around the corner from the hallway. I stopped by the front door. It was The Crooning Cowboy show. The Crooning Cowboy as you could guess was a singing cowpoke picking tunes off the shiniest guitar I’ve ever seen. Since the studio was so small he couldn’t really afford a fancy backdrop, just a mike and his guitar.

“And now, friends, I’d like to invite a friend up here, a hard workin’ man just like you folks, comin’ to you from the Deep South, give a powerful hospitable welcome to ol’ Shep Rogers!”

Shep Rogers stepped up to the mike with a pretty cheap, beat looking guitar that might have been missing a string or two.
“Thank you very kindly, folks, for lettin’ me into your livin’ rooms tonight, I come from the great dusty state of Oklahoma. I’d like to sing  y'all a tune about how folks from my parts toil and sweat all day long just to line the pockets of a privileged few. It’s not fair, and I tell you, somethin’ ought to be done about these big city fat cats. Eventually, someone will. In the meantime, I reckon I’ll just have to sing about it”.

“We worked through Spring and Winter, through Summer and through Fall
But the mortgage worked the hardest and the steadiest of us all
It worked on nights and Sundays, it worked each holiday
Settled down among us and it never went away.

The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He buys on his credit until Fall
Then they take him by the hand and they lead him from his land
And the merchant is the man who gets it all.”
His singing gained in bitterness and aggression as he continued the song. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really focus on his singing anymore because as he strummed away I couldn't help staring at his wrist. It had an “S”-shaped scar on it, exactly the one I carved the other night on my attacker up on Angels Flight. Shep Rogers. Shep. My blood ran cold and I had the shivers, just staring at my attacker.

“Well, the banker says he's broke and the merchant stops and smoke
But they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest
And they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all…”
I guess I stared so hard that he looked right at me and literally lost his place in the song. He stopped and stared at me, turning white with a glassy-eyed look as if he’d just seen the living dead. After a quick fidget he buried his head into his chest and finished the song.

“The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
Lives on his credit until Fall
Well, his pants are wearing thin - his condition, it's a sin
'Cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all”.

I ran out of the studio and out of the building. I entered a Rexall pharmacy nervously looking behind me and snuck into a phone booth.
“Hello, get me the Hollywood precinct…Hello, this is Lois Angelus, I need to speak to Detective Braintree…Hello, Teddy, this is Lois. I found my Scarecrow…Teddy, are you there?”
“What is this, some sort of a gag, sister?”
“Teddy, it’s me, Lois”.
“The hell it is. Everybody knows Lois Angelus is dead. She was murdered last night”.