Friday, August 10, 2012

SOMETHING ON THE AIR

This is another 'Editor Regrets' that never made it to publication, I had fun writing it. I hope you have fun reading it, SOMETHING ON THE AIR It was one of those weeks when winter outstays its welcome, and the only sign of approaching summer is a lengthening of cold and cheerless days. Inevitably the regular announcers succumbed to a succession of viruses. Herself in the manager’s office juggled work schedules, calling on any old friend with the remotest connection to radio who could stagger into the studio, to come and keep the air waves humming. Peter Squelche, former Children's show celebrity, had left radio when his dentures began to click. He enjoyed returning for the midnight to 6a.m. shift. He played his own collection of Neil Sedaka records and reminisced in the informal, colloquial manner he had used when fronting Children's Sessions. Perhaps that lulled him, made him inattentive and not all the buttons on the new control panel were familiar to him. "Coming up to the hour. Six o'clock news is next. My old friend Brittle Gossip has just come into the studio. He’ll be taking you through to News at Nine. How are ya' Britt?" Brittle, retired television commentator, had given up when his on camera face had become reminiscent of an old fashioned washboard and his hair had receded entirely out of camera range. He did not regard Peter Squelche as a friend, but, obeying the conventions of Broadcasting, he responded with artificial bonhomie. "Morning, Pete. Long time. Now what's on the news this morning?" he looked through the newssheets. "Fiji offers Mugabe asylum. Only to be expected. Bill Shirley blames Helen Clark for loss of World Cup venues.Typical. Michiko Tanyaki, famous Japanese film star to film in N.Z." "Waw!” broke in Squelche. "Seventh Dan black belt! She makes Bruce Lee look like a beginner. And she’s gorgeous too!" Gossip continued, "Noted British author, Godfrey Fletcher, to read at Festival. No he won’t. Not at the Festival or anywhere else. The horrible little twerp's dead." The clock on the studio wall said 5.:58.10. Pete decided there was time for one more Sedaka song. "Whadda ya mean, dead?" he asked. "Dead as in defunct, no longer with us. Passed to that great literary community in the sky. The taxi driver told me on the way in. Seems there's been a huge cover up. Fletcher passed out while he was visiting Sweetie's in Vivienne Street. Too much incense or something.” “Too much physical exertion,” Squelche sniggered, “Happens quite often.” “Well, naturally Sweetie was anxious not to attract scandal to her very discreet establishment and she appealed to an extremely senior detective who just happened to be on the premises.” “On surveillance I suppose.” “Of course. Realising the potential for unwelcome publicity and the probability of a blown cover, the extremely senior detective summoned two members of the vice squad, who also just happened to be nearby. And between them they worked out an ingenious way to get the dead man out of Sweetie's and back to his hotel.” “A cunning plan.” “Precisely. Sweetie herself got the defunct author back into his trousers, zipped his fly, set his gold rim glasses on his nose and combed his hair over his bald spot. The vice squad made a chair with their hands. The very senior detective led the way. Sweetie brought up the rear, to ensure her late client stayed on his makeshift seat between the two detectives. They manoeuvred themselves out the back door and into the extremely senior detective's car. So far so good. My taxi driver saw them driving through Courtenay Place and he followed them to the Oriental Bay Plaza. People kept recognising Godfrey Fletcher and waving. Of course he didn't wave back," "Horrible little man. Kim Hill hates him." "Precisely. Nobody expected the arrogant little prick to wave so that was all right. At the hotel they parked in the delivery bay, manoeuvred themselves and the deceased out of the car into the service lift. The taxi driver heard the rest from the Security guard when he dropped another passenger later. It appears the very senior detective went ahead to make sure the sixteenth floor was clear. Then he summoned the service lift. Unfortunately he did not think to search the defunct author’s pockets for his room key. He used his grandson's Swiss army knife to jemmy the lock and open the door to Suite 1622. Our courageous detectives carried the late and unlamented Godfrey Fletcher along the hall into the open suite. They rushed across the carpet, through the sitting room and bedroom towards the en suite. They did not notice the step down from the bedroom so when they all burst into the bathroom, the cops tripped and the late Godfrey Fletcher sailed on across the marble tiles, coming to rest on the electronic bidet. His weight on the control panel set off a series of fountains, followed by blasts of warm air, accompanied by excerpts from Handel's water music. Or that's what the security guard told the taxi driver. Now, suite 1622 was actually occupied by Miss Michiko Tanyaki, the celebrated Japanese film star." ` "Waw!" said Pete. "Exactly! Michiko is not one of your traditional, submissive Japanese women. She was having a shower when three large men with a body burst in. Uttering her world famous battle cry she leaped to confront them. Hiyyahh! They, being naturally reluctant to stop and explain, bolted through the suite and down the corridor, rather in the style of of a Keystone Cops movie. Michiko would have caught them but she also tripped on the bathroom step. Undeterred, and forgetting she was naked, Michiko picked herself up and maintained pursuit. The cops were out of sight, pelting down the emergency stairs. Michiko turned to an arriving lift. Now this lift was carrying another guest to the sixteenth floor, Sheikh Mohammed el J'bra rules a tiny and extremely fundamental Islamic Republic in the Persian Gulf. Michiko was about to enter the lift when she encountered the sheikh's startled gaze. Remembering her state of undress, she sprinted back to suite 1622, only to find the door had locked itself. The sheikh, being a pious Muslim, averted his eyes. The lift attendant, being a man of resource and sagacity, whipped off his jacket and wrapped it around Michiko, at the same time pressing the alarm bell in the lift. A squad of hotel security guards surrounded the sixteenth floor. Now, Security guards are not noted for their powers of deduction and reasoning. When they found the lift attendant trying to soothe a naked Japanese film star in the vicinity of a bewildered Arab, they put two and two together to make fourteen and promptly arrested the sheikh. By this time Michiko's English had deserted her. Relying on that time honoured traveller's precept, "if you can't speak the language, shout!" she kept pointing to her door uttering urgent Japanese imprecations like, 'Bugger the Arab. What about the body on my bidet!' The noise disturbed guests on several floors." Pete Squelche suddenly realised that Neil Sedaka's song had finished some time since, the control desk was alight with flashing spots of green light. The red light on the emergency telephone was winking imperiously. Worse, the ON AIR sign glowed above the studio door and a newly arrived technician was trying frantically to attract his attention. “Bugger!” exclaimed Squelche and Gossip together. Later the two broadcasters shared a taxi away from their erstwhile employment. Their interview with the station manager had been acrimonious. Worse, although she forbade the pair to ever darken her airwaves again, her shoulders had been shaking and she had not been able to suppress a giggle. "No gratitude," said Squelche. "Typical," said Gossip. "She begged me to go in. Last time I help her out." He sneezed. "I heard Radio Jamaica is looking for broadcasters. We might get a job with them." The taxi driver had listened to the saga on his car radio. "You two missed the best part," he told his passengers. "The doorman at the hotel told me. Just as Michiko was screaming her loudest, the Sheikh was threatening a jihad on everyone he could think of, and the sixteenth floor was filling up with curious hotel guests who thought it was a piece of street theatre staged for their amusement, the door to 1622 opened and Godfrey Fletcher himself appeared, blinking like an owl because he'd lost his glasses. And his suit was all wet from the bidet. He ignored Michiko, the sheikh, the security guards and everybody else, and walked down the corridor into his own suite, 1624. Turns out that all the shaking and moving about dislodged whatever had caused him to stop breathing and he came to. End of story." Gossip and Squelche eyed the passing streetscape. "Typical," they said. Something on the Air W.D.Davies 5