At The Drop of a Dime

"There's this idea that I'm the bad guy. That I did someone wrong, and that everything has to be personal"

[3 A.M. Monday, November 4th in a Sheetz parking lot 4 klicks out from the Crown Coliseum]

"In truth, nothing's personal. Nothing's wrong either. Morality is a novel concept created by those among us who fear living in a house after someone has passed within it's walls. It's for the weak willed who feel the eyes of god upon them as a collection plate passes. They blush in shame as they sit in judgment, but would they do the same if a man approached them on the street and asked for some change? No. They'd brush them off and say they don't carry cash, or worse; not acknowledge their presence as that of another human So this must mean compassion is subjective, but if that's true then why bother adhering to it at all?"

The masked man's voice echoes through the radio as he speaks through the receiver of a burner cell phone resting between his shoulder and cheek. He sits behind the wheel of his black '57 Chevy Bel Air, his knuckles turning white beneath his glove from squeezing the wheel in front of him in keyed up frustration.

Radio DJ: I hear what you're saying, but don't you believe there are people in your life that are owed loyalty?

"In truth? the only heavy burden of loyalty I feel is coming from my back pocket. If you pay me handsomely for my services to be carried out punctually or in a specific way, then you've earned my esteem for the afternoon. If someone pays me more the following night to do a job for them, then I'm there even if it contradicts or conflicts with a previous contract. These guys out here don't value the loyalty of a professional. To them I'm an expendable asset, so I treat them the same way in turn."

Radio DJ: You're telling me that you've never caught feelings for a client? I don't mean you had to be gaga in love, but maybe you just caught yourself catching a ball game or sharing a beer on a Sunday night?

"Let me ask you something; When's the last time you asked your plumber over for some Sunday Night Football to sit on your furniture, pet your beloved pets, hold your kids, or eat off of the same party platter as you? I mean, never mind the ammonia smell or fecal matter that has to be permanently emitting from their pores, you know those jokers are probably double dippers. It almost comes with the job description, and if you choose to hang with someone who does your dirty work for you, you're going to inevitably eat shit."

Radio DJ: Woah there! Hit the dump button on this wild card. I get what you're saying though, let's just keep the colorful dialogue to a minimum.

"I mean, why? is it because you know a guy at the FCC? No. You toe that line of racy dialogue because you're on terrestrial radio. If you don't, you could get fined, pulled from the air, or completely blackballed from the industry. Deep down you know the only thing that matters is money. You're not concerned with your creative licensing, your freedom of speech, some angry soccer mom worried that her daughter's virgin ears heard a swear. You're no different than I am. The only difference is that someone can hold you accountable for your actions and you can't walk away from it because everybody knows your name. Even now if I started going through Carlin's seven, there'd be no way for you to hunt me down and slap a ticket down on my radio dial. You're a slave to this grind called responsibility and accountability. Meanwhile, I can walk out on the job tomorrow and work for whoever suits my methods."

Radio DJ: Okay, edge lord. We're all in awe of your constitutional freedoms. You're out there living the American dream as the anonymous backbone of Western society, but it comes at that price you mentioned in passing. Don't think I missed all of that fecal matter talk.

"Are my hands dirty? yeah, but as long as I don't have to bend to the societal constraints of the world around me it doesn't matter. I'm sure you're like any guy or gal out there who gets weekends free. I bet you get home Friday afternoon, slap on a pair of sweatpants, and hole up in your man cave for a weekend where you don't shave, bathe, or even change your socks until Monday."

Radio DJ: Yeah and my wife spends the whole week trying to de-funk the game room.

"Isn't it liberating? doesn't it make you feel at one with the real world beneath the cheap suits and pop-up neighborhoods? For three days you don't care about what the society thinks of you. You start to understand the big picture once you step away from it. We call people friends for the same reason predators run in packs. Just like a pack, we act like our loyalty lies within a community until someone steps out of line and challenges for the top, or falls behind and dies out in the cold alone and insignificant. The alphas among us have made us believe in a codependent hive mind that serves the one on top until we're no longer of use to them. Imagine living with your eyes open to the fact that you could be traded to another radio market with the snap of a purse rivet, or that your entire livelihood could go to shambles because of decisions about your fate that were made behind your back and above your pay grade by people who probably haven't even stepped foot into your radio station? Now imagine knowing all of that was going on and finding out that the godfather of your children was the reason your world fell apart. Why? What for? the placement of a comma on the bottom line? I say why waste your time trying to get people to remember your name when all they associate your existence with is a minuscule punctuation? why not embrace that identity and decide between which numbers your name lands?"

Radio DJ: You're sounding less like an independent contractor and more like a mercenary by the minute.

"I fail to see the difference."

Radio DJ: Cute. Well thank you for that call..I...think? We're going to take a break while I try and get in contact with the owner of this fine station in regards to arrangements for my children in the event of my untimely passing. Stick around.

The Professional turns off the radio. As he starts the ignition with one hand, he begins manually rolling down his window with the other. Once the car turns over he pops open the ashtray, pops the car lighter in, and slips the SIM card out of the burner. He squeezes the cell phone tight in one hand until the screen finally caves and the phone's brittle plastic body snaps and contorts. Just as the lighter pops out, The Professional nonchalantly tosses the cell phone's remains out the window and tosses the SIM into the ashtray next to a bunch of other charred and melted SIM cards. After welding the plastic memory card to it's fallen brethren, the Pro pulls a u-ey, cuts a jump over the curb, and peels out his white walls before disappearing into the night.