The Angry Radio

I never fully understood how something like radio worked, but I always thought of it as an outpost of sorts, transmitting sound as directed from a greater source, not associated with any particular voice. With much skepticism, however, I've learned that one, known as the "Angry Radio", is genuinely distinct from all other radios- surely an anomaly of the production-line.

It began on the evening I purchased the thing, a few months back. I thought (as it later proved against my better judgement) it would be nice for my family to sit together and listen to the nighttime music programs. To our astonishment, what came out of the radio when I turned the knob was not music or someone else's voice altogether, but its own! Imagine how we all felt watching this box, disconnected from all other radios as well as the concept of radio, speak to us- a box engineering its own sound and thoughts right here in our living room! Fixated, all we could do was listen, but as it turned out, all it needed was a listener. It broadcasted its sentiments, and if I say so, it seemed awfully emotional for a radio.

Feeling the absurdity of the situation bear down, I removed the radio's plug from the wall (something it did not need anyways), and escorted it out of the room where the two of us had one of the strangest conversations of my life. It told me that every night from now onward our family would hold the responsibility of listening to it vent the contents of its mind, which have so long been troubling it, and in exchange for that attention, it promised to tell the most magnificent of story's. It said, "why have to listen to the same crap everyone else has to listen to when I can accommodate your personal entertainment needs?" This seemed like a fair compromise. It did however threaten that failing to help it may result in a series of misfortunes.

I figured it would be kind to agree and listen to the radio as its vehemence in having a listener was quite moving. We did this for a month straight every night, all of us gathering around it, intently trying to figure out how this was possible. Most nights it was very pleasant; fanciful stories were told of its inception and upbringing (which I refuse to reveal as a promise made to myself, regarding safety) that I'd never imagine would be events a radio could participate in, let alone communicate with such subjectivity. It did express gratitude towards us for having it, as many of his previous owners did not show the same care.

One night, curiousity brimming the cusp of irrationality, the children chose to investigate the radio, dissecting its inner-workings, looking for a mouth or brain or anything somewhat human. When I saw the wires and wooden bits strewn over the floor as if someone had taken a hammer to it, I panicked, fearing the misfortunes it had alluded to (I had speculated the reasons why previous owners had abandoned it). Luckily I was able to put it back to its original state, but it immediately bursted with an alarming cry, quite opposite to its usually tender voice, and ranted on the great discomfort it had just been put through, as if having been reminded of some childhood horror.

After that incident its mood seemed to be in constant flux; we not longer gathered around formally to listen to it, but just heard it murmuring to itself as we passed by in the hall, or occasionally sat down to chat, which I think it appreciated. At nights I was often awoken by its chilling moans for salvation. Feeling the radio had run its course with our family, the children not longer intrigued by the novelty of it (and often frightened by its tone), I tried, with much difficulty, to get it to consider being returned to the store. It would not comply. Arguing with it for over a week, I found myself going to bed each night trying to formulate the best argument for the next day, while (I presume) it stayed up all night. I expressed that this house was no longer an appropriate means of consolation for its hardships (which at times seemed inexhaustible); he pleaded that he would only become more miserable if forced to leave and begin "the process" all over again. It then went into a torpor of silence - an unsettling characteristic to observe of a radio.

The above picture of me holding the seemingly ordinary device, was taken by my wife just before our eventually agreed upon resolution. To my knowledge it remains to this day at the bottom of the ocean, and sailors have often remarked at hearing crackling voices as they pull into the shore.