Dedication

One morning, John awoke and began his day, just like any other. 

The routine was light breakfast, shower and shave. Neat and procedural to a tee, then off to work. 

He was feeling fuzzy on his drive, a slight buzzing in his ears. A faint hum of distortion reverberated through the car. 

John checked the radio, fidgeting with the levels, changing stations, and finally just turning off the stereo. 

Still the buzz persisted. Maybe it was the car, John told himself. 

Driving in silence, suddenly there was a pop and.. 

"Dear Casey, my name is John and I'd like to tell you about my morning.. I woke up at about 7, and took a long shower. During that shower, I thought about how my life seemed like it was more or less on repeat. This made me feel a bit blue. But I washed my hair and felt better. I then had a light omelette and toast before leaving for work; I'd like to dedicate "Something Happened on the Way to Heaven" by Phil Collins, to myself. Sincerely, John Baulm."

And then the song played. 

The song faded out; John was stunned. He almost swerved into a parked car when the voice had appeared, clear as a bell with that smooth, cheerful Casey Kasem delivery.  

He was also not a fan of that song, which had played with the bass way too high, causing a clicking when it went too high like a bad boombox bouncing away on a sidewalk somewhere. 

He pulled over and looked around. Maybe he was somehow being pranked, he thought. 

Silence persisted, the fuzz buzz was gone. 

He shrugged,  pulled back into traffic and continued on his way to work. 

Arriving at work late, he plowed through the morning, filing and emailing til' half past noon. 

Then, out of nowhere, that cheap velvet voice:

"..Coming up, a group that started in high school in Detroit with only $5 in their pocket. But now it's time for this week's "Long Distance Dedication". This one's a heartbreaker and it reads: Dear Casey, my name is John and I work at Glabucorp International in the industrial plaza out near I-5. I'd like to tell you about my morning here, working and droning on, filing TPS reports incorrectly, talking shit about the same thing every day, sports, dirty jokes and the like. I occasionally answer a phone or two. It is a satisfying existence, but I feel as though I should be doing so much more with my rather short time on this Earth..I'd like to dedicate "All I Want is You" by Roxy Music, to myself.." 

As the song played, John thought, OK, what the hell, I've never even heard this song before. 

And what was up with that critical dismissal of the job? John enjoyed his job, more or less, but those words hit home when Casey purred them into his eardrums. 

As the song finished, it began to skip a bit, as if the record were scratched near the end of the track. 

Another loud pop, this one much more intense, came ripping through John's audio cortex and he closed his eyes in pain. 

What is happening, why is Casey Kasem reading 80's music self-dedication letters in my brain, John thought. 

The buzz faded in and out, pulsing with his heart beat now. Sweat began to form on his brow. 

As he walked to the bathroom, the crack of the needle against the wax and the voice came back once more. 

"..and the bears happily ripped him limb from limb. Now, it's "Long Distance Dedication" time again, and this week we have a letter from John: Dear Casey, John writes, my name is John. I had a terrible day at work, my boss yelled at me for blowing a deal, I lost my lucky pen and none of my coworkers respect me. Also, on my way home from work, my car was hit by a semi-truck and I died twenty minutes later, mumbling in a pool of my own fluids. This was very disappointing, but I'd like to dedicate "A Forest" by The Cure, to myself"

Gasping, John placed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the song, but it played and skipped all the way, full blast, bass clipping, through to nothing. 

Back at his desk, John was a mess. Profusely sweating, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Casey had put so much emphasis and awful, morbid detail into the description of his impending doom. The tone of his voice had remained placid and calm as he had elaborated on John's death. 

The rest of John's day did not go well; his mind raced as he did blow the deal with their customer, pricing a few hundred units too high, and his boss did yell at him fiercely for that, saying there weren't many straws remaining for old John. 

His lucky pen vanished into the ether, and his team coordinator, who was 10 years younger than him, made a rather mean joke about his tie resembling a Bill Cosby sweater in front of half the office.  

He said nothing, brain broken and stunned, he shuffled off to his desk after the meeting and wondered what he was supposed to do. 

All his work lay sprawled across his desk, piles of paper, catalogs, magazines, pens and rulers. Placing his hands on the mess,  he pondered if it were to be the last time he saw it all. 

There was the random click and pop of the vinyl, but the DJ voice did not return as five o'clock approached. 

Quitting time, Johnny, said Bill, his buddy of a coworker, or as Bill called their lot, "co-slave". 

Hey, can I catch a ride with you to the station, man? My car is toast, wouldn't start at lunch, gotta get a tow tomorrow, said John. 

No can do, kemosabe, said Bill, wife picking me up in the red snake, no room. 

Oh, right, thought John, Bill won a lease on a Viper last year playing online poker. Why was he friend's with Bill again? 

By that time, the office was emptying out fast. It was a gorgeous day out and the slaves had bars to hit, stops to pit and habits to quit. 

This is silly, John thought, I'm just having a bad day, the voice isn't real, it's not true. How could it be? And The Cure? Gimme a break. 

John powered down his computer and wandered outside.

A massive cloud began to darken the sky as John crossed the parking lot. Small raindrops started to fall. 

Hey, so it rains, this day gets better and better, John thought, as the now heavy rain commenced to soak his shirt. 

In his car, wet and still sweaty, John gripped the steering wheel hard and flexed. 

He laughed a bit, smiling through the foggy windows of the compact vehicle. 

Still grinning, he started the car and drove out of the lot.