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Balanced on a point, the three-sided metal frame latticework
of tubular steel triangles rises almost 500 feet into the prairie sky, red,
then white, then red again in fifty-foot intervals, three sets of six thick
steel guy wires pulling against each other, circling the tower in one hundred-twenty
degree arcs, taut strings of an electronic instrument humming in the wind,
climbing to the top in fifty foot increments, flaring up in groups of three
from anchor points fifty and one hundred feet out from the base. Paired
red lights half and three-quarters of the way up, with one
on top fading in and out in four-second cycles, and in and out again. A
delicate balance prevailing over gravity and weather through a precise blend
of physics and geometry in a harmony of ephemeral beauty, like some perfect
tripartite mirrored skeleton. The unseen waves radiate outward for miles,
sometimes bouncing off the atmosphere hundreds of miles farther.
Driving through the dark in the southwestern reaches of the San Luis Valley,
the tape runs out and I switch over to the radio. Nothing on the FM band
so I try the AM band. Amplitude modulated, crackling with static, farm
reports and high school scores.
Dark in the control room with red lights, dials and guages beaming up
from the control panel, five miles out of town beneath the antenna higher
than any structure for miles and miles around. The disc jockey pops in
a tape cartridge for the next commercial -- car dealer, feed store, main
street restaurant -- starts the next record, talking over the first notes, the introductory music that begins the song, filling in with his voice, his
radio personality, head tilted, talking to the air, animated, seeing his listeners in his mind,
headphones feeding his own voice to ensure that perfect pitch, tone, timbre
and resonance delivered with practiced pacing, ending precisely as the singer enters. Then he switches off the mic which kills the red
light over the control room door. Out of the control room. He records
the numbers off the broadcast unit ensuring for the Federal Communications
Commission that it is broadcasting within its assigned frequency and strength,
listening for the song he knows by heart to begin to wind down requiring
him to run back into the control room, cue up the next record, play a commercial
or public service announcement, read a promo. Then out to the front office
for stale coffee, bathroom break and a call home. Three-minute sprints.
Check the news wire teletype. Only a steady low ringing, no
urgent clanging that might require him to interrupt the regularly scheduled
programming. Sports scores, more on earlier world news, repetition
of US and Colorado news, nothing to satisfy anything more than his own
idle curiosity, filling the space until he must do more, change
the record, play a commercial. The continued quiet from the news wire
means there is no need for him to perform this night in the public trust; no
floods raging down the valley, thunderstorms long faded for
the night, no tornadoes or national emergencies, as the song winds down.
Top of the hour, announce the time, the station's call letters and frequency,
and switch over to the news wire service, striving for a seamless segue
that will perpetuate the illusion that the national news anchor
is in the same room, in this, the theater of the mind. Four minutes after the hour run a commercial and
a promo for the station. Read the local news written at noon by the sales
manager/news director, maybe add a clever quip, then back to the musical
format that assures the community with a lulling predictability.
As the tower recedes behind me the signal fades, pulsing static grows,
underlain with layers of almost heard dialog and music, as other frequencies
bleed over the signal. I scan the dial for the next strongest signal.
Dialing it in, another disc jockey back announces the last song and reads local sports scores in the dark
of the control room. Two more hours on this shift and he can shut down
the massive electronic equipment, lock the door to the small cinderblock
building, head back to town and drive to his home past darkened houses
on the now even more quiet streets.
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