The Shinto Spirit of the Hotel Radio

It was November 1963. I had just slid into Hartford like a black schooner in the middle of the night, smooth and without the slightest hint to anyone. I didn't know anybody in Hartford, not a single soul in all of Connecticut and only some occasional uncle in Boston. Which is to say, an uncle I met and re-met on the odd occasion from childhood on, not a man who was occasionally my uncle. All of New England was a hotel room or a diner or a taxi cab for all I'd seen. Tall buildings are just that, big tall things along the sidewalk. I don't give two licks about them, never really did, but they sure are nice to look at. It was cold that night, the night I slid in like a schooner. Cold, but better by a half than Canada.

My hotel room was a passable one. I'd certainly slept in worse, but it weren't the Ritz, either. Not that I'd ever been to the Ritz. No room service in this one, but the bed was respectable and the water ran hot when I told it to. Can't ask for more under the circumstances. The most curious amenity in the place was the radio. Not a lot of lodges bothered with them. The nicer ones had started rolling television sets into the rooms, a trend I still don't understand. But radios? They pretty much skipped over that one. Except in this place, apparently. It was an old variety. Nothing antique, but you'd never find one outside a resale shop, either.

I flipped the thing on, not that I ever listened to the radio much on my own but hotels make strangers of all of us, even to ourselves. The dial started on static and stayed there for most of the left half of the spectrum, then it landed on a jazz station that suited me just fine, so I let it rest there. I guess I left it on when I popped out for a bite to eat and when I came back I remember hearing it through the door as I turned my room key. I thought it was just the DJ talking in between sets, but when I walked in the voice stopped mid-sentence, like I had interrupted it.

The radio was silent for a while, just a little feedback noise in the background. I guess I got lost in my papers for a bit and didn't notice that it hadn't come back on. I made a pot of complementary coffee and set a cup of it next to the radio when the phone rang. It was a wrong number, a guy asking for someone named Schultz. When I hung up I realized the music had started up again. When I grabbed the cup of coffee, the music stopped.

Now, I'm not a superstitious guy, all things considered. The way I see it, if something weird pops up without you looking for it, giving it some thought isn't superstition. I put the cup back and sure as anything the radio fired back up. I sat on the bed across from it and listened to the song, feeling strange but not exactly scared. Then the song ended and the voice came back, the same one I'd heard through the door.

"That was Cal Kingston and the Silver Trio playing 'Walking Shoes', live at the Goose Lounge in 1945," the voice said, "I've been saving it for someone who'd appreciate it."

I said, "Thank you" and wasn't as surprised as I should've been when the voice said, "You're welcome." I sat there talking with the voice about the coffee, how it really wasn't very good but that's all you can expect from a place like this. I told it about being a communications consultant and it described what it was like inhabiting an oak tree in northern Michigan. Apparently radio waves tickle if they hit your holiness just right. When the coffee on the table got cold I offered to replace it with a warm cup, but the voice told me it wasn't necessary.

Just before the sun came up, a caterpillar inched its way across the table and climbed up the cup, dipping into the cold coffee every so often. It started to snow outside and I decided to change my socks, though I don't know why. A low hum emanated from the radio for I don't know how long, then my wake up call came in. Having never actually unpacked, I picked up my suitcase and grabbed the train to Philadelphia.