From Red (Listener Message)

Breaker Whiskey

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[TRANSCRIPT]

Hello Whiskey. Oh that feels weird. Like sending a message to your best friend, but also to a celebrity that has no idea you exist. I must sound a little crazy. And maybe I am. You've probably a little crazy down here, too.

Anyway, I don't think I've actually gone crazy. Pretty sure I read somewhere that if you're still able to think about whether or not you are, then you aren't. I think therefore I am not crazy. I don't know. I don't think any of my transmissions are getting through anyway. Maybe they are. And you're just ignoring them. That hurts more, I think—knowing that someone else is out there and they don't want to talk to you. Or maybe they're getting trapped somewhere between here and the surface. I don't think it's because they sound crazy or anything. I listened back to them to be sure. That was weird, hearing my own voice. The sound was foreign. A stranger. I know your voice better than my own now. I can pick it out of thousands of radio signals. Couldn't even recognize my own played back to me.

But then it's not like I had much to say these past…seven years? I think it's been seven. Stopped counting the days a while ago. It just got depressing. All those plain white concrete walls covered in tally marks. But now my walls look beautiful. I've been transcribing everything you said. I have tapes of every broadcast, and I've written down every word, pasted them up on my walls. And I haven't used my paints in years even even before all of this. But they needed a little color.

I started by making my own notes in red. And then your locations in green for the landscape and Birdie’s messages in blue like a bluebird. And all the people you talked about—Don’s rust, Richie’s yellow, Pete’s green. Not like the landscape but like money—like the color that I remember money being at least.

And Harry was—well I had decided her color back when I thought she had hurt you. And she had, of course. But I mean, back when I thought she did it for the sake of it. So I gave her this yellow orange color. And knowing what I know now, I feel bad about that. I wish I'd given her a prettier one, but maybe she would like it. It's not terrible. Sort of a sunny orange like the color that I remember, the sun beating at least.

Anyway, every—every rainbow needs some sun, right. And their names…they make a rainbow. You love it? No, I like to. Seven years of white walls and now there's color. Seven years of silence and you bring back sound. Seven years of isolation and desolation and hopelessness. And you bring back me. You mentioned liking Rothko back on Transmission 179. I mean, I’m no Rothko, obviously, but I suppose he won't mind if I take a little inspiration from him. So Whiskey? You can call me Red.