Level Zero by Dan McDowell (books that read to you TXT) 📕

Where are you, Wayne? What happened?

His on-air accomplice had not been back to work since he gave notice to WGBO, nor was he home or returning phone calls. He and the other WGBO staff spliced historical audio snippets from Wayne based on scripted episodes of the Dynamic Duds that Ron penned in the interim. Even with that, he was running out of energy to keep up. WGBO worked to keep the Wayne narrative out of the press. The extra work wore away at him as he neared the self-declared finish line.

Is it quitting time yet? Get me out. I shouldn’t even be here.

He cued the commercial break as the show concluded and walked out of the studio, not bothering to greet his relief or the receptionist. Moving onto the street, he crossed paths with an unrecognized homeless man a block past the station. It was Creeper Joe, though the two had never had a formal introduction.

Joe spoke to Ron as if he had a mouthful of spit, “Hey, you’re that radio guy, aren’t you? I’ve seen you before.”

“Nope, not me,” Ron lied. “I’m in commercial appraisals.”

That was a smooth lie. Where did that come from?

“I don’t know. I take you more as a… self-assured… Messiah type. You sure about that? You sound familiar.”

“I assure you. Can I show you my business card to prove a point?”

“No. Not necessary. I know better. I’m not going to make you deny it a third time. I’m sure a rooster would crow. Watch out. That lying tongue of yours will get you into a big heap of trouble around here. Heh-heh.”

Whatever you say. Just let me get on with my life, and I’ll let you get on with yours.

“Yeah, okay,” Ron said. “Have a good day.”

He continued his walk on Oak Hollow Lane toward the bus stop. An irrational fear of driving and a slew of back-dated alimony payments led him to public transportation. He sat down.

That guy can’t afford a bus. What do I have to worry about? He was just riffing. Yeah. That’s all.

He looked over his shoulder in paranoia.

Who’s watching me?

The bus stop bench annoyed him — its problematic and troubled surroundings only exasperated matters. The stop was just to the east of the Creepy Nights facility and the closest pickup spot from WGBO. Ron inventoried it many times in his waits.

The asymmetrical rows of gum stuck to the translucent plexiglass — random wads running across the top and bottom of the bench. The neighboring, rusting, hunter green garbage receptacle, covered in bird droppings — never lined with a sack — a sorry testament to the lazy workers. Cigarette butts jammed into the cracks of the concrete just below, lingering urine stains… What a mess!

The bus interrupted his thoughts as its air brakes pumped. Ron boarded, taking his usual seat on the fourth row from the rear, window seat, driver side.

What a relief to get away from that weirdo. I may have to rethink my way home. I can’t be too predictable anymore. Who knows what happened to Wayne?

A familiar, prominent, alto-saxophone sprinkled Bruce Springsteen song came through the bus speakers as he climbed on. His usual ride was about twenty-three minutes, with eight stops — just two miles to his residence, but the trek passed through a lot of high-risk and crime-ridden areas he was unwilling to chance his life on. He considered bicycling to drop the extra weight he carried from getting paid to sit on his ass and jabber away all day, but never followed through. There were far too many drunks and idle-bodied hobos to consider it.

The bus rides were a goldmine for inspiration and material on the show. When he and Wayne were dry on ideas, Ron took excerpts from observations of the ride and his best recollections of the chance conversations that happened on each trip. He would take notes in a small spiral-bound notebook chronicling each day, the passengers, and the mood or flavor of the surrounding conversations. His favorite trips were the quiet ones, though. Even Ramblin’ Ron could use a break from time to time.

Bus riders were, at times, a lively and exciting crowd — sometimes too wasted to drive themselves and too frugal to afford a taxi. Other times, it was a homeless panhandler who collected enough quarters to hitch a ride to the other side of town to siphon more. Looking for a passenger to write about, he judged a man across the aisle.

Yeah. You’re mismatched, aren’t you? Olive slacks and a houndstooth jacket. How long have you been divorced? If you still had a car, you’d probably sleep in the back seat.

He struggled to ignore the body odor of the man sitting to his right while continuing his brief analysis of the other.

I bet the poor bastard got those at a Good Will from some corporate fat-cat lawyer that outgrew his britches. Good for him.

The man in the seat next to Ron clicked the back of his teeth while shaking his dirty finger at him.

No way… how did he get on here without me noticing?

“Oh, Ron, you have so much to learn. You ever heard this one?

Judgy wudgy’s threads are bare.

Judgy wudgy isn’t fair.

Judgy wudgy soon is dead… Soon, you’re dead!

You are the picture of SIN, my friend.”

Joe bent over and yanked a Bible out of his beaten-up messenger bag as he tore out a page.

“Read it and apply it. You better become a Proverbs 6 man before it’s too late. It’s already cost your marriage and your friends, hasn’t it? Heh-heh.”

What an ass. This hobo thinks he can talk to me that way?

“I’m sorry,” Ron said. “What did you say? How is that any of your business?”

Joe’s voice elevated, getting faster by the second, “That’s where you are so wrong. You have a public life. You’re in media, genius! You’ve got people in every damn dimension of this town listening to you.”

“What do you mean, dimension? North side? South side? The places