Program Directors are in charge of the sound of the radio station.
If I were to program a station, it would be a disaster. It would be hours of cows giving birth, vulgarity, animal noises, helicopter sounds with antidotes from Dr. Denis Luong. The high-priced “weather broadcaster” with a doctorate in meteorology had a modest office where he conducted business. Dr. Luong was like an Asian Frasier Crane or a Dr. Feelgood for folks walking in off the street. Before taking on patients, Dr. Luong was a consultant working underground for Lionheart. The Russians kept on Denis and promoted him as chief meteorologist.
I remember walking into his office. “What should I do?”
“Go back and confront your demons,” said the tired doctor.
Lionheart and drumming only used to be dreams. I remember ruling Lionheart as acting president of the company, aggravated by bad decisions and poor ownership. I was fucking responsible for Tuesday. A day of the week missing on my watch. God, it hurt. I listened to cheesy love songs for weeks. It was my first heartache. It stung.
There was no more Heartbreak Radio after Tuesday’s passing. I heard he died after chugging a mystery liquid. It happened so suddenly. Every time I recalled Tuesday was gone, the air went into my lungs, and then went out in a wistful sigh of relief. I imagined Tuesday’s memorial service had come and gone. No real surprise that there were so few people at the funeral. On one afternoon I drove past the warehouses that stand atop the old Brewington Brewery site in Brewington, as I usually do. I dreamed that the park was a legendary concert venue. Life’s too short.