One night in 1979 a couple of 14-year-olds were fishing for suckers in the CB radio waves and hooked a truck driver who didn’t have the brains to shut off or dial away. They called him names like “Jughole” and “Dogpiss” and asked disrespectful questions about “cousins’ clubs,” right up to the moment they heard a loud rumble through the bungalow walls, looked out the bedroom window, and saw an 18-wheeler stopped on the narrow suburban street, idling with its lights on. They shut off and ducked under a desk.
The TV shows two women rubbing some kind of oil on each other, and the Pink Torpedo’s flipping around the radio dial through all the channels, 1 to 40, when the sound of a woman’s voice stops him at channel 14. A male voice answers her. Nighthawk recognizes Sinbad, a guy they’ve fought over the air several times, usually with threats, never carried out, to meet up in the flesh. Pink Torpedo breaks in: “Who do you hear? Who do you hear now?”
The woman says something that’s garbled in transmission, but Sinbad is mad. “I get you, you fuckin’ bum.” There’s silence for a few seconds.
Nighthawk doesn’t need a license, didn’t have to join a service, and pays nothing but an electric bill to talk on the CB. Those talking from their cars pay even less. It’s local broadcasting, or it’s supposed to be, and the FCC stopped issuing broadcast licenses for CB in 1983. Ham radio operators, shortwave broadcasters, and practically anyone else on the radio has to get a license to talk, but CB is mostly unregulated. For some, the almost free speech on CB is a chance to make friendly conversation. Others like to play talk show host.
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He taunts on another channel, “Hey Skinbad, I know you’re out there,” but all he gets in return is someone saying over and over, as if afflicted with a self-indulgent form of echolalia, “You do what you got to do, what you got to do, what you got to do.” Pink Torpedo flips the channel and whistles the theme from Flipper.
Among the regulars, there’s a bunch of old guys like Papa Bear and Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown’s son, Rebel, has followed his dad to the air. Some of the younger guys are Oil Minister, Snapper, and Power Slave. They all get together off the air at times, and tonight is one of those times for Rebel, who walks in carrying a can of Diet Pepsi. “Hey,” he says, checking out the TV. “Playboy Channel, alright.” There are no women on the CB, but there are two on the television rubbing oil on each other’s nipples. “Nice.”
