“Area is under constant surveillance do not advance past this point.” Ten or fifteen minutes later I came to an old sign which I could not read, for it was in english. I wandered around in the brown-green color so commonly associated with the forest enjoying the serenity of birds chirping and toads croaking for a little while playing a game of hot and cold with the radio, I could never see more than twenty or-so feet in front of me due to the sheer amount of trees, but they were thin, and it was fall, so there were very few leaves to cast shadows in front of me. Immediately, I jumped out of the old and rusty car, grabbed the radio, and trotted into the forest. I was so desperate for the noise (I still cannot figure out why on earth I was so desperate to find it) that every single time the static popped or changed pitch, I slammed on the brakes to a near-full stop.Īfter about half an hour of the same routine, I found it, and boy, was I happy.
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Soon, I found myself with my pedal to the metal cruising along in the cold daylight on the winding road through the green and brown blur that was the forest at completely illegal speeds with the static filled radio at full blast.
“If I can’t get it here, I might as well go back to where I heard it,” I thought, so I put on my shoes and headed out the front door. Much to my dismay, I only heard the once soothing, but now frustrating static. I flipped through the channels for a few minutes until I found the dancing music which reminded me of the weird noise I heard. I decided eventually to turn on the source of my bad luck, and that being the radio. The fish was all over the place and what was salvageable was either too small or covered in blood so I threw away what I could and continued with breakfast, grumbling at my bad luck. Blood was pouring out of it and dribbling down my chin so I quickly grabbed some gauze and taped it to my nose. When I turned to the radio to turn it on, (I plug it into the car to charge the battery and remove it when I leave my car) I remembered the previous night’s events, dropped the fish, stepped, and slipped on it, breaking my nose on the floor. I made toast, eggs, and had opened the smoked salmon, that I had caught the previous weekend, from it’s tin case.
The next day I woke up with nothing of the previous night's radio noise in my memory. I wasn’t a Christian, (much to my parents’ annoyance) so I changed the station thinking of no demonic meanings, and finishing the drive with some Russian dancing music. What made it even more peculiar was that out of the some-hundred-or-so trips I had made with that radio station on, along the same route, that it happened to be that night that the radio made the noise. I found it somewhat odd that out of all the stations on the radio, this garbled mess came out of the one, static filled station that I chose for the peaceful white noise it gave. Only ten years later, after I moved to America and learned English, did I understand what that meant.
At the time it meant nothing to me, being the twenty-three year old Russian secretary that I was. That was what I heard through my stolen AM radio on my drive home from Kuvandyk.
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