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Seattle is fine. Sure it rains nine months of the year and the only things grayer than the sky are the buildings and the ocean. Not that you can see it, waterway built up like it is. In fact, the only colour Wei Ying sees regularly is the black of people’s umbrellas, always considerately either at eyeball-poking or neck-stabbing height. But that’s fine, that’s ok, he came here to get away from -- from the colour and brightness of Sacramento. Yeah. So this is what he wants, something dampened and generally moist.
It’s fine.
It continues to be fine all of the time except for late at night.
The quiet at night is somehow different than the quiet of the day, too much. He reasons that it doesn't make sense -- he used to live alone before he came here. But there’s alone and alone. Back in California, alone before meant a tiny sweltering apartment book-ended by other sweltering apartments, each with their own aunties in them shouting at each other over the drying clothes out their window, like Wei Ying’s apartment was simply a small gap that required extra volume to cross. If it wasn’t them it was uncles smoking out back or children shrieking as they ran up and down the stairs. It added up to a symphony and it felt like home. And if he couldn’t take that, he could always go back to Uncle Jiang’s place and it was a different type of loud there. Except now he couldn’t. Could never go back ever again.
So the quiet gets to him here. I’s normal, though, he thinks, to hear every creak and hiss of the pipes and shoot wide awake and stare at the popcorn ceiling. It’s a new-ish place, barely ten years old, should it be making those noises? He’s right to be concerned.
He lives in the modern world though, he doesn’t have to sit in silence and try to find inner calm, he can shoot some noise straight into his veins. If he’s flush on his paycheque, he can even put some towards his phone bill and dial into the internet for a bit. Whenever the modem shrieks its connection song he can’t stop himself from muttering, “I’m in.”
But right now he doesn’t have the money so instead he pulls out the antenna on his radio as long as it will go and flips through stations until he finds something to lull himself.
The first time he finds the Mando station is an accident. He almost loses it, jerking his thumb on the dial he was slowly spinning to find viable frequencies. It takes some wiggling and some horrendous static but he gets back there, a clear AM signal coming through and some Lena Lim gently crooning while flutes warble in the background. It feels strange, almost, after months of only English, almost like he’s getting away with something. He stands there for a moment, thumb poised to scroll past, but the voice of the DJ comes on to introduce the song and Wei Ying is transfixed.
Radio was invented for this man, he thinks. He’s got a deep voice, but clear and soft at the edges. He doesn’t speak like he’s from anywhere in particular. It’s not quite the imperial accent; it’s not any regional variation Wei Ying is familiar with -- and he’s heard a few -- it’s just. Timeless, and placeless. He talks like Wei Ying feels, except through his voice it’s transformed from something slightly pathetic, like shrivelled green onions, into the luckiest bok choy. Get the water out of your brain, Wei Ying thinks, poking himself in the forehead with his index finger. He notices that means he’s lifted it away from the channel wheel. Well alright then. Guess he’s listening to the radio.
It becomes his thing. He puts the radio on when he’s at home, coding away, or if he’s in the backroom at work, tipping everyone out or inventorying the coffee beans.
He also notices a few things, is bound to, with the amount of time he’s putting in. The first, and most obvious one, is that the main host, he of the golden voice, is also a man of few words. It is infuriating. Doesn’t he realise what people are listening in for? He barely introduces the songs at the top of the half hour, otherwise letting them fade in and out of each other. Wei Ying hoards the moments when the sexy man talks like shiny pebbles.
Wei Ying’s favourite part of the day is the radio call-in program that runs in the middle of the afternoon. Most radio call-in programs are about a caller talking to the host, either to get insulted or get some advice, or both, but this one isn’t like that at all. It seems to function as some sort of slightly out-of-sync group conversation. At first he thought chat hour would be a good chance to get more of the sexy man, but he doesn’t ever say anything, just patches the callers through.
Callers call-in with barely a hello and launch into an update of what their grandchild’s math test score was and close it out with a reminder to return their big bowl, the nice one, next time they meet up. Then the next person calls in, acknowledges the excellent grade of the previous grandchild, but was the previous caller aware that their grandson had blocked two “shots on target” (this said in English) at their game last weekend? And of course they would bring the big bowl, they had a note on the fridge about it, they wrote one after the reminder yesterday. He assumes this is their stop-gap way to chat in-between circuits of the mall.
The conversation continues in that vein. Wei Ying has to admit -- and he’s not proud -- that he’s taped a few of these with his shitty white tape deck so he can play them back when he’s in bed, ambient sound that soothes him to sleep.
The radio becomes the background noise to his life and his life begins to contour itself around it in return. Every day at 3:00 p.m., like clockwork, the station plays “The Moon Represents My Heart.” It’s Wei Ying’s cue to take a coffee break, do some carpal tunnel stretches.
Perhaps this is why radio man doesn’t talk. He doesn’t have to introduce much at all, because Wei Ying can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard the station play anything recorded after 1979. It’s nostalgic, for sure, and the marimba is a very soothing instrument, he will admit. Listening to it makes Wei Ying feel like he should be sashaying through a red-lit bar hazy with cigarette smoke. He thinks about it in the shower, washing coffee grounds out of his hair after a long day. Perhaps in a beehive wig and eyeliner. It’s a drag persona, at the very least. He bets Seattle doesn’t even have a drag scene. Every city has one, he knows, but Seattle feels like it barely qualifies.
“Seattle is a city,” Paco says, rolling his eyes. He’s working the closing shift with Wei Ying. It’s only their second time doing it, but that’s apparently enough time to be pretty over Wei Ying’s bullshit. Which -- fair enough.
He lets the rest of his monologue continue inside of his mind.This his lack of musical variety is why the nameless DJ barely speaks, he convinces himself. He has been worn down into despondency by the lack of musical variety over the years.
Well, this Wei Ying can do something about that. He carefully listens the next time the sexy radio music man reads out the toll free number for requests. Wei Ying scribbles it down on his hand. He keeps his palm very flat to avoid smudges while he walks over to his notepad to jot it down.
He calls in immediately. One of the other things he’s deduced is that there’s no way the radio sex god is sitting at his turntables all day -- Wei Ying isn’t sure how it works but this is what he imagines radio stations looks like, turntables and records piled to the ceiling and a big light that says ON AIR on it. No, the Music Bringing Lord must set things up and let them play out. Otherwise the hours are inhumane, and it explains why there’s no back and forth with the song requestees. Up til Wei Ying’s call-in, most of the requests he’s heard have been for some variant of ‘our song’ on someone’s anniversary.
Not today.
Wei Ying has considered his options carefully. He doesn’t want to melt anyone’s face off so he starts with a gentle crowd pleaser and requests “Vulnerable Woman,” by Faye Wong, the 1994 version. He keeps his call-in succinct and to the point, which he hopes the music man appreciates. Dutifully, the music bearing lord reads out the song title, notes that it is a request from Wei Ying -- Wei Ying absolutely does not clutch his heart when he hears his name spoken aloud in those deep tones -- and cues up the track. Wei Ying hums along, going so far as to do a little air guitar when it hits the good lick in the middle of the track.
He pats himself on the back, his good deed done for the day.
Or so he thinks.
The mood in Elder Gossip Call-in hour is feverish. Had any of them heard this song? Is it new? What about this Wei Ying? Whose child is he?
This is the point where Wei Ying has to flick off the radio, heart pounding. When he moved here he set up his whole life to keep himself separate. This isn’t lying low. This isn’t what his plan was. Of course his call-in was noticed. He wanted it to be -- just not by them. He wanted Radio Bearing Man to notice him. If he isn’t careful someone will figure out whose son he is, will connect him back. And he promised he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Calling in was an impulse, and like all of his impulses, bad.
He scrubs the espresso tray extra hard that shift.
But then he goes home, and it’s night, and he can’t sleep. There’s something about Seattle that brings out the sleeplessness in him. So he turns the radio back on.
***
This is fine. He just has to not slip up again. But it’s hard. He wants to hear the sexy voice say his name again. So he calls back in with more Faye Wong.
The voice reads out his request and then says, voice like water on wood, “for our Faye Wong fan.” Wei Ying has to clutch his chest. That’s so many more words than anyone else gets. Wei Ying is special.
He goes about the rest of his day and then is shocked to realise that the Faye Wong has apparently entered the rotation. And not just the one he requested. There’s an array now. He almost spits out his water when "Cold War" comes on. The Tori Amos cover has to be a message to Wei Ying, has to be.
So he calls in with a few more requests. Some Jacky Cheung, some Sky Wu. Alright, fine, Wei Ying calls in every day for three weeks. And every day his radio king says his name “Wei Ying.” It’s a lot. He might get a little bit less succinct and a little bit more editorialising with every call-in. He just thinks it’s a shame that everyone is being denied the variety of music that has come out in the last twenty years!
And every day, his song gets played. Now, Wei Ying has an inquisitive mind with a scientific bent. He starts to wonder: is it normal for every one of his requests to get played? Is it that every request gets played?
He breaks down his assumptions.
Question one: is Wei Ying special? He calls in and puts on a voice. It is very high and squeaky and there will be no way for the radio man to tell it’s him. He sticks with a song that he got played before so he won’t muddy the water.
The song gets played. He is not disappointed. Not at all. Actually, it’s good that radio man treats everyone the same. It says good things about his DJ ethics. To every listener their song. Yeah. That’s...righteous. Wei Ying can appreciate a man with principles.
So Wei Ying escalates. No one -- grump Lan Qiren excluded -- can resist Faye Wong. But what about other… less soft songs.
“I regret to inform one of our callers that this station does have broadcast standards and that his request for --” a minute pause. “-- "Garbage Dump" does not meet them.” Wei Ying laughs so hard he almost aspirates his jello. He has never heard the sexy man say so many words in a row.
He’s still laughing when he picks up the phone. How does this song not meet the standards? It’s in Mandarin, it hardly has any harsh language. Just because it is a scathing punk critique? That’s unfair. We’re all modern 90s men, he says, we’re supposed to be in touch with our emotions. And our emotions, in the case of this song, are rage. It would be good, healthy even, for the station to encourage that sort of, Wei Ying searches for the phrase, emotional expression. Yeah. He’s pretty sure he’s overheard that from the self-help bookclub who meet at the coffee shop sometimes.
And then he tacks on a request for a Kit Chan song that had come out less than a year ago. Getting really fresh with his requests. Well, he has to, months in and he’s run out of gentle pop from three or more years ago.
***
“In response to feedback from a listener, I acknowledge that our station’s standards are opaque, but it should be possible for any reasonable adult to ascertain the boundaries of proper radio etiquette.”
Wei Ying wants to believe that the radio man is entertained, that there is a laugh beneath those dry tones. But even if he isn’t, Wei Ying feels extremely rewarded by the number of words he’s getting out of him. And he got a song.
He requests some heavy metal. Tang Dynasty isn’t his favourite, but he thinks it will be fun.
He sits next to his radio all day, waiting for his song. When at first it doesn’t come up, he reasons that there’s a lot of day still to go. When it hasn’t appeared by Gossip Hour, he’s deflated. He doesn’t like the idea of sexy radio man ignoring him. He begins to compose an angry call-in: dear sir, simply because you are the Song-Bearing Lord does not give you the right to ignore your devoted listeners who call in with the hope of hearing their favourite songs on the radio. In fact, one might consider this a dereliction of duty and --
At the end of the hour there is a moment of radio silence, very unusual, and then the voice says, “Unfortunately, we were not able to fulfill a music request today due to not having access to the song.” Wei Ying deflates. That one isn’t even niche. “However, we do accept tapes and records at our P.O. box --” Wei Ying lunges for a pen.
Then he goes into his dresser drawer and pulls out his boxes of tapes.
***
He includes a note with his shipment:
- Hopefully some of these will be acceptable.
He puts a little xoxo at the end because he’s never known when to quit.
It takes a few days for the tapes to arrive. In the meantime, Wei Ying is shocked to hear some of his requests have entered the rotation. It feels like the radio man is waiting for him, somehow. He rubs his hand over his eyes. He needs to sleep more, he’s starting to see things. Things like some sort of bond between him and the sex god. Which can’t be right.
Wei Ying knows when his tapes arrive because the radio man says. “It seems that our broadcasting standards are not clear to all of our listeners.” That’s me! Wei Ying thinks. He’s talking about me! “If any of our listeners have further questions, we now have an email address they can write to and I -- we will be more than happy to provide further clarity.”
Wei Ying pauses. That’s. Is that an invitation? That’s not. He just wanted to rile up the man a little, get a few extra words. He’s not ready to -- he doesn’t want to talk. That’s not the point of this.
He doesn’t listen to what the address is. Doesn’t write it down. He doesn’t have to acknowledge it if he doesn’t want to.
Wei Ying goes straight to the coffee shop after that. The work is a distraction. He can’t help but double-guess himself. He likes listening to the radio, likes listening to the rare words from the DJ. It’s safe to listen. Calling in was a step out of the shadows, sure, but it was a small, manageable one. Lots of people call into radio stations and request songs. If he stopped calling in one day, no one would even notice. It didn’t mean anything. Not to him, not to the world, and not to the DJ, it was just a small transactional interaction. Not even on par with being a coffee shop regular.
But making copies of tapes, sending them over… that felt like something else, dangerously close to participating. And he can’t.
***
Really, what has he been doing? The email address is like a wake-up call. Pushing his way in like that. He can’t focus at work, finds reasons to linger in the backroom anyway. Ironically, the only thing that calms him down is the radio.
Paco has to pull him out when there’s an unexpected rush, a book club that got displaced from the room they usually book at the library.
Paco clocks the music Wei Ying is listening to and makes a face. Wei Ying blushes, which doesn’t make sense. He’s just listening to the radio, everyone listens to the radio. No one can sit in silence anymore, that’s one of the problems with the generation, there always has to be the radio or the TV blaring. So he’s being really average.
When the rush dies down Wei Ying stays out front to get everything squared away. He puts on fresh coffee, restocks the pastry case, pulls milk from the back fridge into the little fridge. People are really obsessed with lattes recently. Wei Ying, who can’t drink milk, doesn’t understand it.
He’s wiping down the sink when Paco finally turns to him and says, “You really listen to that?”
Wei Ying swallows. “Yeah.”
Paco whistles. “That’s dedication. I never listen to the Spanish channels, I just lie and tell my mom and aunties I do.”
Wei Ying, who doesn’t have anyone to lie to, says, “The thing is --” and then it all comes out, his fixation with the man on the radio. He knows it is some sort of level of patheticness that shouldn’t be exposed to the light of day, but he can’t help himself.
“Well,” Paco says when he’s finished and whistles.
“I know,” Wei Ying says.
“That’s sure --”
“I know.”
***
He resolves not to call in again. In fact, he won’t even listen.
This resolution is aided by lunar new year which means the station is going off-air for a week.
He takes a lot of shifts at the cafe.
He drinks a lot of coffee.
It’s with slightly shaking hands that he flips the radio back on when the week is over. Paco is clearly made of sterner stuff than he is. He puts on his big rubber gloves and filling a tub so he can scrub out the back of his kitchen cabinets. He really should do that more regularly but it is a good way to start this year off at least.
The sexy voice wishes Wei Ying a happy new year. Technically he wishes everyone a happy new year but Wei Ying has had a week to accept his delusion. To the point where he mutters back at the radio, congratulations and prosperity to the sexy man and to all of his family.
And then he plays one of Wei Ying’s tracks and Wei Ying’s elbow slips on the edge of the sink and he almost ends up face first in the suds. It’s the Heavy Metal. The heavy metal that Wei Ying is sure does not match the broadcast standards. He’d thought it was funny when he sent it in but now Wei Ying is nothing but regrets and soap bubbles. He takes off his gloves and untucks his oversized button-down and lets both of them splat onto his floor.
He dreads Gossip Corner.
Predictably, the group is excited, verging on feverish. Lan Qiren, is disturbed and distressed by the recent musical deviation on the station.
It wasn’t even real instruments!! he huffs. How could that be good music. It should stop.
Others are less upset, though the consensus does seem to be that this new music isn’t as good as what they used to play. Perhaps, a woman everyone calls Granny Wen says, if they were re-recorded with real strings, perhaps a live version.
This does not placate Lan Qiren who points out that no amount of strings could cover the thumping bass-lines that poison each track.
Thumping, Wei Ying thinks. That’s just --
He could have shown them thumping. And real instruments? Tang Dynasty is all natural.
He reaches for the phone. He’s mad now. Sure, he gets that he was being deliberately disruptive, and he hadn’t thought that through, being so intent on reaching the sexy voice. He hadn’t really meant for anyone to have to listen to the music he likes. But now that they have, to be so mean about it, he doesn’t have to stand for it. He’s going to say something.
Before he can connect in, the radio man interjects.
“Everyone is free to like or dislike the music we play,” he says smoothly, “however I dare to ask uncle why it should not be played.”
His uncle, oh shit, Wei Ying is a monster. He has his finger hovering over the final button for the number, ready to push it. And he waits.
“Lan Zhan --” Lan Qiren says and wow that’s a name. That’s the radio man’s name. He’s Lan Zhan. Wei Ying tries that out in his mouth. It sounds good. “How can you condone this filth?”
“It is not filth,” Lan Zhan says firmly. Wei Ying’s heart is beating faster than a rabbit’s.
Lan Zhan patches through another caller. It’s Granny Wen. “I like the music,” she says. “It’s been nice hearing new songs. I think you’re being too harsh.” Wei Ying is stunned. She continues, “You’re always like this. This is why no one wants to play Mahjong with you.” Wei Ying laughs. Then he claps his hand over his mouth -- like anyone could hear him.
“Thank you for your opinion, Mrs. Wen,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying bites his lip. This is escalating. There has to be a way to get everyone to back down without feeling cornered or embarrassed.
His dialling timed out so he mashed the buttons down again, focusing on getting a clear beep for each of them. He keeps listening to the radio while he does it. For a second he doesn’t realise he’s connected, his own voice comes back to him as an echo. “Hello?”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. It somehow never occurred to Wei Ying that if he could recognise Lan Zhan’s voice then Lan Zhan could do the same to him.
“These were my requests,” he says, swallowing around a knot that threatens to rise within him. “This wasn’t Lan Zhan’s idea. I take responsibility.” He tries not to think about how this is the first and last time he’ll get to say Lan Zhan’s name to Lan Zhan. “I won’t cause any more trouble,” he says, and before he can lose his nerve, hangs up.
He hears the click of it come back at him, and the hum of dead air that follows. Then he flicks the knob off, carefully picks up the radio, walks over to his toolkit, takes out a hammer, and smashes it to bits.
He starts laughing midway through, thinking about the picture he makes. Bangs getting long enough that they fall into his face, in jeans and white socks, shirt abandoned, leaving him only in his tank top, determinedly raising and lowering a hammer until his white radio becomes a pile of white shrapnel. If this had been his old apartment, he’d already have someone banging on his door yelling at him to keep it down. There’s no one here that cares enough to yell at him, even if he is disturbing someone.
***
Wei Ying stays in his apartment for three days, calls in sick to the cafe. He plans to focus on his coding, get his project done and launch it and leave all of this behind him, again. Then he runs out of pasta. He’s gotten into Italian noodles since he moved here, he likes penne, they’re fun to play with.
He goes to the grocery store and he aggressively doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. If someone asks him how he’s doing he might actually answer, an unforgivable transgression.
When he gets back to his building, juggling plastic bags so he can get his keys out, there’s a man in a camelhair coat and scarf standing outside. Wei Ying slows his steps. It could be unrelated, but he sort of feels like the very attractive Asian man standing on his literal steps is somehow connected to him. Considering he’s picked his neighbourhood and shaped his routine around meeting absolutely no one? Call it a hunch.
He’s making quite the clatter so it doesn’t surprise him when the man looks up when Wei Ying gets close. He searches Wei Ying’s face.
“Yes?” Wei Ying says. “Can I help you?”
“Wei Ying,” the man says and oh shit it’s Lan Zhan.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, faintly.
“You didn’t call,” Lan Zhan says.
“I didn’t think your listeners wanted to hear from me.” The bags feel heavy in his arms and he re-adjusts them. Lan Zhan steps forward and takes one before Wei Ying can object.
“You didn’t email.” Lan Zhan is really to the point in all contexts apparently.
“I don’t know the email address.”
Lan Zhan frowns. This makes Wei Ying wonder. “How did you find me?”
His ears go a bit pink. Wei Ying supposes he doesn’t need to speak much if his body does the talking for him. “You put a return address on the package you sent.”
Wei Ying absorbs that for a moment. Wonders if he should take the groceries back, if he’s in some sort of Fatal Attraction situation. “So you stalked me.”
Lan Zhan does not deny it.
“Did you tell anyone where I am?” Wei Ying asks.
“No,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying sighs. “Well, I suppose you might as well bring that upstairs.” Lan Zhan stares at him for a moment. “I’m inviting you inside,” he clarifies. That pushes Lan Zhan into motion.
Wei Ying jiggles his key in the door and nudges it open with his foot. Lan Zhan looks unsure so Wei Ying points his chin over at the counter. It isn’t big, but there’s enough space to put a bag down. In the meantime Wei Ying puts his bags down on his computer chair and goes to put the kettle on.
Lan Zhan turns around. “I --” they say at the same time.
“I liked it when you called in. I liked hearing you talk about music.” The blush is migrating from his ears to the top of his cheeks.
Wei Ying thinks of the boxes of tapes and records he has in the bedroom. “I have a lot more opinions,” he admits.
“Tell me them?” Lan Zhan’s lips slant down slightly to the let. It’s an imperfection that makes the rest of him look even better. It’s hard for Wei Ying to look anywhere else.
Wei Ying shakes his head. “That’s not why I called in.” He can’t trick Lan Zhan into a friendship with him under false premises. “I mostly called in to hear you say my name,” Wei Ying admits.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying feels his stomach clench. “Yeah, like that.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again, and takes a step in closer.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, the name pulled out of him by the same force that is drawing Lan Zhan closer and closer to him. He doesn’t know who reaches first but between one blink and the next they’re kissing.
They break apart on Wei Ying’s ragged gasp. He whispers, “This is madness, you don’t know me.”
“I do know you,” Lan Zhan insists. The intensity of the expression seems to startle him and he amends, “I want to know you.”
“Oh,” Wei Ying says, and when that seems to be insufficient. “I want to know you too.”
Lan Zhan’s lips quirk up and Wei Ying can tell when he’s being laughed at. He doesn’t need to put up with that. “Oh, shut up,” he says and hooks his fingers into the lapels of Lan Zhan’s coat and pulls him in for a kiss.