Free Ghost Radio by Leopoldo Gout Page B

their errors of perception and judgment was beside the point. The interesting thing was unraveling the worries, fears, and ambitions these tales embodied. Sometimes,the stories were of a purely social or economic nature; others were flagrantly oedipal. Of course, I had learned to weed out the pranksters, and each night, there were a few disturbed individuals who injected their own insanity into the show. Something that could be both entertaining and exasperating.
    The real problems I ran up against, though, were my own; I had trouble identifying them largely because I didn’t understand them well enough to articulate what they were. It may sound pretentious but I’ve always been courted by death.

chapter 20

TATTOOED
    One might think the coincidence of the tattoo would have scared me. I’ve never been a fan of fate. And this felt like fate. No, it was more like: Destiny. But for some reason I wasn’t afraid.
    Joaquin seemed intelligent, laid back, and unconventional, a combination I’ve always found attractive. And there was the destiny angle, which made him seem dangerous. No woman, whatever crap they tell you, can resist that. But despite all of this, I wasn’t anticipating a long relationship. I planned to continue traveling across Mexico and I wanted to do it alone. I had no intention of bringing anyone with me, and I wasn’t going to modify my itinerary. I certainly didn’t want commitment, or anything else to distract me from my goals. So, when I told him I was going to Oaxaca to see Monte Albán, Mitla, and Zaachila, to interview artist Francisco Toledo and maybe work in his studio, I was caustic, almost abusive. Joaquin seemed to get it at first. But his silence didn’t last long. Even now I’m not sure how he did it, but he convinced me that we could travel together without getting in each other’s way, with the understanding that I could split from him at any time without explanation or drama. Ultimately, our journey extended far beyond Oaxaca. We continued traveling cross-country and went to Chiapas, across the border into Guatemala and Belize, and back to Mexico through Quintana Roo. After a few days in Mérida we went into Campeche and finally Veracruz.
    Joaquin was taking time off from his radio show, which had just won some prize and was, unexpectedly, developing a following, both on the Web and the conventional airwaves. I made no secret of the fact that the premise seemed absurdly old-fashioned to me. Was there still an audienceout there interested in listening to ghost stories? Especially in an era so predisposed toward the visual, the spectacle, special effects, it seemed bizarre that anyone would have the patience and—I don’t know—the naïveté to respond to them.
    Of course, who was I to talk? Comics were also hopelessly retrograde. But comics possessed a charm, while radio just seemed tawdry. Or so I thought.
    I was wrong, both about Joaquin and about his program. I enjoyed his company during the trip; I fulfilled all my research goals while discovering many aspects of Mexico I’d never known. Meanwhile, I found myself becoming fond of even Joaquin’s weirdest habits.
    The odd way he coughed when nervous. The adamant way he argued when drunk. I even succumbed to the gooey-eyed way he looked at me. I missed him when he wasn’t around. Yup, I was in love. Wholly and completely. Though I hated myself a little for it.
    When we got back, I didn’t pause for even a moment to consider whether it was time to move in or not. I leaped in headfirst. Going back to his apartment to stay seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
    During the trip we talked a lot about the show. He told me how it had evolved and transformed.
    â€œBut why would people listen to ghost stories over and over again?” I asked him.
    â€œYou have great eyes,” he replied.
    â€œFrankly, I don’t get it. They’re all the