Magnus Shortwave And The Curse Of One-Way Radio

Caution: Hot.

Here's another one of those hobo stories I often never refer to as a "one-drink tale," because there's really not much to it, so it can be recited over the course of one adult beverage. Brevity begets brilliance, I always say. Okay, I never say that. What does that even mean - brevity begets brilliance? I sound ridiculous. I look ridiculous, too, but lucky you - you can't see me. Sorry. I won't let it happen again, and this time I really, really mean that (I really really don't mean that).

Magnus Shortwave was the second known hobo named for a weird dentistry-related phenomenon. His fillings were arranged in the one-in-a-million array that transformed his mouth into a shortwave radio receiver. He called it the bane of his existence, although it wasn't quite the curse that it might have been, as his friend Cricket-Eating Charles Digges often reminded him.

"I told you about that kid I knew back in Terre Haute," he'd say, usually through a crunchy mouthful of crickets, "Got them metal braces to straighten his teeth and started picking up radio stations from Bloomington to Decatur, day and night. Drove him batty. When I left there, they had him locked in the loony bin. So, you're getting off easy with this shortwave stuff; it's just every now and then, for you, not constant."

Magnus' cricket-munching friend was right. Shortwave radio was not yet in widespread use by hobbyists, in 1939. It was still mostly employed by government agencies and the military, for long-distance communications. The transmissions Magnus received were sporadic, and popped into his head - literally - with startling randomness. Also, a lot of what he heard was from many thousands of miles away, and living with so many non-English-speaking voices in his head at random intervals was stressful. That wasn't the only thing about his condition that he found curse-like, however.

What really bothered him was the fact that he could hear these broadcasts, many of them seeking replies from other shortwave users, but he had no means of answering them. It was annoying, and on one occasion, probably tragic.

One of voices that repeatedly made its way across the lower-frequency airwaves and into Magnus' tortured head was that of Edwin Winnipeg, a part-time hobo and amateur radio operator. Many of his hobo brothers and sisters suspected that Edwin was secretly rich, because really - a part-time hobo? No one had ever heard of that. 

One sticky August night, as Magnus Shortwave and Cricket-Eating Charles Digges trudged along the L&N mainline between Nashville and Bowling Green, the voice of Edwin Winnipeg crackled to life in Magnus' dental work.

"Hey - I'm picking up Edwin Winnipeg," Magnus said, stopping to listen.

"That means he's home again," Charles Digges said. "I'm tellin' you, ain't no way that fella ain't rich. You can't just go back and forth between this life and that. Nope - no way."

Magnus grabbed his friend's arm. "Oh no! He's saying he's only home for the night... hitting the rails again tomorrow!"

"So what?"

"Oh dear Lord, no! Edwin! Edwin, can you hear me? Don't go! Edwin? The Car-Knocker Killer's coming that way! You gotta stay off the tracks for a while. He's headed straight to Winnipeg! Edwin!"

"What are you talking about?" Charles demanded. "How would you know that?"

"I saw him, Charlie. A couple weeks ago in Grand Rapids. He didn't kill me, on account of I wasn't in a boxcar, but I know it was him - and he said he was going to - and I quote - 'Car-knock all the way from Winnipeg to Calgary.'"

"Uh-oh - 'car-knock' means murder, don't it?"

"Yep. Oh, Edwin's doomed. Edwin! Can you hear me? Damn this one-way connection! Oh, he's a goner..."

Charles Digges dug a fistful of crickets from his trouser pocket and shoved them into his mouth. "Yep," he said with an unpleasant crunch, "probably so..."