F. W. Chesson 							  LOSTARC.HTM
144 Fiske Street, 
Waterbury, CT  06710 						Rev: 2-27-2000
 


  			  GIFT OF THE ELECTRONIC MAGI 

                         (A Radio-Row Christmas Story) 

                                       by 
                                  Fred Chesson  

(With much thanks to fellow AWA Member Tom Sokira for the original concept!)
 
     Cradling his coffee cup, labeled TOP COP, Officer Mike Hartley scanned
the darkened scene outside the construction site office trailer. Across from
him, Don Crump, the contractor, worked a calculator, muttering about graft 
and kick-backs, occasionally lifting his own mug, aptly-marked BIG BAD BREW.   
     "So this is Christmas Eve on Cortland Street, the heart of what used to 
be Radio Row," he mused. "And according to Don, practically his boyhood's
second home, a Never-Never Land of endless radio stores, and all overflowing 
with incredible war surplus goodies. And now look at it, a gutted shell...!"
     He shrugged. "Anyway, here we are. Me, moonlighting as a security guard, 
and him doing a last-minute audit, while his wife does her charity stint for
the kids in Beekman-Downtown Pediatrics Ward." He took a swig and winced. 
"So, it's Yucky Yuletide, again, in the Big Wormy Apple...!"
     Suddenly he stiffened and pointed the mug. "Hey, Don, we got a snooper
out there!  And it ain't Santy Claws, I can tell you!" 
     "Stealing on Christmas Eve!" Crump came over and scanned the fenced-in 
equipment yard.  "Yeah, I see him now.  Another bum after the tools!" 
     "Damn druggies and winos!"  Grabbing his flashlight and night stick, 
Mike started for the door.  
     "I'll back you up," Crump offered, picking up another light. 
     Mike frowned. "OK, but I'm still a City Cop, so let me take the point." 
     They headed toward the dark ranks of pay-loaders and bulldozers.   
     "Probably hiding in the debris, waiting for us to leave." Mike probed 
his light into the shadowed rubble areas. "Say, look at that open hatchway!" 
     Crump beamed his flash into the dark opening, low in the rubble of a 
razed building foundation. "Looks new. The last demo work must've uncovered
it. We'd better check it out now." 
     "But first we take precautions!" Mike handed over the club, then, from
inside his leather jacket, extracted a compact automatic. "Meet Pietro
Beretta, my off-duty back-up pal...never leave home without him!"   
     Crump smiled. "Ciao!" He stood aside and gestured. "After you, guys!"
     They edged down the crumbling steps into the musty gloom. 
     "A real dungeon." Mike's lamp beamed the damp ground. "Yeah, someone's
been here, alright, look at these muddy footprints. Huh! They're all alike. 
Just one guy. He must come an' go like a damn sewer rat!" 
     "But, what for...?" Crump was suddenly aware of a somehow familiar odor. 
He played his light on a heavy door, recessed into the wall. "Dungeon is 
right, look at the size of that old padlock!" He moved closer and pointed.
"Fresh scratches, like someone was trying to get in." The odor was stronger 
by the door. "What in...?"
     "That's IT...!"  He grinned. Yes! The same curious melange of by-gone 
insulation, fungicidal coatings and phenolic plastics...all adding up to that 
old, glorious scent of...RADIO SURPLUS!  
      Back rushed a long vanished past of hectic growing-up years. A world of 
military receivers, transmitters and a host of component-rich arcane devices, 
all waiting to be converted or salvaged. It was just like being a kid again. 
He gestured at Mike's pistol. "So let's see what that guy was after inside!" 
     "Huh! `Improper Discharge of Firearms' isn't exactly what I need on my
record to start off the New Year, but...." Mike smiled and slowly nodded. 
"But seeing as this IS your property, and that the sound'll be muffled...
I say, OK, let's go for it!" 
     "Right!" Crump turned and covered his ears. "Fire in the hole!"
     The Beretta flashed and roared, bringing down a shower of grimy plaster 
dust and paint chips. 
     Mike pulled off the ruptured lock and pushed open the door with his 
foot, gun and flashlight again at the ready. "Here we go!"
     Crump felt a dank rush of air, heavily laden with the heady breath of 
an archaic age. Surplus...Heavenly Surplus! And on Christmas Eve, too...!
     "Hell, just a bunch of real old TVs and junk," Mike said disdainfully, 
flashlight stabbing about the low, cob-webbed vault. "If this stuff was ever 
hot, it's so cold now that just nobody would give a damn about it any more!" 
     "Oldies, but goodies, Mike!" Crump beamed his light about the room, the  
glow of anticipation slowly fading.  It WAS mostly junk...old TVs and record
players, plus a scattering of familiar military equipment among cartons of 
moldy sub-assemblies and dusty tubes, all topped with grimy, snake-like coils 
of wire, co-ax cable and.... "Bingo...!"
     Grinning, he pointed to a shelf far at the rear. "And speaking of goodies
Mike, over there is a BEAUTIFUL ARC-5 receiver...complete with dynamotor!"
     "Ark what?" Mike frowned and muttered. "Jeez, he's back on old Radio Row, 
again...!"
     "A-R-C Five was a complete receiver-transmitter set, that they put in 
just about every plane big enough to have its own operator," Crump explained.
"And this baby is one of the three receivers." He grinned. "So keep your light
on it real good!"
     "Sure, Boss." Mike frowned, as Crump picked his way through the heaps 
of rust-streaked chassis and jumbled cartons towards the far wall. What had 
gotten into this self-made construction tycoon, that he was happy as a kid
climbing over a junk-yard scrap heap?  "Hey, man, I never thought the Great 
Donald Crump would turn out to be a secret scrounger!" he teased. 
     Crump grinned as he raised his quarry in triumph. "Yeah, Mike, I got to 
confess, I'm really an electronic surplus junkie at heart!" 
     "Well, now that you've got your fix, let's get the hell out of here and  
look for that bum, before he steals the trailer right off the lot!" 
     Clutching his prize, Crump clambered back over the carcasses and placed 
it gently atop a crate.  He blew off dust and beamed his flashlight on the 
nameplate.  "Here we are...Receiver R-27/ARC-5, 6 to 9 MC, Western Electric
Company. Serial Number 110,869...."  He looked up and grinned. "You know, I 
had a set like this when I was a kid...one of the first pieces of surplus I 
ever bought. Must have been barely twelve, and I loved it like it was a...." 
     "Hey!" Mike whirled about, aiming at a figure in the doorway. "Police! 
Freeze, damn it!" he commanded.  
     The intruder seemed oblivious, shuffling and stumbling forwards as if 
in a dream, trembling hands reaching out. 
     "It's that same bum!" Crump tightened his grip on the night stick, then 
relaxed slightly. "He looks harmless enough...." 
     "Watch it!" The Beretta tracked its target. "No telling WHAT junk he's 
high on!"
     "Mine.....mine....mine!" crooned the stranger, lurching towards them. 
"My Arc-Fife!" he drooled. "Mine...mine, MINE, at last...!" 
     Mike grimaced and eased to one side. "Phew, a real bloater!"   
     Just short of his goal, the derelict tumbled onto his knees. "My own
Arc-fife, my Crissmus prezzent...nize prezzent for good boy!" he gurgled, 
arms and legs twitching spasmodically, tears streaking the stubbled ruins 
of a face. 
     "Another gutted shell of Radio Row!" Mike holstered the pistol in disgust.
"One more damn stiff for me to have to write up!  We'll be here all night!" 
     "No...not dead, yet...!" The wretch struggled to his feet, and lurched  
forward. "Jus' want Arc-Fife for tonight...Crissmus Eve. Knew it was here. 
Try to get it, last tree nights...but lock too strong...."  Quivering arms 
reached out to embrace the radio, cradling it in filth-encrusted coat sleeves.
"But now it mine, mine...mine, ohhh, at long last!" 
     "It's yours, Mac," Crump said gently. "I guess you've really earned it." 
     "Earned it in hell! My very own hell. But thank you for opening door to 
Heaven for little bit!" 
     With a suddenly-firm grip on the set, the man strode purposefully toward 
the entry. Upon reaching the steps, he turned and smiled with animation. "Good
old ARC-Five makes me feel so young again!"  
     Part way up, he turned again, holding the set high in one hand. "And so,
a very Merry Christmas, to you nice persons who so kindly helped me to find my
lost radio...and my long lost self, on this very special night on Radio Row!"   
     "Sure, enjoy your ARC-5, like I enjoyed mine, when I was a kid...." Crump 
frowned, wondering how someone near-dead from disease and drink could now so 
effortlessly climb the stairs with the bulky radio in one hand. What was this
seeming transformation due to?  Poor light?  Too much coffee...? "What do you 
think of that?" he asked, as the figure disappeared upwards. 
     "Damned if I know! But...." Mike frowned and sniffed. "It don't stink of 
him any more, does it? Just smells sort of nice, like, like...." 
     "Like good old radio surplus should!" Crump savored the aroma and smiled.
 "Well, let's get back to the real world.  Whatever that is, any more...."   
     They emerged into a light snow fall powdering the rubble with glittering
purity.
     Mike pointed down. "Look at those footprints! Sprinting for the gate like
a teenager! Guess he's gone for good, but I sure hope this is the only Radio 
Row Drama for my tour tonight!"  
     Crump nodded. "First thing we start up, I'll have that storeroom cleaned 
out to the bare walls." He looked back down the dark hatchway and shook his 
head. "But I'm afraid all the good stuff is gone by now. Long gone...." 
     Back in the cozy trailer, Mike refilled their cups with Crump's java, 
made even more potent from simmering on the hotplate.  He gulped down a 
scalding mouthful and pointed. "That bloater should be dead by morning, all 
froze solid for some rookie beat-pounder to find. And with his precious ARC-5
in the nearest dumpster." He stirred the coffee and studied its murky eddies.
"Too bad for both of them. Especially that old set you wanted so much for your
own!" 
     Crump sipped and smiled. "I'd like to think that particular ARC-5 gave 
someone a new lease on life...for a little while, anyway. You saw how badly 
he wanted his 'Crissmus Prizzent'...and what it seemed to do for him."  He 
nodded. "So, could be, there's just a little bit of that O. Henry and Twilight
Zone stuff at work on Old Cortland Street, this special night!"  
     "Maybe...though I still think it's this Controlled Substance brew of 
yours embalming our poor brains!" Mike pointed with his cup. "But, anyway, do 
you think that guy was once a radio kid, like you were? How you both got all 
worked up over that old set, zeroing in on it, just like radar!" 
     Crump grinned. "I'm sure he was...especially seeing as how we were both
..." The grin widened. "RADARS OF THE LOST ARC...!"
     "Owww!" Mike winced, then grinned. "Well, anyway, I guess you were right
about Radio Row being something special, once upon a time." 
      "And I think it still is!" Crump downed his mug, eyed the wall clock and 
stood up. "Time to join the wife and play Santa for some small fry, who'll
never see a vacuum tube, much less a BC-348, an ARB...or an ARC-5." He smiled.
"But I think I'll take a little detour, along the Old Row." He nodded. 
"Because, Mike, you'll never know, when or where you just might find another 
great old set...especially on Christmas Eve!" 

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