The Last Tot

    From the 21st floor of an average-looking office building, Kent looked out through the rain-soaked windows to the southwest. What am I still doing here? he pondered.
    Typical for mid-November, the rain was moving sideways. It was hitting the outside windows of the CYVR radio control room like pellets from an air rifle. But, inside the studio, the rain, while hitting the glass with ferocity, presented no familiar thwack-thwack. Instead, four sound-isolating panes of glass filtered out the noise. Kent was lost, staring at English Bay and its beaches, wondering how long the current bout of shitty Vancouver fall weather would last. Until April, he mused.
    The broadcast studios of the Classic Rock Station were about as “classic” as one could imagine. A large console with lots of knobs to control the level of whatever happened to be playing on that channel, buttons to select inputs and outputs to speakers and headphones, and knobs for the volume of the speakers that, in the opinion of just about every DJ, was never loud enough.
    Around the console, a custom woodwork desk surface provided a home for the cohost and three guest microphones. Besides record racks on the back wall, several floor-to-ceiling mirrors featured the signatures of sixty-plus Rock Stars from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. The oldest belonging to Eric Clapton, the most recent, signed the previous month was David Gilmore of Pink Floyd. Billy Idol authored the most ridiculous signature. Not only did he sign his name, he also drew a penis. It was considered art and not erased as part of any political correctness effort.
    Kent’s somber face hid the fact that he was minding the music playing as part of his mid-day show, The Vinyl Spin. Heart’s Straight On was coming to an end, Kent moved away from the westerly window, and while the studio was, of course, heated, he never-the-less leaned over the 24-channel console to warm himself slightly before turning on his microphone. He was speaking to a hundred thousand or more people listening to the city's number-one lunchtime radio show.
    “From Dog and Butterfly, Straight On reached #15 on the US charts and remains one of my favorite songs from the band. I’m Kent Brent in the Box, and I’ll be back in just a sec with the song that in 1972 put the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra on the musical map.”
    He hit the #1 channel of the automation system to start the commercial break of three commercials, a promo spot featuring a Loverboy Reunion Show, another commercial, and a station ID that told the audience which station they were listening to. Kent had always thought there were far too many IDs on the air.
    While automation systems in radio had become standard for music, commercials, and other audio content for radio making Kent’s life more straightforward, it also took away the fun from the job, the DJ-ing part of the job. The Vinyl Spin at least gave him some old-school radio time, if only for an hour a day.
    When the break started to play, Kent slouched and exhaled. Anyone looking at him would have believed he looked bored and uninspired, unhappy with his job. But Kent had things to do; he straightened up.
    He gently pulled the tone arm from the LP, moved it to the right, and clipped it in its resting place. Once Kent lifted off the platter Dog Butterfly, he returned it to its plastic sleeve and album sleeve before pushing the chair back from the console driver’s seat to stand and refile the record in its rightful spot on the back wall of the control room. He then moved right in the sequence of LPs to pull out Procol Harum Live. On the left in the Ds, Kent also grabbed a copy of Love over Gold. Kent remembered none of what he had just done.
    Queueing up Conquistador before the break was over, Kent looked closely as the stylus found the groove in the vinyl. He smiled a bit as if the act of putting a stylus on a record was somehow therapeutic.     After tapping the local start button, Kent listened for the start of the track on the cue speaker, then quickly tapped it again to stop the LP from spinning. Finally, he backspun the record one-half a turn and readied himself for the end of the stopset.
    Kent believed himself witty when naming his lunchtime show, doing a bit of wordplay to incorporate the media into the title and paying respect to its age. Sadly, the collection of albums at CYVR had shrunk from some 7000 albums in 1980 to just 1118, the core of the Classic Rock genre.    Nevertheless, the resurgence of vinyl made the show popular with hipsters and old-time rockers alike. Vinyl fans used words like, richer, smoother, and warmer to describe their sound. And every old-time DJ had their own opinion on the matter. After listening to 10s of thousands of records, hiss, pop, and the enviable skipping, Kent preferred the quiet, clean, crisp, reliable sound of digital mediums.
     Ignoring the countdown clock used to note the end of the stopset, Kent preferred listening for end queues and jumping in at just the right time to talk. Waiting, he returned to gazing out the window; Kent had made up his mind.
    –CYVR. Classic Rock and the Vinyl Spin. Music as it was meant to be played.
    “Welcome back to the Vinyl Spin. I’m Kent Brent in the Box. I find it amusing that in the era of Free Love, with bands like Cream, the Who, and Led Zepplin, an English group like Procol Harum with a big orchestral piece would find a home alongside some of Rocks giants on the Billboard charts. Originally released in 1967, this 1972 live version of Conquistador did just that.”
    Kent hit the start button labeled TT1, and the left-side turntable spun up to 33RPM in less than fifty milliseconds releasing the bold chirps of the violins at the start of the song like a dagger coming out of the radio.
    A few seconds into the song, Program Director Steve Boston walked into the studio. “Hey Kent, did you see my email about the Loverboy show?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “What? I sent it yesterday!” Steve rebuffed.
    “I know, I’ve been distracted lately. Can’t seem to focus.”
    “What’s up? Something about a woman, I bet?” guessed Steve.
    For the first time, Kent sighed and admitted aloud what he’d felt for months. “No, worse. I think I’m done with Radio. I’m just not excited about it anymore. I go through the motions. Get the job done. But now, I couldn’t care less.”
    Steve’s eyes opened wide. “Whoa, Kent! I mean, what the hell? Where did that come from?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve been doing radio for twenty-five years, and I think I’ve hit a brick wall. Nothing about radio excites me anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I still love the music, but I’ve said it all and seen it all. I’ve seen every rock band, from Aerosmith to ZZ Top. I’ve been to so many media events I couldn’t count them all. I even walked in on Mike with that girl in the record library. I just need a change, Steve.”
    Steve responded like a PD. “Come on, Kent. You’re the number one mid-day announcer in the city. You’re making a decent coin. You have great friends inside and outside the radio and thousands of fans who tune in daily to hear your silky voice. So what’s the problem?”
    “As I said, I’m just not feeling it anymore.”
    “How about I come over tonight, and we can chat?” Steve offered. “I’d like to help. I think I can. What do you say?”
    “Sure. Why not? I’ve got a new Rum. I’d love to share it,” Kent said without enthusiasm.
    “Okay. I can swing by at about 9-P. Does that work?”
    “Ya, sure,” Kent confirmed.
    “And what’s your new Rum?” Steve asked, genuinely interested.
    “El Dorado 15-Year Old. Just got it yesterday.”
    Steve turned and moved to the door. “Sounds great. See you then.”
    As Steve left the control room, Kent hit the TT2 button when Conquistador started to fade, creating a seamless transition into Industrial Disease; a skill Apps on iPhones, iPods and the like still haven’t mastered.

    The phone in Kent’s condo rang, and the familiar voice indicated Steve was downstairs. Kent hit the # symbol on the keypad, letting Steve into the twenty-three-story West End building, otherwise known as Triumph Tower.
    The condo complex was only two blocks off the beach row, and Kent’s unit looked toward the North Shore Mountains from the balcony. Kent bought the condo in the winter of 1995, a few years after it was built. The north side of the building was not the cheapest; easterly views took that honor. Although Kent would have preferred an ocean view, having only recently started working for CYVR, the banks would not approve his mortgage for the extra $75,000 required for the privilege of an English Bay water view or False Creek to the south. No matter; the north side had its benefits too. It never got too hot in the summertime and had grand vistas of the snowy peaks in the wintertime if the sun happened to come out. Kent was happy with his home.
    A quick knock on the door, and Steve let himself in. “Hey Kent, you here?”
    “Yup. Where the hell else would I be?”
    Steve answered Kent’s sarcastic remark. “I don’t know. Maybe you had gone downstairs to do some laundry? What the hell do I know?”
    Always witty, Kent countered with, “Nope, laundry day is Tuesday. You want that Rum?”
    “You bet, El Dorado 15, right?” Steve already imagined the flavour.
    “Yup! One of the best I’ve heard. I trust neat will be fine? Remember what the Cubans say, ‘If you mix it with anything, you’re wasting it.’”
    Kent had always encouraged his friends to try the Rum as offered, straight-up; most agreed with his position. But, secretly, Kent mixed Rum when the time or product was right. White Rums with Coke, save for a few exceptions, and Dark Rums with juices.
    Kent headed over to the bar, otherwise known as the Rum Shrine, and pulled the bottle from the top shelf. Kent’s top-shelf had a fine collection of a few of the best Rums available in British Columbia. He had Ron Zacapa XO, Appleton 21-Year, Foursquare 12 from Barbados, and a half-dozen others. A fine collection. On the second shelf were the likes of El Dorado 12, Diplomatico Reserva, Appleton 12-Year, and Kent’s go-to float Rum, Cruzan Black Strap. The entire shrine housed twenty-two Rums—a fair-sized collection, but still only a portion of the world’s offerings. The Appleton was the House Rum, and the new 15-Year was vying for the title.
    The two men sat at Kent’s large bar table adjacent to the north-facing window. The tall, heavy metal chairs scraped the floor as they moved them to sit down. The view out the window echoed the scenery and mood Kent had from the studio at lunchtime.
    Raising his glass to his lips and before having his first sip, Steve got to the point. “So what’s up, Kent? Really?”
    “Hard to say, Steve,” Kent answered honestly. “I think I’ve just done all I can do in Radio. I‘m starting to think it’s time for me to move on.”
    Steve slightly raised his voice and pushed back for a more straightforward explanation. “What does that mean, Kent?”
    Kent looked Steve straight in the eyes. “I want to quit. It just hit me today. Everything just seemed to pile up and pushed me over the edge.”
    “Really? I can’t let you quit. You’ve got the number-one radio show in the city, and you can do even more. Maybe even be a PD one day. Can you even tell me what’s piling up?”
    Kent ignored Steve’s observations, veering off in his direction. “I don’t think it’s up to you, Steve. I’ve had enough of this shitty, rainy, cold Vancouver weather. Like Jimmy Buffett said in Boat Drinks, ‘I gotta go where it’s warm.’”
    Steve was shocked at what he had just heard. “Christ, Kent, that sounds insane.” Then after finishing the last of the El Dorado in his glass and smacking his lips, Steve sounded off. “You can’t just check out like that. I mean, jeez, Kent, you can’t go all Jimmy Buffett like that.
    Kent calmly countered, “Sure I can. Why not? I’ve decided on a mission.”
    Steve’s tone swapped from austere to quizzical. “What mission?”
    Kent’s face grew a smile. “I want to explore the Caribbean and taste Rum. As many Rums as I can. And honestly, I want to taste a thousand Rums before I die. I’ve loved Rum since I stole that first bottle from my Dad's liquor cabinet for high school grad. I’ve had 221 Rums, and there’s a bigger world of Rum out there. You know I’ve been to Vegas some twenty-odd times and always stop at Tommy Bahamas for a sampling session. I used to go to Rum Jungle at Mandalay Bay, but it closed in the early 2000s taking its 1000-plus Rum selection with them. I’ve even had the pleasure of Frankie’s Tiki Bar in Vegas too.”
    “Wow! I had no idea that there were that many Rums,” Steve said, sitting upright after Kent’s explanation.
    “Refill?”
    “Sure. I’m all in now, aren’t I?”
    Kent grabbed the bottle and reached to top up their glasses. “I remember here in Canada, in the 80s you had Bacardí, Captain Morgan, Lambs, Potter’s, and Appleton. Now there are so many more, even more across the border. Stores in the US have more than four times the number of Rums we have. And that’s a drop in the bucket compared to what you can find in the Caribbean. I want to taste as much as possible. It’s time.”
    Steve strived to define what Kent was feeling. “Okay, Kent. I think I’m starting to understand. You want to check out island style.”
    “No, Steve,” Kent said to correct Steve’s mindset. “I need a change in my day-to-day life. I want to travel more, experience, and explore the world. And going after 1000 Rums is just a great goal as part of the adventure. You’ve seen my license plate.”
    “Ya, ya, I know, RUMMY. I’ll let it go. It makes me sad, though. You’re a great jock, and I hate to see you check out when you’re on top of your game.”
    Taking another sip of the Rum, Steve continued. “When do you think you might pull the trigger? And Damn, this is good,” he added, holding up his tumbler.
    Kent considered the question for a moment before responding. “I think I’ll finish off the week and take the last of my vacation starting the week after. Or do you think getting the time paid out might be better?”
    “That soon, eh? I guess you already know what I’m going to say next,” Steve paused despite not expecting a response. “I can’t put you back on the air, and I think you know that.”
    Kent shook his head slowly, then leaned in. “Really, Steve? Do you think I’d say or do anything stupid?”
    “Not up to me, Kent. You know that too. There’s no issue with you coming in and wrapping up in the office, doing your goodbyes, and getting some airchecks if you ever decide to do radio someplace else. But there’s no more air-time for you. And we’ll handle all the social media stuff.”
    The realization kicked in. What have I just done? popped into Kent’s mind, and he stopped in silence for a moment. It left him momentarily humble but dodged his fears. “Okay, Steve, thanks. I understand. No worries.” Kent took another sip, tipping the glass in a salute.
    Steve nodded and followed suit. “What are your immediate plans, though?”
    “Well, I gotta sell this place, ditch the car, pack up.” Kent waved his arms about, “and store everything from here. I guess I’ll have to plan for handling my travel expenses and book a flight south too. I think I’ll start in Trinidad and go north from there. Then there’s the Rum. Looking forward to sitting around drinking Rum in bars, making new friends, and becoming a true Rummy like Eddie did in the movie To Have and Have Not.”
    “Sounds like a plan, but what about Mandy?” Steve asked.
    And there I was, something Kent had lost track of in the transformation of his life. “Shit!” What am I going to tell her? Then, suddenly anxious, Kent admitted, “I have no idea.”
    “Well, you better figure that out, buddy.”
    
    Mandy walked unannounced into Kent’s condo just after six. He had given her a key only a month before. Mandy, for her part, agreed only to use the key when he was home. Tonight, she had been invited over for a special dinner.
    “Hey, Kiddo, how was your day?” Kent said with no expectation of an answer. He had always referred to her as Kiddo.
    “Okay, I guess. Nothing special,” she replied, then asked, “What’s for dinner?”
    Kent was a bit of a rare breed, a single man who not only kept a clean a tidy home but also loved to cook. Mandy had grown accustomed to Kent’s skills in the kitchen.
    “Well, tonight it’s Rouladen, and if you’re up to helping, we can do Spätzle too. We can crack open a jar of my sister’s Red Cabbage for veg. Sound good?”
    “Hell ya. You know that’s my fave.”
    “Drink?”
    Mandy was quick to inquire, “You got anything special?”
    Kent offered the El Dorado he shared the previous night with Steve. “Will that do?”
    “Well, you’re Rum Guy Kent, you tell me.”
    “Can you get the glasses? I’ll have to put the water on for the Spätzle.”
    Quick to ask, Mandy added a bit to the menu. “Sure. But can you make it Mushroom Spätzle?”
    “Sure thing Kiddo. You oaky with slicing the mushrooms.”
    “No problem. Are they in the fridge?”
    “In the bottom drawer on the left, but there’s no rush. I’ve got to prepare the Spätzle dough before you start slicing. So just get the glasses.”
    Mandy pulled two of Kent’s special glasses from the cupboard. The tumblers with quotes from Humphrey Bogart stenciled on the side were a gift from Mandy on his birthday in earlier November. Kent’s favorite was, “I gave up drinking once - it was the worst afternoon of my entire life.”
    Kent also thought the people that made those should have also made a line of quote glasses featuring Frank Sinatra. He supposed one should have said: “I feel sorry for people that don't drink because when they wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’re going to feel all day.” Or maybe it was Dean Martin. Regardless that’s a lot to write on a glass, Kent concluded.
    “Where’s the Rum Kent?” Mandy asked.
    “Top shelf on the shrine.”
    The two worked on the drinks and prepared the dinner over the next hour. Finally, getting close to delivering the meal, Kent started the essential part of the dinner, the gravy. He had long since perfected the art of making gravy, and his Rouladen Gravy was the pinnacle of the craft. Once ready, the rolled and stuffed top sirloin was placed on the plates along with the sautéed Spätzle and Mushrooms, with Kent taking the lion’s share of the Red Cabbage. He drizzled the gravy over the Rouladen and Spätzle, sparing the cabbage.
    Drinks shifted from Rum neat to Kent’s simple Rum and Coke cocktail. Appleton X/V, ice, Coke and only the slimmest slice of lime. Internally he felt he needed it to provide courage for the discussion still to come. The truth was that Kent never shied away from confronting difficult conversations. Last night’s chat with the Program Director of CYVR was a good example