THE LAST BROADCAST

Tom awoke to the alarm he had set for an early Sunday tee time. Unfortunately, rain had pounded the roof all night and, according to the weather app on his phone, it wasn’t expected to let up until late afternoon.

“So much for golf,” he muttered.

Knowing he wouldn’t fall back asleep, Tom brewed a pot of coffee and headed downstairs to his office. After flipping through the television channels without finding anything worth watching, he remembered Johnny “Records” Wagner’s Sunday morning classic rock show.

Johnny’s program had become a ritual for thousands of listeners.

He earned the nickname “Records” because he insisted on spinning vinyl from a turntable rather than playing digital files. It irritated station management for years, but his audience was so loyal they finally stopped arguing with him. Johnny also enjoyed another luxury few disc jockeys possessed: he talked about the music. Sometimes the stories behind the songs were every bit as entertaining as the songs themselves.

Tom settled into his chair just as Johnny’s familiar gravelly voice filled the room.

“Good morning, my friends. Hope you’ve got a fresh cup of coffee because we’ve got a lot of music to get through today.”

The first song was Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey.

“When this came out, none of us thought we’d still be listening to it forty years later,” Johnny chuckled. “Some songs just refuse to grow old. Enjoy.”

A few minutes later came The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again.

“You know,” Johnny said, “I’ve probably played this song a thousand times, and every single time I turn it up just a little louder. My hearing may never forgive me.”

Tom smiled.

Next came Santana’s Black Magic Woman.

“Funny thing about this one,” Johnny said. “Everybody thinks it’s Santana’s song, but Peter Green wrote it back when Fleetwood Mac was still a blues band. Funny how life works. Sometimes the people who start something don’t get remembered for it.”

Something about Johnny sounded…different.

Not sad. Reflective perhaps.

The playlist continued.

Thank You.

Wish You Were Here.

Comfortably Numb.

Mama, I’m Coming Home.

Each song carried only a few words from Johnny, but those words seemed unusually personal.

Tom smiled when Thank You began to play. It had been the song he and Linda walked down the aisle to thirty-five years earlier. At first the church refused to allow a Led Zeppelin song during the ceremony, but Tom insisted. It was their song. Eventually the minister relented, and every time Tom heard it he was transported back to that hot summer afternoon.

Johnny kept talking.

“You spend enough years in radio,” he said before one song, “and certain records become bookmarks in your life.”

Before another he quietly remarked, “Funny how some people leave…but never really leave.”

Tom leaned forward. He had listened to Johnny for years, but today’s broadcast felt unlike any he could remember.

Then came Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven.

Johnny laughed.

“Well, here it is. The song that’s at or near the top of every ‘Greatest Rock Songs of All Time’ list ever made. Everybody says Robert Plant wrote some profound spiritual masterpiece.”

He snorted.

“I don’t buy it. I’ve read all those theories about the lady representing humanity,

heaven not being something you can buy, and all the rest. I call bullshit. Plant wasn’t that damn deep.”

He paused just long enough for listeners to wonder if he was finished.

“But I’ll tell you something…”

His voice softened.

“Whether he meant it or not doesn’t really matter. Sometimes a song grows into something bigger than the man who wrote it. Sometimes we hear what we need to hear.”

“Enjoy.”

For the first time all morning, Tom wondered if Johnny was talking less about music than about himself.

The station broke for commercials. Five long minutes.

Tom found himself unusually impatient.

When Johnny returned, his voice sounded quieter.

“Folks…my time here is about up. Management has decided to take the station in another direction. They’re looking for younger listeners, newer music, bigger ratings.”

Johnny chuckled softly.

“I suppose old disc jockeys eventually become classic rock themselves.”

He paused.

“I’ve been blessed to spend most of my life sharing great music with good people. That’s more than most folks ever get.”

Tom stared at the radio. This didn’t sound like a retirement speech.

Johnny continued. “My last record today isn’t necessarily the greatest song ever written. But it says something I’ve never been very good at saying myself.”

A familiar guitar filled the room.

Eric Clapton’s Bell Bottom Blues.

Tom had always liked the song, though he’d never paid much attention to the lyrics.

Today one line struck him differently than ever before.

“If I could choose a place to die…”

When the final note faded away, Johnny spoke one last time.

“Thank you for inviting me into your homes all these years. Take care of one another…and don’t ever stop listening to good music.”

The microphone clicked off.

No fanfare. No applause. Just silence.

By mid-afternoon the rain had ended. Tom spent an hour at the driving range before stopping for a drink on the way home.

As he pulled into his driveway, the local news interrupted the weather report.

“We’ve just learned that longtime radio personality Johnny ‘Records’ Wagner was killed this afternoon when his vehicle left the roadway and struck a utility pole. Police say no other vehicles were involved. The cause of the accident remains under investigation.”

Tom shut off the engine and sat motionless.

The playlist. The pauses. The songs about love. The songs about loss.

The final record.

It all came rushing back.

Had Johnny known? Or had he simply chosen the soundtrack of a life that, by cruel coincidence, ended only hours later?

Tom would never know. But he was certain of one thing.

Johnny hadn’t spent his last broadcast counting down his favorite songs.

He had spent it saying goodbye.

Tom wondered how many thousands of people had listened to Johnny’s final broadcast that afternoon, smiling at familiar songs, never realizing they had just heard a farewell.

Forever.