Marcus Jenkins soaks gloomily in the bathtub, listening to classic olde tymey radio programs on the retro-1930s replica CD/MP3 AM/FM radio player designed to harken back to a simpler, better time.
His parents don’t let him watch modern TV or movies because they don’t think the subject matter of today’s mass media is appropriate for a boy his age, so clean and wholesome classic radio shows are his babysitter. Today, he’s listening to a thriller about an ivory hunter who runs afoul of some barbaric African tribesman who were trying to attack the Professor’s pretty blonde daughter so he tricks the simpletons into smuggling opium for him (and in the process also set them up to be arrested and killed) while he gets the ivory safely out of the bush and back into civilization.
The water is beginning to cool, and Marcus stares down at his pruny hands… they’re so wrinkled now… that radio show was from 1939… most everyone who acted in it must be dead by now. Shriveled up into moldy dust. All of those voices, even that funny sidekick going “Ooga booga”, all dead and gone.
Someday he will be dead too, Marcus thinks to himself in a somewhat forced bout of melancholy. But at least those people on the radio still have their voices living on; Marcus is already 9 and he doesn’t have anything to show for it.
Marcus shivers in the cold water, the bubbles dissipated, and he decides he’s going to sit in this tub until his parents get worried and remember to check in on him.
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