Originally published in the October 1988 issue of the Collector & Emitter.
A few of us were sitting on the shaded front porch of the big main house at Honor Roll Ranch the other day, basking in the early Fall weather and the radiance of the magnificent Q. R. Zedd, A5A, when up the gravel road from the distant highway comes this big lavender camper with surfer girls painted on the sides and a pop-up Yagi sticking out the top.
Honor Roll is just a hoot and a holler south of town, and all the world would like the thrill of meeting Zedd, world’s greatest DXer and all-around genius. However, visitors are not real common because most folks who start the pilgrimmage are overwhelmed by humility as they draw within sight of the antenna farm, and turn back, in awe.
The big lavender camper showed no signs of turning back.
“Q,” said Tondelayo, Zedd’s nubile bride mid QSL secretary, “who is that coming up our road?”
Zedd sguashed his latest Coors empty and reduced the gain on his chest-mounted transceiver. He leaned forward, eagle eyes narrowing as he studied the situation with his characteristic perspicacity and precision.
“I would say,” he said, “it’s a purple van with surfer girls painted on the sides and a Yagi sticking out of the top.”
“Oh, Q,” Tondelayo squealed, lowering sweet bare legs from the porch railing as she reached for the binoculars, “you are so smart! You have analyzed the situation perfectly!”
The van pulled up in the front yard with a small cloud of dust. The front door popped open. “I would further say,” Zedd said carefully, “that the plot is about to thicken.
“Oh, Q!” Tondelayo cried, wriggling uncontrollably all over. “Don’t say any more smart stuff! I can’t stand it when you’re so clever!”
Zedd patted her on the top of her adorable blond head.
Out of the front of the van hopped a tall, skinny, white-headed cat of about 25. He was wearing a yellow “Surf’s Up” tee shirt, green and blue and red and orange and white and purple and orchid shorts, white high-topped tennis shoes, and a straw beach hat with a 2-meter antenna sticking out of the sweatband. His sunglasses were the kind much favored by corrupt southern sheriffs in old Burt Reynolds movies, you know, mirrors.
He came ambling up to the porch, did this dude, looking us all over.
“Hey, men,” he says, kind of wiggling from side to side. “What’s shakin’? How they hangin, bro? Who’s the main man around this place, huh? Where at is this guy they call Zedd?”
Q. R. Zedd rose from his rocker with majestic dignity. Zedd,” quoth he. “And who might you be?”
“Hey, all right! That’s cool! Hello, my man! This is your lucky day, bro! You are finally getting to meet the greatest of them all, the one and only Super Six, history’s most wonderful all-time DXer and a credit to the world, me.”
With that, the dude raised his paw for a high five. “Say hello, my man, to the great Legendary Surf!”
“Surf,” Zedd growled, hands jammed in the pockets of his faded Levi’s. “I should have known.”
“You got it, stud. Hey!” Surf, known far and wide as California’s best DXer, had just removed his mirrors, allowing him to note that the bikini clad Tondelayo definitely was not one of the “men” he had addressed earlier.
“Hey, baby,” Surf leered. “How you doin’? I downright admire them overalls you got on! Hey, you want a ride in my van? You wanna boogie? Listen, I got an hf rig in there you won’t believe! How about it if we take a little spin down to the beach and twiddle some knobs, whatcha say, huh? Huh?”
“My wife,” said Zedd with steely control, “has some work she’s got to do. — Don’t you, Tondelayo?”
“Yes sir,” Tondelayo replied meekly, and scurried into the laundry room.
“Ah, an old-time marriage,” murmured Surf. “I love it! Love it! Quaintness lives on in the heartland of America! Zam! Powee!”
“Did you come for a purpose?” Zedd asked through gritted teeth. “Or do you just drive around, making people spit up?”
“I just wanted you to get to meet me, my man, since I have taken your place as the greatest, and the old has to give way to the new, et cetera. I thought it would be a thrill, for you, and looking at you and seeing how old you are, stud, I know there ain’t many thrills left for you, am I right?”
“Right, sure,” Zedd said with a dangerous edge in his tone. “I’ve heard about all the expeditions you’ve been on, and how many you’ve worked, et cetera,” quoth Surf, doing a casual boogaloo. “But I have worked more. And better. And longer. So the king is dead, long live the king. Am I right? Do you give up?”
As hummiliating as it is to admit it, your intrepid reporter for C&E was torn from his usual objective role. “How can you say these things?” I screamed. “Zedd is and always has been and always will be the greatest! If he ever leaves the hobby, they may just shut it down and give the bands to garage door companies! Zedd is brilliant! Zedd is brave, courageous and bold! Long may he live, and long may his story be told!”
Zedd placed cold compresses on the reporter’s forehead, and managed also to insert one in his mouth. Turning back to Surf, the great man asked quietly, “Anything I might do to try to convince you I’m still competitive?”
“I supose,” said Surf, “a man’s logbooks are the ultimate test, you dig?” “You mean if I have more stations worked, and better ones?”
“If you did, man, yes. Which you don’t. I got a warehouse off Sepulveda Boulevard just for my hf logbooks alone!”
Zedd looked thoughtful. All. I have is that building over there.”
Surf stared in the direction of the modest concrete block structure between the ranch. house and the barn. “All your logbooks are in there? Surely, man, you jest! That can’t touch my collection!”
Zedd sighed. “We might go take a look. Just to satisfy curiosity.”
“Sure! That’s cool! Lead the way, grampaw!”
And we went across to the building. On the way, Surf did some break dancing and sang this song with words like, “He’s the greatest in the land…Oh, he works ‘ern all on every band… He’s the best on any turf.. Legendary, Legendary, Legenthdy Surf!”
Kind of disgusting. And by the time Zedd opened the huge padlocks on the logbook storage building, those of us going along in the role of Zedd acolytes were real depressed.
Zedd swung the door open and reached inside to turn on some lights. We all went in.
It was cooly air conditioned, almost antiseptic. Ranged around the walls, evenly spaced on the gleaming dark green tile floor, were sixty 4-drawer file cabinets. Neatly labeled and dated.
“This is all?” asked Legendary Surf, gawking in disbelief.
“Yep,” Zedd said.
“This is nothing, man!”
Zedd clomped over to the nearest cabinet and slid out the top drawer. “Want to take a look?”
“Sure,” Surf grinned. He gave the rest of us a cackle. “Gotta humor the old has-beens, right, boys?”
He jangled over.
Looked in.
Stiffened.
Became horribly pale.
Turned and staggered out of the building, an obviously beaten man, big gobby tears in his eyes.
We stood still, rooted in shock. In a few moments we heard his van start up and drive away.
“What happened?” asked W5OU, who had seen the whole thing.
“Well, boys, I don’t know for sure,” Zedd told us quietly. “But I guess he underestimated me, thinking these here file cabinets didn’t have quite a few contacts in ’em.”
“I would have thought,” said W5MCJ very respectfully, “you would have needed more space, Mr. Zedd.”
Zedd beckoned us forward.
Like altar boys at a high mass, we crept up beside him and looked into the open file drawer.
Which was when it all became clear.
It wasn’t the original logbooks in these sixty 4-drawer file cabinets.
These were copies of the originals. On microfiche.
— KU5B