Originally published in the September 1989 issue of the Collector and Emitter.
“Shazam!” yelled the nerdly voice as the front door of the hamshack flew open. “I are here to operate them radio, ten-four?”
Q.R. Zedd, A5A, world’s greatest DXer, spun around in his swivel chair at the No. 1 operating position. Speaking into the boom mike attached to his forehead with a yellow rubber suction cup, the heroic one sent out the message that broke a thousand ham hearts around the globe:
“QRX. QRX. This is A5A, taking a short break. All stations, QRX.”
As Zedd paused, the vox dropped out on his transmitter and the 3-500Zs in his desktop linear began to cool, changing from the cheery red that had lighted the hamshack to a dull pink and then to dimness. Those of Zedd’s adoring fans in the hamshack bleachers removed the special goggles we had been wearing against the tube glow, and for the first time we could see the rustic dumbdumb who had so rudely interrupted today’s 10K morning by Zedd, holder of our only 1×1 callsign.
It was, of course, Homer Klott, the, impossibly ignorant dork who has been studying for his novice license for several years now under Zedd’s tutelage.
I are here!” Klott chortled, clomping into the shack. “Whoopdie-do and razzmatazz! I are QSB and QRM! Lemme at them microphone thing and I will start doing CQSK 23 meters, or the gas meter if the twenties ain’t on!”
Zedd stared at the nerdly one with the expression of a saint: a combination of sadness, resignation, and heartfelt yearning to commit murder. The rest of us took this opportunity to look Homer over, too.
Windstorms in early summer had caught Homer outdoors, and his propellor-equipped beanie was last seen headed for Ardmore along with two plastic garbage cans and an old Volkswagen. The rest of his outfit, however, was complete.
He was color-coordinated from head to toe. The egg drippings on his chin matched his yellow bandana, which nicely complimented the gravy globs on the front of his Tex Ritter sweatshirt — that part of which could be seen over the top of his tie-dyed bib overalls. Even the wet tracks left on the hamshack tile by Homer’s white lizard boots matched his tan-and-yellow motif.
Homer looked truly happy and excited. He didn’t even seem to mind the small sparrow that had landed sometime earlier on the horizontal shelf of his protruding front teeth. The sparrow, perched happily in front of Homer’s left nostril, seemed happy too. “What are you doing here, Klott?” Zedd demanded. “Your next lesson isn’t until tomorrow night.”
“Roger, over and out! Homer screamed. “But tomorrow night I have got to go to the city to take the test again, so I have got to postpone my next lesson till after that. But what I are here for right now is, you promised me I could operate!”
Zedd flinched, “I did what?”
“You said!”
“When?”
“You said, when I started having you be my Arnold –”
“Your Elmer!”
Homer’s eyes glazed,
“Huh?” “Your Elmer! Your Elmer!” Homer’s forehead wrinkled. “I am? I thought I was Homer.”
“You are Homer,” Zedd bellowed, breaking one window. “The term for the person who helps another one get into this hobby is Elmer. Not Arnold.”
Homer turned and stared at us in the bleachers. “Pleasta meetcha, Arnold. I… oh…,”
“When did I say you could operate?” Zedd shouted.
“Right now!” Homer yelled back.
“I didn’t say that!”
“Yessir, yes sireebob, rootie-toot-tooin’ you did!”
“When?”
“You said, if I got a perfect record on them Novice test, I could operate your CB with you as warrant officer.”
“You mean control operator, you idiot!” “Ten-four! Lemme at ’em. I am going to work me some Exxon!”
“That’s DX!”
“Shazam!” Homer tried to push Zedd out of his chair.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Zedd groaned. “When did you get a perfect score on the novice exam?
“Yesterday!” Zedd’s face went slack. “You passed?”
“Negatron! But this time my score was perfect! I got ever’ one of ’em wrong!”
Zedd’s legendary patience seemed to come into play just as those of us watching felt sure the top of his skull would blow off. With incredible effort he calmed himself.
“Maybe,” Zedd told us, “this is not a bad thing. If he works a station or two, it might inspire him.”
So saying, Zedd vacated his throne-like swivel chair. “Sit down, Homer.”
Homer sat. He was so excited he forgot to monitor the size of the bubble he was blowing with his gum. When he grabbed the desk mike, it broke the bubble, leaving the mike draped over with slobbery pink rubbery stuff.
“There are stations on frequency wanting to work me,” Zedd explained calmly. “What you do, Homer, is you key the mike and say ‘QRZ from A5A.'”
“Right!” Homer screamed. “‘QSB of the Triple-A’.”
“‘QRZ from A5A,”‘ Zedd gritted through his teeth. “Here. I’ll write it down. — Okay. Then when you hear a station’s call, you tell him he’s five and nine, and you write his callsign down in this here logbook. Have you got that?”
“Got ‘er!” Homer shrieked. “Stand back, boys, the master is going to work!”
Homer keyed the mike.
“QTH of the AAA!” he yelled “Ten-four, good buddy, how’s it look on them flipside? Got a bear in the air and a bear in the grass, and back them hogs up another mile, its getting real fragrant up here! What’s your handle, good buddy, and what’s your twenty, come on back?”
At this point ,the microphone was released to the accompanying sound of three of Homer’s fingers being broken in Zedd’s grasp. As Homer howled and peeled out of the swivel chair in agony, going to his knees on the floor, Zedd whipped a huge revolver out of the shack desk and pointed it at the nerdly one’s head.
“Q.!” yelled WU5W. “No!”
Zedd hesitated, the hammer fully back on the old sixshooter. He looked at us and then he looked at the whimpering dork on the floor and then he looked at the ceiling.
Slowly he unlocked the thumb-buster.
“Boys and girls,” he sighed, “you are right. “Shooting this jerk in the head would accomplish nothing. I might empty the gun and not hit his brain cell. Get up, Homer. Go home. Study. We’ll try again some other day.”
Homer clambered to his feet. “I am working hard, Mr. Zepp, I truly, truly are! I have almost got that L letter down now! I will make you proud of me yet, I promise!”
“So long, Homer.”
“Huh?”
“So long.”
“So long what?”
“Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
At which point some of us, unable to endure witnessing more of Zedd’s torment, headed home, just a hoot and a holler north of the ranch.
— KU5B