Please, Somebody Make it Stop

A short story

Gilbert Mattingly usually tuned his car radio to NPR during his morning drive. National Public Radio’s Morning Edition was a balanced blend of hard news and offbeat stories, which he enjoyed, and he often made a mental note to look up a story online later. Sometimes, Gil talked back to the radio as if the anchors and reporters were his friends. 

But yesterday, his wife gave him a shower radio for his birthday. By the time he took off for work, he’d already listened to the entire show. He spoke to the radio in a sad monotone, “Okay guys, my bad, but I’ve heard you already.” Gil twisted the radio tuner to the far side of the dial, where he landed on Kiss 108, a drive-time talk and top 100 show that was as frenetic and high-energy as NPR was mellow and calm. 

Gil sang along as The Star boomed over the speakers. Mary Anne Loving’s latest hit was number one for a good reason: The Star spoke to the heart of anyone who’d ever been in love. The lyrics were a flawless diamond, and the textured, vibrant melody hypnotized him. 

Do you know that star?
Do you know that sky?
Have you thanked that star?
Have you kissed your guy?
Tonight you’ll sleep, the star shining on you both
Tonight you’ll sleep, taking a solemn oath
Warmed by the starry night
Feeling alright.

The Star still played in his mind’s ear as he walked into the office of Mattingly & Spring Architects at 8:30 a.m. 

“The song’s stuck in your head, too?” asked Aiko, one of the six architects and engineers in Gil’s firm. 

His eyes opened wide. “Oops. I didn’t know I was singing it out loud. Sorry about that.”

“Hey, no problem,” Aiko replied. “It’s been stuck in my head all morning long, too. I hope I haven’t been singing it out loud without knowing it. The Star is a wonderful song, but my squeaky voice makes it sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks are singing.”

As Gil waited for the Keurig machine to brew, The Star echoed in his head. He swayed to the melody and clapped his hands to the beat. This is one hell of an earworm.

Gil carried his coffee to the conference room, whistling The Star as he walked. 

Hovering over blueprints for a new dormitory at Harvard, he asked his team if they could engineer thinner walls to enable two more dorm rooms to fit in each hall. “Harvard’s not getting any smaller,” he said. “The more rooms, the better. The college asked for a design with forty rooms per hall. I intend to give them forty-two. Can do?”

David, one of the engineers, was the first to reply. “It’s going to diminish the sound-proofness of the rooms, that’s a given. But we need to find a way to reroute the pipes adjacent to the bathrooms if we make the walls thinner. They won’t fit if we reduce the wall thickness to...um...to….” He hesitated for a moment and looked down at his iPad. “Three inches between rooms.” 

“I know,” Gil said. “Can we do this if we add pressure pumps and use the latest plastic pipes from that star?” Seven confused faces stared at him. “I mean from Indiana Plastic Works?” Damn song. It’s still lodged in my head.

Aiko tapped the blueprint’s bathroom and asked, “What if we relocate the bathrooms to the ends? We could have two smaller ones instead of your guy. We might even eke out forty-three rooms per floor.” She slapped her hand to her mouth and then continued, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said, ‘your guy.’ I meant ‘bathroom.’”

“I think we all have The Star stuck in our ears,” Gil said. 

“And it’s getting stronger,” Amy, the firm’s co-owner, added. Her lips curled into a smile, her pupils as big as nickels. 

“Yes,” said Karen, the firm’s most recent hire. “Not just louder, but overwhelming, like Amy said. It’s as if the song is muscling into my mind, forcing out all other thoughts, ruling like a gangster.” Karen rested her hands on her hips, her upper body swinging from side to side like she was on a dance floor. 

“Or like the Burmese python forcing out the native species in the South…” said another architect, Lily. “In...in...the south somewhere.”

“South Florida,” David helped. 

All heads turned to the voice at the far end of the conference table. The firm’s oldest member, Hamilton George, who was sixty-seven, bellowed, his voice gravelly, “Do you know that star? Do you know that sky? Have you thanked that star? Have you kissed your guy?” He tapped his feet in sync with the rhythm. Three more people joined the chorus, “Tonight you’ll sleep, the star shining on you both. Tonight you’ll sleep, taking a solemn oath. Warmed by the starry night, feeling alright.”

A few seconds later, The Star spilled from everyone’s lips, transforming the meeting room into an ensemble of passionate voices. Wooden sculptures of antelopes, elephants, and giraffes that decorated the bookcase vibrated in synchronicity.

Do you know that star?
Do you know that sky?
Have you thanked that star?
Have you kissed your guy?

And again and again, The Star looped endlessly. 

An explosion outside disrupted their chorus, drawing everyone to the second-story window, from where they witnessed the aftermath of a Mercedes that crashed into the middle of a city bus, flames from the wreck soaring, the blast’s force eviscerating the passengers in both vehicles. Twisted metal covered the street, and caterwaul cries filled the air. 

Gill snapped his phone out of his pocket.

The 911 operator answered on the first ring. “Do you know that star? Do you know that sky?"

Gil sang back as if in responsive prayer while he swayed on his feet. “Tonight you’ll sleep, the star shining on you both. Tonight you’ll sleep, taking a solemn oath—”

“Gil!” Amy roared. She pounded the table with her fist. 

Gil shook his head like he was trying to rid his ears of water after an ocean swim. He gasped. “Pay attention!” he scolded the anonymous 911 operator. “There’s been a horrific crash between a car and bus at 301 Grace Place, Cambridge.”

“Yes. This is 911. Where is your emergency?” 

“Three-oh-one Grace Place, Cambridge. A car crash. People are dead. Send ambulances. Hurry.” 

New screams wrenched Gil back to the window. A second car crashed into the bus, more metal reshaping metal, sparks shooting from where the two vehicles intersected. As the architects pressed their noses to the window, their mouths opened wide in horror, Gil called 911 a second time. “There’s been another accident,” he said. “Another car crashed into the same bus in front of 301 Grace Place in Cambridge. Across the street from the Lange Theater.” Gil hoped that the name of one of Massachusetts’ most famous landmarks would help the ambulance navigate more quickly.

“We’ll send an ambulance,” the dispatcher replied.

“Send a lot.” 

“Sir, there are accidents throughout Boston. Over two hundred calls have come in. We’re working as fast as we can. If you or anyone has first aid training, please render assistance in the meanwhile.” The operator paused for a beat. “Do you know that star?”

Gil dropped his phone. 

One of the architects in the conference room sang The Star again. Aiko joined in, followed by two more harmonies. 

Gil had only seconds to save everyone, including himself. He hurled an unopened Perrier bottle at the window, the bottle shattering in an ear-splitting explosion of noise, green glass, and water.

“What did you do?” David asked.

“It’s the song. Nobody say anything! Nobody open their mouths!” Gil shouted. He held his finger hard against his lips. “Shh.” 

Gil killed the audio on his laptop and, with fast-flying fingers, navigated to CNN’s website. The muted anchor was singing. Gil’s eyes darted back and forth as he read the distorted crawl.

...whole world song stuck. President national emergency. Loud noises frights may minutes cure. FCC order all AMFM stations shut. netherlands radio playing national amfum. England France lost contact. Twenty-seven known jet crashes. if ou dont yet hear the star push sharp pencil in ears. Kill Ears. kill Ears.Turn off radio tv internet sound. Dont call 911 singers.

An uneasy quiet filled the conference room. Gil read the unchanging crawl once, twice, and a third time. It was 9:45 a.m. 

The screams outside abruptly stopped, replaced by singing. The Star’s lush lyrics wafted up like campfire smoke from a blazing fire. The chorale of dozens and dozens of men, women, boys, and girls penetrated the window, enveloping them. Do you know that star? Do you know that sky?

They all joined in.

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If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my story, Delegating Work.