My Life of Crime

A misadventure in music

In the days when radio DJs felt like gods to us and perhaps to themselves, it seemed possible to believe that we were all on a first-name basis. I was either Terry or Buddy, depending on who asked, and the DJs were Rick (Dees), Walt or Ronnie or Don or Amaysa, and sometimes Coyote and Super-Fox.

Coyote was actually a guy named Jim who once locked himself into the DJ booth and played Blondie’s “The Tide Is High” over and over for hours, or so I’m told. This had something to do with Alabama football back in the Bear years, because coaches could be named for animals, too.

Maybe the station fired Coyote afterward or maybe he got such a big raise that his legend could finally rest on itself.

I have no idea what happened to him, though, after the station’s format went haywire as they all were wont to do eventually.

So often, your favorite DJ would up and leave with no warning. I never did know what happened to morning drive DJ Steve Norris, but I loved him just the same. I often wonder where my “friend” Bob Gilmore traveled after underground WZZK went country or where Brother Bill Levy popped up, too, when Twang replaced the Moog.

More than anything, though, I wonder about Christopher Foxx, the Super-DJ who left a night-time gig at one station for that of another, and then when it either didn’t work out because Coyote’s howls had more wattage than his barks or because he got more money for returning, he came back to the former station for the afternoon drive, and so now his station could promote its animals early, late and all points in between.

By then, the only time I listened was in my mother’s car when I was home from school, as her car still had only AM. I can understand how the screams and manic patter of these DJs could enrapture anyone. How anyone might think they were intimates with the guys who played nothing but the fave hits and sometimes even answered the phone, put callers on the air, and made even cynics like me feel like we were all in something together.

And sometimes the “something” was even the music.

I can tell you that at one point, Super-Fox’s favorite song was this one:

I think he also liked this one very much:

That one’s hard for me to take because of the doggy world I live in.

Anyway, I felt in these moments that the DJ was my friend, willing to be vulnerable and honest with all of us. And baring your soul in front of teenagers can’t be something done without some reservation.

Or consequence.

At the time, one of my good friends decided that just listening wasn’t enough. As an aspiring DJ and communications major at our college, he managed to get closer to all these guys, especially Super-Fox. Once, as I was listening to the station, I heard my friend on Super-Fox’s show. How did he do it, I wondered?

I asked, but either he didn’t tell me, or I quit listening.

But I heard him clearly another night when he suggested that we visit Fox at his apartment.

Really?

“Oh yeah, he’s into all sorts of stuff.”

So we rode all over the south side of Birmingham to an apartment complex that at one time might have been considered upscale.

“Shouldn’t we call him first?” I asked.

“Nah, he won’t mind. We’re really close.”

And maybe they were, except when we got to his door, all was dark and no matter how many times my friend knocked, no one opened up.

So much for that, I thought.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know how to get in.”

“Do what? Why do we want to get in if he’s not there?”

But my friend didn’t answer, and the next thing I knew, we were at the back of the apartment where I was hoisting my friend up to the second-floor deck. And sure enough, once he scaled it, the sliding glass door opened straight up.

“Go around to the front, and I’ll let you in.”

I know I already wrote this, but…

WHY WERE WE TRYING TO GET INTO A LOCKED APARTMENT WHERE THE HOST NOT ONLY DIDN’T KNOW WE WANTED TO SEE HIM BUT WASN’T HOME AT ALL?

What were we supposed to do there?

“Let’s have a drink,” my friend said, but all Super-Fox had around were a couple of Old Milwaukees in an otherwise pretty empty refrigerator.

We drank them anyway, and then curiosity took over.

For, I wondered, how does a Super-Fox live?

The decor was very 70s: Naugahyde chairs, shag carpets, or maybe that’s just how I see it all now.

And then…I found the boxes.

Of comic books.

Whatever else he was — DJ, friend, crazed animal of the afternoon-night — Christopher “Super” Foxx collected comic books. And he was not a casual collector, meaning there weren’t piles of random books from his youth lying in an old box. I wouldn’t have known this then, but he had those special stylized comic boxes you now get online or from your comics store. And his books were bagged and bordered (don’t ask if you don’t already know) and compiled in order as neatly in those boxes as I’ve ever seen anything stored.

He had Daredevil, The Fantastic Four, The Avengers, and The Hulk, and I suppose he also had DC Comics somewhere, but I never made it that far in my “browsing.”

I never made it past The Amazing Spider-Man.

I don’t remember anymore whether he had the complete collection all the way back to Amazing Fantasy #15 because I couldn’t stop looking at issues #121–122 — the ones where The Green Goblin “kills” Gwen Stacy, Peter Parker’s girlfriend. All this comes before those cloning issues, but I’ll spare you the intricacies of Spider-Man’s troubles.

“Wow,” I said to my friend. “Look at all this!”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wonder if he’s ever coming home.”

And now you might be wondering, given the title above, whether I was tempted to grab a box or two and make these my own.

I’ll tell you that, indeed, I was very tempted. Horribly tempted, and I even started bargaining with myself. I could take just those two issues — 121–122, the ones I didn’t have in my collection — and that would be it. But then, there were also those issues with Kraven the Hunter I once had before an overflowing toilet doomed my own collection.

And then, “kraven” became the word, and I wondered about myself and what sort of person takes like this from a friend in the night? A friend of the night.

“Well,” my friend said. “Let’s get out of here. He’s probably out somewhere with one of his other friends.”

Out prowling, for sure.

So, I tucked those Spider Man’s back in their proper place, and I walked out the front door while my friend locked up and exited the way he came in.

Before I left, I noticed another magazine lying on an ill-matching side table. It was one of a subscription to Rolling Stone, and on the label, I saw Super-Fox’s real name.

As I thought about this old story this morning, I couldn’t remember Christopher Foxx’s real name. It might be gone forever, but my memory — so bad when it comes to facts of science — readily retains things of seemingly no importance.

But then, remembering isn't so hard when intimate strangers talk to you through whatever listening device you have available, night after night, or while you’re driving in the daylight rush.

Is it Glenn?

Thanks for reading, and to The Riff for publishing.