Elliott Goldkind

3454 Waverly Drive, #1

Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 662-7529
goldkind@ornette.com

KABC-2594: Butterball

Elias Errol had invoked every ruse his 12 year-old brain could concoct, and his parents

finally relented. Whether it was the almost coquettish, wide-eyed entreaties or the spoiled

pouting or outright fits of rebellious rage, whatever it was, Elias was soon to get what he so

urgently craved. Perhaps not the first in the neighborhood, but at least not the very last either.

Before long it would be “Breaker One-Nine, Breaker One-Nine,” whenever he wanted.

Like most things to be coveted by the neighborhood boys, Woodside’s CB radio craze

originated in the Henaff house, instigated by Rene, Bobby’s father. The Henaffs stood out from

the blue-collar Irish and Italians. The neighborhood’s fathers labored at factories, drove garbage

trucks, some held low-level administrative jobs in offices in the City. But Rene not only worked

in the city, he was a maitre d’ at a very fancy restaurant in Manhattan. None of the other boys

had been there, or even seen it. Most probably couldn’t even properly pronounce its name.

Amid a group of second-generation Irishmen and Sicilians, proletarians all, the Henaffs, headed

by a handsome Frenchman and his statuesque Finnish bride, were the family with the best toys,

the nicest apartment, and the ones that went on the best weekend trips.
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Whether it was fishing on the piers at Jones Beach or cycling or playing soccer in

Rockaway, these excursions always began and ended in the Chevywagon. And if this long,

powerful machine, with seating for nine, weren’t impressive enough – and it was – it had the CB

to truly distinguish it from the rest. The Wagon’s whip antenna, tall, white and clean, bending

slightly in the wind as it sped along the highways, broadcasting to all: CB on board!

Perhaps it was John Errol’s desire to keep up with the Henaffs, or perhaps some rare

financial windfall, but whatever the reason, he eventually gave in to his son’s badgering. John

was a stodgy man, a stickler for the rules. He insisted Elias do everything by the book, even

down to the license. In this case Elias would happily do whatever it took to be able to speak to

the truckers and get radio checks, maybe even be the channelmaster. Someday. For once, he

didn’t resent the uptight requests of his stern father, and couldn’t wait to apply for the license. It

arrived the day after they had bought the CB and the antenna.

“KABC-2594, KABC-2594, KABC-2594,” his first mantra. Elias repeated this to

himself, excited, anticipating a time when these call letters, his call letters would be committed to

memory, second nature. And now that he was legal he now had to deal with the single most

important part of CB culture.

“So, what’s your handle gonna be,” Bobby asked him.

“I think I’m gonna be ‘Butterball’,” Elias responded, hoping it would meet Bobby’s

approval.

“You’re a skinny twig. With a squeaky girl-voice.” Bobby said, and then scowled a bit

and pushed some derisive air through his lips. It could have been worse.

****************************

The next morning, a Saturday, Elias awoke at the crack of dawn. Inasmuch as he could
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even sleep at all, he dreamt of the conversations he’d have with his new gizmo. There had been

previous toys. Elias was hardly a deprived child. His parents provided for him beyond what

their means would suggest. But this was no kid’s toy. Not a bike or skateboard. Not even a

walkie-talkie. You don’t need call letters to operate a walkie-talkie. Elias grabbed a scissor and

sliced open the box containing the CB. Its sleek black metal and chrome trim gleamed and Elias’

pulse quickened. He popped the top of the long tube that held the long, white fiberglass antenna.

He grabbed them both, as well as the DC power converter and opened the door to the terrace.

It had been a hard decision on which kind of rig to buy. A mobile unit was not only

cooler, not only more powerful, but it could potentially be put in a car. John Errol didn’t have a

car at the moment, but he had in the past and he very well might in the future. For now, Elias

was content to make the terrace his makeshift base-station. Still in his flannel pajamas, he

loaded his scrawny body with the components and crept out to the terrace. He looked out

towards the horizon, too excited to notice the chill in the early morning air. He imagined all

those truckers, even convoys of truckers out there, on the L.I.E., the B.Q.E. Maybe soon he’d

get lucky some night and shoot skip, when the weather was just right, and the signals were

bouncing against the sky just so, and the voices would come not just from New York, but from

Canada or Europe or more mysterious places, far beyond.

He spread out the two folding green patio chairs, one for himself, the other for the rig.

No need for the manual now. Elias had hooked this rig up hundreds of times in his head. Just a

simple RF plug here, twist of a ring for the microphone there, power converter into the back of

the CB and the other end into the outlet embedded in the brick outer wall of the apartment

building. All hooked up, it was time to flick the switches. First the power converter. One click

and its red lamp began to glow. Now the toggle on the CB itself. Click. And then a glorious
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symphony of lights and sounds. A red light, a green light, a meter whose needle immediately

started to dance. Static and crackle amid the voices of strangers, somewhere, out there.

***********************************

The CB craze was spreading through Woodside, just as it was throughout the rest of the

country. It wasn’t just adolescents who were memorizing their 10-codes, learning to appreciate

the differences between a Mack and a Kenworth and finding themselves singing “Convoy” to

themselves, practically involuntarily. Some guys, and they were almost always guys, even took

it to the next level. Sideband. For those who needed more than the regular 40 channels, there

were 40 more on the upper sideband, 40 more on the lower. 120 channels in all. Elias thought

about sideband sometimes but ultimately rejected it, at least for now. “Did you really need all

those channels?” He doubted it. Overkill.

Some of the other kids got into CBing as well. Elias and his friends would talk to each

other but it was always little more than a way to pass the time. Why would you care about

talking to them when there were strangers out there? Truckers to tell you how the roads were,

people at their base stations to tell you how strong your signal was hitting them. That was what

this was really all about. “Comin’ in 5-by-5, good buddy.” Talking to the other kids was dull.

But talking about CBs with them was the main topic of conversation. Bobby would always seem

to know the most about different rigs, the best antennas. Raymond Santangelo knew which

channels were the best for locals. There was one Jew in the neighborhood, known,

affectionately, as Ray the Jew, perhaps to avoid confusion with Ray Santangelo. Ray the Jew

bragged not only about how often he got to be the Channelmaster, but how he had taken the CB

experience to its zenith. The eyeball.

Elias thought he was up to speed when it came to the jargon, the activities, the culture,
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the lore. A spindly, trebly-voiced little boy, perhaps. But he’d done his homework. But the

eyeball was news to him.

“Ray, what’s an eyeball?” he asked, urgently.

“Eyeball,” Ray drawled, mocking Elias’ ignorance, then pointing at his eye in an

exaggerated gesture.

“Yeah, I know what an eyeball is. But what does it mean, you know, in CB?”

Ray was a sarcastic kid. Perhaps the result of going through adolescence being known as

Ray the Jew, perhaps the cause of the moniker. A chicken-or-egg question. But regardless, he

wasn’t one to let an opportunity to deride his peers go by without having a bit of fun.

“Eeeeeyyyyeeeee-baaaallll. Duh!”

“C’mon Ray, just tell me!” Elias didn’t mind the ribbing as much as he loathed his own

ignorance of what appeared to be a basic concept of CBing.

“Dickwad, it’s when you meet up with someone. Lame-O. You talk to them on the rig

and then you actually meet up, in person, face to face.” Ray paused for a second, wondering if

he should tell more. “Dennis says he actually met some chick on the air and she said she’d blow

him when they had an eyeball.”

****************************************

It was a warm Saturday morning. Elias sat in the green chair. Its metal frame still cool

from the night before, Elias pressed his arms against it to combat the rising sun. He’d been

channelmastering on channel 3 the night before. Not a very crowded channel, true, but there

seemed to be some cool, friendly guys there. Like most weekend mornings, he connected the

rig, flicked the switches, and grabbed the mic.

“Breaker zero-three, breakers zero-three. Good morning good buddies, this is Butterball,
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KABC-2594, signing on, signing on. Butterball wishing all my good buddies a gooooooooood

morning!”

Like most times on the terrace, Elias was completely happy, completely at peace with the

world of the airwaves who seemed all-too-happy to talk to him. It was “Mornin’ Butterball,”

here, and “What’s your 20, Butterball?” there. Everyone loved him, everyone was interested in

Butterball. He knew he’d picked the right handle. Whether he was a skinny kid or not, he knew

it was a funny name. What did Bobby know?

“Breaker there Butterball.” A new, deep voice broke through the static. “You got Big

Bear here, and you’re broadcasting a big 5-by-5 on the meter. Big Bear’s got hair everywhere!”

“Hey there good buddy.” Elias was pleased to hear another new, friendly voice.

“So Butterball, what’s your 20?” Big Bear definitely sounded like a nice man.

“I’m here in Woodside,” Elias answered. “Yeah, you’re comin’ in 5-by-5 too.”

“How ‘bout an eyeball? I’m near your 20.”

Elias had had many requests for an eyeball but had never actually had one before. It just

didn’t really make that much sense, for one thing. What were you going to do once you met?

What was the point really? And, after all, he knew that meeting up with a stranger wasn’t the

most prudent thing for a young boy to do. But Elias craved something new, and, if nothing else,

he knew that he’d have a good story for his buddies. Even Ray the Jew would be impressed.

“Uh, I guess so Big Bear. Sure. Where are you?”

“Just comin’ down the Boulevard now.” He sounded excited. Maybe this was his first

eyeball, too. “Let’s do it Butterball. I’m right in your neck of the woods.”

“OK, well just head down to 52nd street and make a right. Take it all the way to Skilman.

Do you know where that is?”

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“Sure do. I deliver to the Bohack there. You know it?”

“Of course I do. I get pizza next door all the time.”

Elias was overcome with excitement. Sure, it was great to talk to strangers, learn about

the road, hear about other stories and adventures. But Elias was about to actually have that

eyeball after all. He stood up and looked over the railing, looked at the roads, the park down the

way, the highways on the horizon. He saw the speeding blips in the distance and wondered how

many of them he’d spoken to on the air, how many he’d speak with later today, how many he

might even meet, someday. He passed on the directions, turn by turn, to Big Bear, who was

finally at the last turn before Elias’ apartment building.

Elias tried to be as precise as possible. “So Big Bear. You should make the next right

and then that’ll be the street. I’ll be up on the terrace of the big apartment building. Fourth floor,

terrace on the left.”

“Terrace? Huh,” Big Bear sounded a bit confused. “Well, OK, whatever you say.”

“I can see your truck now. I see it! I see it!!” Elias was more excited than he had

imagined he would be. He finally understood the hype behind the eyeball.

The truck wasn’t an 18-wheeler rig, just a 10-wheeler. But it was still cool as far as Elias

was concerned. He felt his heart racing as the truck slowed to a halt, right beneath the terrace.

Elias looked at the cab, fixed on the edge of the driver’s door, waiting for it to crack open.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Big Bear emerged. As his handle suggested, he

was a big man. Much bigger than Elias’ father, with a big beer-gut, a big moustache and a faded

gray cap on his big head. Elias was elated. Big rig or not, Big Bear was the real deal: a trucker.

He stood up and started to crane his neck, stretching it upward, scanning up the building for his

Butterball. Elias couldn’t wait until their gaze met and he’d see that look of recognition in Big
 KABC­2594: Butterball, Page 8 

Bear’s eyes.

Big Bear had an odd, perhaps nervous look on his face. Could he have been as excited as

Elias? Maybe this was his first eyeball too? He continued to scale the building with his eyes

until they finally took in the figure of the young boy, still in his pajamas, waving frantically with

a big smile on his face.

“Hey Big Bear! Hey Big Bear!”

Big Bear stood there, his mouth closed at first and then cracking to a small grin. Perhaps

it was even a bit of a smile. Or perhaps more of a smirk, a bit confused, but not altogether

unfriendly. Then his shoulders dropped a bit and he raised his arm and waved a bit.

“I’m glad you made it Big Bear. This is my first eyeball. Ever!”

“Well I’m glad. Nice to meet you Butterball.”

Elias thought that Big Bear was a bit calmer in person than he seemed on the air, but still,

Elias was thrilled. This was more than he’d ever imagined he’d get from his CB experience. He

waved back with a frenetic arm, smiling ear to ear. Big Bear waved back a bit as he turned and

started towards his cab. While he stood there, Elias wondered if there was something else they

should do, but realized that that wasn’t the point of the eyeball. Big Bear obviously knew it, too,

no doubt from previous experience. The point of the eyeball was to actually meet up, in person,

face to face.

“Duh!,” Elias muttered to himself, proud of his new experience. He continued to wave to

the truck as it rolled to the end of the street, around the corner, and out of sight.