1957 Motorola in Wisteria Lavender

Allie tells me to only write about one radio in a story. She thinks that more than one radio gets confusing.

The way she says it, I get the impression she is substituting confusing for boring.

This story has two radios. But I have to tell you about one in order to tell you about the other.

But I promise to keep it short.

The 1950 Sterling Deluxe 1000 is on page 339 of Peter Sheridon’s seminal book about beautiful radios.

I bid on it once and lost it so when it came up again, I decided I would win it this time. And so, I did. The seller was in Canada and he said he would pack it carefully and send it by FedEx. He also generously had the package insured. Which sounds like a good thing but it meant I would have had to be home to sign the package.

Now, I'm home all the time. So much so that my friend Fern is concerned I have turned into a shut in. Not really sure what she loves about the traffic on A1A. But I do typically golf in the afternoon, and, sure enough, when I got back one day there was a note from FedEx on the door. I was mildly irritated at myself for not having told the seller to not insure it but there was not much I could have done. So, I signed the No Signature Required part of the notice and stuck it to the door. Now of course the next day there was another Sorry We Missed You notice with the dreaded You can pick it up at this FedEx location. The note I had stuck on the door was lying on the doormat. Now I'm not going to pick it up at FedEx. The whole point of FedEx is they bring it to you. So, I skipped golf the next day and stood watch until I saw the tell-tale truck, and then I ran down the street to flag it down. I didn’t recognize the driver, Roberto, but I somehow convinced him to back up to my house where I gave him a bottle of Evian and a short tour of the radios. I also handed him the slip. Roberto said, “next time I will text you, give me your number.”

And I thought to myself, next time?

But I gave him my number and then I drove out to the middle of nowhere, then stood in line for 45 minutes behind a woman who was sending 29 packages to California, to pick up my Sterling 1000 and go home.

I am almost finished writing about the Sterling. I only want to add that although it was perfectly nice, with that splash of mottled blue, it was much smaller and lighter than I had anticipated and if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was a $29.95 toaster from Walmart.

This is only to say that when, a few days later, I received a text with a picture of a radio, I could see right away it was from Roberto (FedEx).

Now if Roberto hadn't included the picture of the radio I would have thought it was a restaurant review because he spent the first two paragraphs talking about this hole in the wall place on a side street in Little Havana which only the locals knew about which made the best Cuban sandwiches.

Finally, he got around to telling me there was this very cool looking purple radio behind the counter.

I looked at the picture.

I knew this radio.

It wasn't purple.

It was Wisteria Lavender.

The radio, a Motorola, was very, very common.

But the color, what Roberto said was purple, was very, very rare.

‘Wow,’ I texted back, ‘thank you so much for letting me know. That is a super rare radio.’

Then I hopped into my car, and drove an hour to Miami in order to eat some succulent roast pork.

So, I was in Miami and the lady in my car’s GPS had basically stopped giving directions. Every time I made a turn, she said, “no dude, not a good idea.”

I pulled over to ask someone and the guy looked at me like I was an idiot. I get that look a lot. So, I tried it in my mangled Spanish. I knew that ham was jamón so I threw that word in a lot. The guy, he was a young guy with a beard and a Miami Dolphins hat worn backwards, pointed at a sign literally above my head - Sándwiches Cubanos.

I said, “gracias.”

He said, “fucking tourists.”

The place was definitely for locals. I’m going to go ahead and say I was the only Egyptian Jew in the whole place.

There was no menu.

They only served Cuban sandwiches.

I didn't know how to say, “can you make mine with not so much pork?” So, I took a seat at the bar and held up my finger in the universal ordering sign.

“Cerveza?”

“Si,” I said.

I was such a Renaissance man.

He brought me a Cristal in a can. No glass. That was fine. I could drink from a can.

I took a sip and that was when I saw it.

Behind the counter. It was playing what sounded like Spanish music but it was hard to tell with all that static. “Sounds like that baby could use a new capacitor,” I said.

Of course, I only said that in my head. Instead, I said, “nice radio.”

He then turned his head and imitated a spitting motion. At least I hope he was imitating.

“It’s a piece of shit. Belongs to my mother in law. She brought it back from the old country.”

“I’d be happy to take it off your hands,” I said trying hard not to sound like the ugly Canadian that I was.

“The minute she dies,” he said, and then this time I did see spit, “you are welcome to have it. But don't hold your breath. That old tank will outlive us all.”

It was nice to see such close-knit families. I could have made him an offer.

But I didn't want to be that guy.

It was only a radio.

Gotta say Roberto was right about the sandwich though. It was delicious. I was finishing the last of my beer and thinking of ordering two Cubanos to go when an older man in a porkpie hat sidled up to me.

“You like radios?” he asked.

He managed to say it in a way that sounded lascivious.

“Sure,” I replied. What was I supposed to say?

And he said, “I come back.”

He must have lived upstairs because he was back five minutes later holding what appeared to be a Sony Walkman.

“Fifty bucks,” he said.

By now, every eye in the sandwich shop was on me. I figured this wasn't the right time to launch into a lecture about the aesthetics of mid-century moderns. Instead, I went into my wallet and gave him a fifty.

You know how at the park they have signs which say, “don't feed the pigeons.”

Well, in this case, I was the only pigeon.

Within ten minutes I was conducting a Little Havana episode of Antique Road Show. There was soon a line out the door of people holding every imaginable piece of shit electronic device ever made in the 80s and 90s.

I bought it all.

I think I bought three VCRs.

Two car radios which, if they were fish, appeared to have been freshly caught.

I bought it all.

Until my wallet was empty.

Then everyone went home.

I got up to go too.

I asked if they took credit cards.

“Only cash,” the guy behind the bar said with a straight face.

Then he broke out laughing.

“Just messing with you man. It’s on the house. Tell your friends.”

I picked up my two bags of useless electronics and, with a last look at the Motorola, walked back to my car.

Two weeks later I went back with Lewberg and Goldfarb. The sandwiches were as good as I had promised them but the radio, the wisteria lavender Motorola, was gone.

I caught the bartender’s eye.

“Your mother in law?” I asked arching my eyebrows and nodding towards the empty spot the radio once held.

“Healthy as a horse,” he said.

“So what happened to the radio?” I asked.

“My loco FedEx guy offered me $200 for it,” he said.

“But what about your mother in law?” I asked.

“200 dude.”

“But your mother in law and the old country?” I wailed.

“I bought her an iPod. She’s happy as a pig in shit. Besides, she said that purple color was as ugly as Satan himself.”

Not purple. Wisteria lavender. “You want a beer?” he asked.

And I said, “yeah.”

Then I said, “better make it tequila.”

The End