1961 Arvin 61R13
Becky Sue Collingsworth got a transistor radio for her 14th birthday. It was a brand new in the box red Arvin. It was absolutely beautiful.
It was, by far, the worst birthday present she had ever received.
By far.
Starting in October, Becky Sue had started pestering her parents about wanting a transistor radio for her 14th birthday, which was coming up in November.
Her parents, god fearing Christians who had both been born and raised in Abilene and were both the children of ministers, had made it clear that a transistor radio, a known carrier of vile and destructive rock and roll, was not an appropriate gift for a 14-year-old girl. Most of the kids in her class had received or even bought radios long before turning 14. Even some with very strict parents. A point which Becky Sue tried to make over and over again with her parents.
“Oh Becky Sue, life was so much easier when I could just sew you a doll. I miss my little girl.”
“Well, I’m not your little girl any more Mama,” she replied, “I’m practically a woman.”
“Oh Becky Sue,” said her mother, “you will always be my little girl.”
“Mama,” said Becky Sue, “if you don’t get me a transistor radio for my birthday, then you might as well get me nothing at all.”
On the morning of the 22nd of November, Becky Sue woke up with nervous anticipation. She could smell the bacon, her favorite, and coffee in the kitchen. On the table was a small wrapped box.
It could only be one thing.
She ripped open the wrapping, dug into the box, and there it was.
A red Arvin transistor radio.
She read the model number.
61R13. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She popped open the battery case and cried out, “batteries, batteries, batteries. Can I have the batteries?”
And her father said “You’ll get the batteries when you turn 16.”
Becky Sue’s mother was looking straight down at the kitchen tiles. She could not look her daughter in the eye.
“Now Becky Sue,” continued her father, “this here is a lesson. You said you wanted a transistor for your birthday. Well, you got a transistor.”
“But it doesn’t play without the batteries,” whispered Becky Sue.
“It sure don’t,” he replied.
“Ok Daddy,” she said, “I understand. And I love my present. Thank you very much. And thank you very much for my birthday bacon.”
“You’re welcome little girl.”
“Two years will go by real fast, baby,” said her mother, still not meeting her daughter’s eyes.
Cruelty, it turned out, can come in many forms.
When she turned 15, Becky Sue ran away from home and got a ride with a trucker from Fort Worth called Brad. She packed a small bag and stuffed in the red transistor.
She travelled all over the United States, lying about her age and taking on all sorts of jobs.
She did her best to be the good lady she was raised as. But it wasn’t always easy.
She brought the radio everywhere she went. Often taking it out of the box and stroking it as she would a stray cat.
But she never played it. Not once.
Twice, she bought batteries for it. Once even went as far as opening the battery case. But she never played it.
Oh, she listened to music alright. At parties and clubs. In honky-tonks and down in the common room of the YMCA in Houston.
Some rock and roll.
But mostly country music which reminded her of home in Abilene. She never played the Arvin though.
On her 16th birthday, she got up and walked to the corner store and bought herself a 9-volt cylinder battery.
She sat down right there on the curb in front of the store, unlatched the battery case, inserted the battery, and applied pressure on the tuning wheel until she heard the satisfying click of the radio turning on.
It was the news.
It sounded like something had happened in Dallas.
She turned up the volume of her transistor radio and listened.
The End