The Drive That Crossed the Queue

At two in the morning, the radio station on Mercer Street is the quietest place in the city. Hamza likes it that way. He sits in the glass studio with a mug of hot chocolate and a stack of requests. On the other side of the glass, a bright sign says ON AIR.

He has hosted the late show for six years. Tonight it is a special one. At four o'clock, tickets for a famous band's only local concert go on sale. The sale starts at the station's front desk. Hamza will announce the start of the sale live. Then the station will give away the first hundred tickets to the people at the front.

Those people have been waiting since yesterday afternoon. Through the studio window, Hamza can see how many of them there are. The queue starts at the front door. It runs along Mercer Street, turns the corner, crosses the car park and disappears under the railway bridge. People sit on camping chairs and sleeping bags. Some of them hold small radios to their ears.

"Hamza," says a voice behind him. "I have a problem."

It is Tobin, the young sound engineer who works the night shift. He stands in the doorway, white as paper. In his hands is a dead black box with a cable hanging out of the back.

"That is the playlist computer," Hamza says slowly.

"It was the playlist computer," Tobin says. "It has just died. Everything on it is gone. The songs, the jingles, the ad breaks, all of it."

Hamza looks at the clock above the door. It is 3:12. "How long can we play from the live desk?"

"One CD player and one record," Tobin says. "That is two songs. About eight minutes."

"And the law says we cannot be silent."

"For more than a minute, yes. If we go off the air, the station loses its licence for the night. And there are four thousand people outside waiting for us to say the word."

Hamza puts down his mug. "Is there a backup?"

Tobin's face changes. "There is a backup drive," he says. "It has everything. But it is in my van."

"Where is your van?"

"In the old loading yard behind the car park." Tobin points through the window. "On the far side of the queue."

Hamza looks at the long line of people. It is two streets long and four people wide in some places. A person can walk along its edge, but the edge is full of chairs, bags and sleeping legs. In the daytime, the walk from the van to the station takes four minutes. Tonight, in the dark, it may take twenty.

"We have eight minutes," Hamza says.

"I know. I will run." Tobin is already pulling on his jacket. "If I run all the way, maybe I can do it in twelve."

"Then we lose four minutes of airtime."

"Yes. But we only lose the licence if you cannot fill them."

"Four minutes of me talking," Hamza says. "In the middle of the night. Alone. With nothing to say."

"You will find something."

Tobin runs. Hamza starts the first song, a slow one. He watches through the window as Tobin jumps over the first sleeping bag. He apologises to a man with a guitar. He hurries past a family with a thermos. Then the crowd grows thicker, and Tobin slows. At the corner, a cluster of tall teenagers blocks the whole pavement. They are asleep on each other's shoulders, and Tobin has to stop, step carefully, and go around.

Hamza's heart sinks. He can see it already. Tobin is moving at the speed of a man in a swimming pool.

The song gets to its last chorus. Hamza reaches for the CD player and starts the second track. Six minutes left. Then five.

Far away, Tobin climbs out of his van with the drive in his hand. Now he must cross the same crowd again.

He walks to the window and presses his hand against the glass. In the queue, the little radios glow. All those people are listening to the same song as he is. All of them are awake.

Then he stops, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

He turns to the desk. He sits down. He pulls the microphone close and presses a button on the panel.

"Good morning, night owls," he says. "This is Hamza. I have a favour to ask, and I need every one of you for it."

"Somewhere at the far end of Mercer Street, a man in a jacket is carrying a black box. The box has the whole station inside it. If it does not reach the front door in four minutes, we go silent."

Hamza leans forward. He can feel his pulse in his neck.

"So here is my idea. You do not need to leave your places. You only need to turn your heads. If you see a black box, take it from the person next to you and pass it forward. Hand to hand. Gently, please. Think of it as a very, very important sandwich."

Through the window, he watches. For a second, nothing moves. Then the first radio goes down. A girl near the corner stands up and looks along the line. She shouts something that Hamza cannot hear, and the shout runs back along the queue like a wave.

Tobin is at the railway bridge now, almost out of breath. He hears the shout and stops. Then he hears the voice of the nearest person, and it is a surprise. "Here," says a woman in a yellow coat, and she holds out both hands. "Give it to me."

Tobin hesitates for half a second. Then he puts the drive into the woman's hands.

She holds it above her head and passes it on. The little black box travels faster than any runner. It goes over shoulders and across sleeping bags and under the arms of people who are laughing. It crosses the car park. At the corner, the teenagers wake up, confused, and then they understand and pass it on. The family with the thermos takes it next, and then the man with the guitar. Hamza starts a countdown on the air, and the people in the queue shout the numbers with him.

"Two minutes."

"One minute."

The record is nearly finished. Hamza reaches for the volume knob, ready to fill the silence with his own voice.

Then the studio door opens. The night guard rushes in with the black box held high. It is covered in fingerprints, and a smear of chocolate runs across the front. Tobin comes in a few seconds behind him, breathing hard.

"The queue brought it all the way to the door," the guard says.

"Plug it in," Hamza says. "Quick."

Tobin plugs it in. A green light blinks, and the next song begins to play. It is the right song. It is exactly the song Hamza picked at midnight. The meters on the desk jump, and the studio fills with sound.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Through the glass, Hamza hears a long, low roar of cheering from the street. It sounds like four thousand people who have just scored a goal.

He leans to the microphone for the last time that night. "Thank you, Mercer Street," he says. "You are the best queue in the world."

Tobin wipes his hands on his jacket and drops into the chair beside him.

"Next time," he says, "I am parking the van at the front door."