you lied, but I know, 'cause I've got cigarette eyes

[confidenceman]

There was no doubt that Sawyer found Tabula Rasa less comforting by far when compared to the previous island. Somehow, despite all of the inexplicable phenomena of the previous island, ashen smoke snaking through the sky and polar bears thundering through the bamboo, what Sawyer found more terrifying than anything else was reaching out and finding no friction. People on this new island didn't hate him. Couldn't bring it in themselves to care when he was a jackass. No, they all separated into little social pockets, keeping a few close because they couldn't stand to be in this place alone, but rarely weaving into the whole because the more people one knew, the more likely it was that they'd lose someone along the way. It was almost normal.

Sawyer wasn't sure how to cope with that.

He'd made calculated efforts, though. Actually settled down in a hut. Got himself a girlfriend, a role in an island play. But one thing he didn't have was a steady job, something that didn't involve leading people on or making others think he was someone he wasn't. So when Sawyer saw that there were a few openings available for the island radio, his enjoyment of Howard Stern was enough to at least poke his head inside.

"Is this where I'm supposed t'be if I wanna annoy people with my voice every Wednesday mornin'?" he asked, leaning against the doorway.

Comments

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger was no stranger to friction in any sense of the word. At home, he'd been a rock star, working the seedy club joints and quite literally charming the pants off of any male or female, despite their attachments to other people. After that, he'd been a lover, constantly in spats with the woman he loved and the men that loved her too. After that, he'd been an addict, using his roommate for drug money and illegal doses of AZT. After that... well, if it weren't for the island, there wouldn't have been an after that. Since there was, though, he'd been the same person he'd been through and through. He banged a girl and a week later, had Richard Fucking Riddick threatening his life, then he'd been in another rocky relationship, and another and on and on... until he was alone, save for his roommates and the three jobs that anyone at home would never believe he even attempted to hold down.

And after that was this. Whatever the hell it was. Sometimes it was shifts at the Cat Scratch tending bar, sometimes it was harsh riffs at the Jazz club. Sometimes (and this was probably the least amount of time, Neil would probably attest to that), there was the radio station he'd picked up from Chris all those years ago. He should have been sleeping. Fuck, he should have been dead about 8 fucking years ago, but he wasn't. Instead, he was fucking around outside the "booth" (which was not even soundproof, but it was the best they could do), trying to get the rest of his song set in place before there was just dead air.

"I'm guessing Neil put up a call-out," Roger said, shouldering one long, wavy-curly lock off of his face. For some reason (and Roger wasn't saying it was the Compound, as AZT had the damnedest side-effects, like menopausal-level fucking hot flashes), he was sweating balls and getting really fucking irritated. "Yeah. This is it. I'm guessin' you're interested." He didn't get up from the chair, yet, because he didn't know if this pretty boy was worth radio time just yet. Not that he'd be picky, but half of being a New Yorker was the Fuck-Off attitude.

[confidenceman]

Did everyone on the damn island know the little bugger with the stick legs and dimpled smile? Sawyer was certainly starting to suspect that such was the case as his grin faltered for an instant. It was a little cut into his facade that Sawyer would regret greatly (as much as anyone could be upset over a poor first impression), because at the end of the day, kissing a dude to escape the clutches of force fielded, nargle-infested mistletoe shouldn't have been so big of a deal. What had Sawyer keeping most of his calm was, in the end, the fact that this radioperson didn't seem to be paying him the greatest of attention anyway, more concerned with getting the music just right and looking like he was sweating buckets just to deal with that special level of stress.

It nearly made Sawyer laugh in the way that he often did whenever he was grating on someone's nerves, because yeah, it was fun to watch people blow up over nothing. Even though he'd largely given up the habit over the months, being on Tabula Rasa was occasionally like being handed a completely new set of victims to toy with, with the added benefit of a larger population, making disappearing into the crowd that much easier.

"Maybe I am. Why, you tellin' me I gotta audition?" Sawyer asked in return with a cough and a smirk, shaking his head as he stared at the man, smile only widening with each passing second. "'Cause man, I dunno how well I'd hold up against the crickets you got chirpin' half the week."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Caught somewhere between impressed and completely irritated, Roger gave an almost-smirk back, complete with eyebrow action. He sized the guy up. Quips were his thing, like Brian, but rugged smartass was his thing like Dean. He sure as fuck didn't do scruffy and surly like Dean, but there was a greasy-haired mystique about him. In a more biblical situation, Roger would be playing cat to his snarky mouse already, but there was something about the distinctively southern swagger that gave Roger serious what-the-fuck-ever.

"What're you gonna do, drown it out with your banjo?" Roger shot back, leaning back on his chair so two of the wheels no longer touched the ground. Low-blow bitch-talking, Roger could do. He was, after all, a musician and a guy who appreciated guys.

[confidenceman]

Redneck jokes. If Sawyer had a nickel for every time someone made some type of quip about his background, he suspected he'd have a whole lot more in his pocket than his average con. It didn't rankle him, really. Had Sawyer given enough of a crap about what people thought of Southerners, he was pretty sure he could have worked off that accent long ago, taken a few classes back when he was still young enough to have that sort of time on his hands. But a Southern accent had its pros, which far outweighed the cons for someone like Sawyer, who didn't give a crap what others thought of him (most of the time). It could easily be molded to have charm. It came off as just self-absorbed enough that no one expected the Southerner to be smart. A well-molded cover for Sawyer to duck behind or brandish at will.

Since he didn't really care a great deal about whether or not he got a spot on the radio broadcast, Sawyer only huffed a laugh. "No, actually, I was thinkin' 'bout peddlin' guns to the people. Give a whole new meanin' to IRA."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

To Roger-a man that had never seen anything but New York-3/4 of America deserved redneck jokes. California was for movie stars, Utah was for Mormons, and any street that wasn't paved or one-way was probably in the buttcrack of nowhere. However, that meant 3/4 of America could drink the same moonshine Roger had to spend a few years on the island building up a tolerance to like it was water. This pleased Roger.

"Even the kids?" Roger asked, managing to mostly mask his distaste for even the mention of the weapons. "That's damn governmental of you." He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a heartbreaker of a smile, awaiting the banter with pleased impatience.

[confidenceman]

There was an expectant look in the guy's eyes that somehow kept Sawyer's response from coming in all of an instant. Not because Sawyer was worried about meeting this radio personality's bar for smart remarks, but because this was what he had been expecting from more of the island population. To start turning to Sawyer for much-needed shits and giggles, because if there was one thing the previous island had made clear, it was that it sure as hell liked making Sawyer the eternal butt of its jokes. Getting chased down by boars. Getting skipped through time like he was a rock bouncing off the surface of a lake. This felt more on par with who he'd been, rather than getting a role in the island play or dating a girl who was one of the biggest goody-two-shoes (and he meant that in the best way possible) he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing.

That did, however, make it a small step backward.

"The kids get BB guns," Sawyer went on to say with a fair nod. "BB guns and Monopoly money so's that they learn that some people actually think folks should be rewarded for hard work."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

There was something about the guy that seemed... familiar. It wasn't the down-home accent for sure because anyone that didn't sound eternally angry like having the ability to shout at a whisper wasn't comfort to Roger, but still it felt... really close to home. What Roger didn't know about Sawyer would have both chilled and comforted him. In the Village, con-men were a dime a dozen, but a con-man with a heart was something Roger had needed for years to restore his long-lost faith in humanity.

Of course, he didn't know that, and likely never would. So he extended his hand.

"I'm Roger. I run the joint," he said, and finally stood up to meet the guy eye-to-eye. "Pleasure to meet you, Free Enterprise."

[confidenceman]

A man with a sense of humor was a man easily endeared to Sawyer one way or another, and so he easily took that hand and gave it a firm shake, hoping that the fact that he'd mentioned peddling guns wasn't going to count against him— especially when Sawyer wasn't about to do anything of the sort. Guns, he only trusted in his own hands, and his ability to steer life by sheer force of will, he wasn't sure he wanted the entirety of the island to know. Speaking on the radio was just an idea, a lark that Sawyer considered, because he couldn't think of much that would be more fun than annoying everyone on the island for an hour or so every week. And getting to call it a job.

"They call me Sawyer; pleasure's all mine," he replied with an amused smile, finally taking the time to look more carefully around the booth, thinking about the last time he'd been to a radio station. Danielle's. "So, you gonna welcome me in, tell me it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood? Or at least gimme a tour around. I wanna know who's been puttin' together the music for this broadcast."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, I guess," Roger said, shrugging with a shoulder as he turned around. "You're sorta lookin' at it. We have a partition that's pretty insulated, so it's as sound-proof as it's gonna get, if you wanna do some talking for your show.

"All the equipment is in once place, so you don't have to worry too much about figuring shit out. I'm from the 80's and I can figure a lot of it out, so it's probably pretty straight-forward. Green light says you're recording. There's a... whaddya call it... I-Pod hookup or whatever, and if you don't have one of those, we have a few over there that have been left that pretty much have all types of music." The pink one was Claire's, and he sometimes like to look through it and laugh.

Roger took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. The radio station was like playing guitar to him, now: he knew the ropes like no one else, and was more than happy to talk about it for hours. It was something he'd taken on himself, and (with help from Neil and Mark, when he was around) sustained. That was more than people would usually ever have given Roger as far as responsibility and long-term goals went.

"Uh, let's see... You don't have to do a music show, it's pretty much whatever you want. You have a morning slot, so Neil likes to keep that shit PG, but if you want to talk about whatever the fuck you want, I pretty much don't care, but Neil'll move you to night, which is whatever.

"Roster's over there. Looks like you're gonna be Wednesday morning. Right now, it's my block," he pointed to Sunday night, "but I just like to do music only, so I just make a playlist and fuck with cables to look like I'm doing something and help out fine, upstanding heads of hair like yourself." He turned back to Sawyer and smiled. "Any questions?"

[confidenceman]

All that fuss, Sawyer thought to himself, only to get the position so readily. Maybe life just got easier when there were less people around, when they came and went from that little bubble with enough frequency that one was even forced to appreciate the most annoying of those on the island. Of course, then again, running a radio show wasn't high stakes. If you said something a little undesirable on air, well, people would stop listening to you, or just kick you out for someone new, and the very next week it'd all be forgotten like most of the words that came out of people's mouths.

A part of him really did mean that he wouldn't have minded running an arms trade. Or, at the very least, his version of it, which usually meant hoarding guns and ammunition so that people had to take him seriously for once, because all things considered, Sawyer didn't trust very many people to make the right judgment calls with weapons and force. Didn't trust the leadership all that often. And in the event he didn't trust people, he wanted to take the reins.

Maybe someday he'd get security detail.

"Just one," he replied with a roguish grin and a tilt of his head. "What would you like t'hear more on the radio? I figure you'd know a whole lot better than me what folks might miss hearin', seeing's how I only ever listen, no offense, when the radio's blaring in the kitchen."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger had not been armed for that question, and when it was asked of him, his shoulders dropped. "I... really don't know, man," Roger said, staring at the ground as he thought about it. "We got news, we do emergency bulletins when we need 'em, Maureen's got the vulgar shit covered..." He thought about the question again, though, and lifted his head back to Sawyer.

"What I want? Is some more fucking music," Roger said with a cursory little laugh, hoarse from sickness and cigarettes. "We got a Goddess giving love advice now, for fuck's sake, and we have someone doing a show for people or whatever that aren't human, we got a one-man show and... I think I'm the only person here that plays a block of music other than what's played in between shifts.

"And that new chick," he added a second later. "She said she wants to play music. I dunno. I guess if you want my... advice, or whatever, I'd say just bullshit it and see what comes out."

[confidenceman]

"Music," Sawyer considered with a slight nod of his head. "I could do some music. Though I dunno how much of this friggin' island, hippies that they all are, would appreciate my type of music. A whole lot of it's country, and there's some classic rock thrown in the mix, but that don't stray too far away from what's already being played and certainly not in the direction of all that poppy mess that people listened to back in the States, when I was around." He raised his brows thoughtfully, scratching under his neck as he considered the other options.

Then he laughed.

"A goddess givin' love advice, is that right? Where's the fun in that? It's nearly like cheatin', or handin' over one's life to someone who's already got an inflated head. What about the people who don't wanna know exactly what's in store for 'em if they bang so-and-so?" He rubbed his thumbnail along his forehead. "Y'know what, that's it. Ford's Love Connection. I'm gonna be that plain old hillbilly who thinks that he can, if nothin' else, say an honest word or two about people and their too-high expectations. How's that for bullshit?"

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger didn't have a taste for country, but he covered southern rock a bit, and hey, there were probably people on the island who wanted to hear country music and Roger sure as fuck wasn't gonna provide that.

He nodded along, letting the dude work this shit out by himself, but after a while, he had to pipe up. "Well, she's not a Goddess anymore. But that doesn't make the idea bad." Roger sat back down in his chair and pushed a few buttons. Hearing a hick give love advice? Yeah, he'd tune in for that. And he laughed.

"Welcome aboard, Ford's Love Advice." He scrawled it onto the roster. "Not bad, new kid."

[confidenceman]

New kid. Sawyer had certainly been called a new kid enough times in his life, all things considered, with how much he moved from one place to another as a child, but recently he'd never really carried himself with any amount of naivety anymore, to the point where he did pull back, showing a slightly confused expression before he chuckled to himself after all. He'd been out of his element for a while. Everyone from Oceanic 815 had been. Maybe that, the fact that he could still find new things to explore on such a limited space of land and for it all to be productive in the general sense, maybe it was good. So he took the approval with a grateful nod of his head.

"Worst love advice in the world it is, then." Pausing, he then asked with a quirk of his brow, "So, how'd you feel about gettin' a beer or somethin' sometime?"