Talk To Me

Chapter One Radio. It’s good company—at the beach, in your car, or no place special at all. News, talk, music, even the ads sound like trusted friends, a voice that informs and entertains with reassuring familiarity. There’s comfort in knowing it’s there, and right now I needed it in a way I had never considered. I found solace in listening to the radio, and lately it filled the lonely spaces in my head. Lively music crowded out sad thoughts and the recitation of recent events that flashed strobe-like through my mind. Since leaving home, the radio had become my companion. That shred of synchronicity gave me hope as I sat in the lobby at KZSD AM 780, “San Diego’s Community Connection.” As the traffic report droned in the background, I examined the employment application in front of me. The form was shorter than the online versions I dealt with the day before. The anonymity of clicking “Submit” left me feeling undistinguished from any other seeker, and I hoped showing up in person would give me an edge. I carefully printed my name and new address, yet the information looked as if it belonged to someone else. Phone number—damn. In a moment of carelessness, I had dropped my cell phone and it was taking forever to get it fixed. Explaining the problem to interviewers made me feel inept, and as it was, I didn’t have much work experience. Here I was, over forty with two almost grown kids and a soon-to-be ex-husband, forced to make calls from borrowed phones to follow up on job prospects. If someone would take a chance on me, I could dispense with these painful phone interviews and get on with my life. Repetitive monotony from the endless parade of job applications caused the words to blur. Rather than fill in all the blank spaces, I decided to wing it and slid my freshly printed resume into the folded form. It was five minutes after eleven. As I waited, I glanced around the room, which was unremarkable in its plainness. I had expected a radio station to be more glamorous, even though the position of administrative assistant was not. My attire was as businesslike as I could put together—a patch-pocket jacket over a flower-print dress. I remembered when I had made this outfit. Had it been more than a year since I picked out the material and stitched it together? Though not long ago, the luncheons and school conferences I had worn it to were the farthest thing from my mind. My pre-interview jitters were evident as I swung my foot around in circles, and I could feel my skin dampen where my legs touched. I needed relief from the heat, but rather than risk looking unprofessional by removing my jacket, I pushed the hair away from my neck to let in a little air. In the background I could hear the telltale hum of an old air-conditioning system compete with the weather broadcast. What did it matter? San Diego summer days were pretty much alike. Betty, the office manager, called me in for our interview. I ran my moist palm inconspicuously across my clothing before I shook her hand. Her long nails were painted red, accented at the tips with diagonal ivory lines. As I sat across from her, I curled my fingers inward to hide my unpolished nails. We were separated by the barrier of her desk, a cluttered altar adorned with two generations of family photos, little figurines, and posters featuring Scottish terriers sporting plaid bows. I visualized a more organized placement, the taller frames in ascending order with shorter items in front. It must have taken her many years to accumulate the variety of objects scattered about her workstation. Perhaps these personal reminders of her homelife served to remove her thoughts from her job. She seemed uninterested in me. I guessed she was burned out and not merely tired from the heat. I answered the questions she asked, but her gloomy mood made it hard for me to be perky. Still, I tried my best and remembered to offer an occasional smile. As she set up the computer for a typing test, a dark-haired woman burst through the door. “When are you going to get me someone who can be trained?” the intruder barked. “Did you hear the last ten minutes of my show? Well, did you?” She dragged her fingers through her long bangs and shot Betty a frenzied look. Then she turned her irate gaze at me. “Who are you? Are you here for a job?” Her piercing stare skewered me to my chair. Betty sprang to life. “Why would I listen to your show? You have some nerve. This is a private interview.” Ignoring Betty, the uninvited woman swept up my resume from the desktop. “You’re Claire Larson?” She didn’t wait for my reply. “Did Betty tell you I needed someone?” “Do you need, uh, an office assistant?” I couldn’t breathe. Betty crossed her arms and tapped her foot in double time. “No, I need…” Our eyes locked. I felt immobile, hotly aware of the wild energy radiating from this spitfire. “I’m Marly.” Her tone softened and she extended her hand. Her touch was firm and her grip lingered. “I need someone, someone who’s intelligent, who can make quick decisions about a person’s true intent. I need a call screener for my show. Hmm, you’ve got a liberal arts degree, and you’ve volunteered at several schools.” Betty thrust herself between us as Marly looked over the linen paper detailing my past. “My kids’ schools.” I peered around Betty, whose considerable girth looked uncomfortably stuffed into rigid undergarments beneath her double-knit dress. “I’m conducting this interview,” Betty snarled as she snatched the resume from Marly’s grip. The neatly arranged words crunched in her fist, and I winced at the sight of her nails—long, blood-red streams against the wounded paper. Marly acknowledged Betty with a glare. “She’ll do. How many other qualified applicants have you kept from me, huh? I want her. You want a job?” Her face brightened as if all had been forgotten between her and Betty. “Returning to work, hmm? I have a feeling about you. You’ll see, we’ll work together just fine. The pay is the same as the other office work around here, but the hours are better and the job is more interesting. I’ll train you myself.” There was no hostility when Marly spoke to me, only subtly nuanced desperation. Before I could respond, Betty chimed in. “I was about to offer her the admin assist position. I’m sure she’ll be more comfortable in an office setting than in that cramped booth. Don’t you agree, Claire?” she asked, never taking her narrowed eyes off Marly. Her saccharine tone was edged with bitterness and reflected in her sour face. I was obviously the newest pawn in their ongoing power struggle. My view of Marly was nearly blocked by Betty’s body, whose torpedo-shaped bosom was aimed at my head in a manner that threatened war. I shifted around the ordnance to size up her nemesis and at once felt myself drawn in by the sparkle of Marly’s blue eyes. She was shorter than average and had a medium build. The strain on her face had disappeared, replaced by an impish smile. Loose, casual clothing did not hide her girlish figure slightly softened by her thirty-some years. I felt captivated, not only by her magnetic personality and atypical beauty, but by the understanding that I was the spoils of the battle she had won. Here was someone who truly needed me, and I could not say no.