Talk To Me

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Marly asked me to start immediately and I agreed. She was too busy to show me around the studios that day and suggested I come in at eight thirty the following morning. “My slot is right after drive time,” she explained. “Nine to eleven a.m., Monday through Friday. Studio B.”

I felt brave taking a job I knew nothing about, save what I might have glimpsed on old TV sitcoms. Despite that, I suspected I could do no worse than the supposed incompetents who had recently held the position. She seemed confident I would work out fine, and I was determined to prove her right.

I had heard of KZSD. The station aired talk shows relevant to the community at large: real estate investment shows, call-in health forums, and the like. It was a minor player among a large array of stations stretching from one end of the dial to the other with audiences reaching from Los Angeles to Baja, Mexico. Getting the specifics of Marly’s show seemed irrelevant at the time; the important thing was she was going to give me a chance. I was not in a position to be too picky.

To make a good impression on my first day of work, I chose my classiest outfit—a black suit worn over a knit mauve shell, set off by a freshwater pearl necklace, matching earrings, and strappy sandals. I carefully applied a tasteful amount of makeup with a hint of color for a finished look. I secured part of my long hair into a topknot held with a fancy clip and let the rest fall in hairspray-managed waves a few inches past my shoulders, striking a balance between formality and San Diego casual. This was an outfit I reserved for special dinners and theater galas, and I felt peculiar wearing it during the daytime. Nonetheless, I had always believed it was better to be overdressed and modestly accept compliments than to bear the indignity of appearing too sloppy.

Unlike a dinner party, I could not arrive fashionably late. I walked into KZSD fifteen minutes early. Not knowing where to report, I explained my situation to the receptionist, who gave me a once-over and stifled a laugh. She pointed the way and shouted a good luck message as if I would truly need it.

A red “ON-AIR” light glowed above the door marked Studio A. Through a large pane of glass, I saw a young man read from a sheet of paper. His body posture—shoulders raised, chest out, back arched—seemed to say, “I’m important!” as he spoke into a microphone propped close to his lips. His workspace was open and neat with a few papers piled off to his left. To his right was digital equipment that reminded me of the expensive audio system Ted and I bought for our son, Jonah, when he graduated high school. Looking at its smooth black surface and sophisticated controls made me recall I never did figure out how to use his five-disc CD player. I wondered if this young man’s topic was as high tech as his equipment. Then, it hit me. He was on the radio, right now! Excitement filled me as I watched him speak, realizing his words were being broadcast beyond the hallways of KZSD into radios all across San Diego. A fluttering sensation tickled my stomach like an effervescent soft drink.

With a sense of wonderment, I looked farther down the hall for my destination: Studio B. In a few steps, I was there. This was a larger space than Studio A and similarly enclosed by generous panes of glass that started three feet up from the floor and rose to the ceiling. Inside, the windows were covered in part by mini blinds that had seen better days, their slats crushed and ends broken off as if they had been slammed in a door. Peeking in through the smudged glass, I spotted older electronic equipment covering the tabletops. Row after row of sliding adjustments marked with indecipherable abbreviations and colored lights were visible beneath the litter of cables and headphones. Odd-shaped cassette tapes were scattered about the room. A rack half-full of CDs had tipped onto its side, resting precariously askew. Piles of papers, CDs, and cassettes lay in unorganized heaps on the floor. The butterflies in my stomach rapidly metamorphosed into heartburn as I realized I was about to enter a foreign environment much worse than the mess left in any of my children’s bedrooms. A sharp slap to my back caused me to jump forward with an audible exhale.

“Ack! Marly. I mean, good morning,” I said as I tried to catch my breath.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied as she fingered my lapel. “Dressed for success? Not a bad idea. Find strength where you can, I say.”

She unlocked the door and I followed her into Studio B. Marly cleared the way, brushing aside CDs and tapes, then she kicked the door closed with the bottom of her shoe, leaving a dark tread mark. “This is my spot, and for now, you can sit here.” She gestured at two stools. My eyes widened. The vinyl seat of my stool had been repaired with a long stripe of duct tape. I gingerly inched my bottom onto the seat and unbuttoned my jacket to allow it to drape smoothly down my back. Marly tossed a few tapes into a corner to expose the full length and breadth of the electronic sound equipment before us. It occurred to me that call screening would not be as simple as answering a phone. What would I possibly do with this confusing maze when I couldn’t even set the clock on my microwave? My mouth felt glued shut.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she touched my arm. “I know it looks difficult, but that’s only because you’ve never done this before. I’m going to walk you through the board op until you get the hang of it.”

Board op? I tried to muster a smile. I felt sick and wondered where I’d find the ladies’ room.

“Everyone starts out this way, so don’t be nervous. You’ll see, by the end of the show you’ll start to pick it up. Besides, I’ll be doing almost everything today. Now, here’s our log sheet. It tells us which commercials to play, when to do our PSAs, top-of-the-hour ID, stuff like that.”

I nodded, though I had no idea what she was talking about. Her words streamed through my head like elevator music. Part of me was listening, but another part had drifted off to a safer place, reminding me that in a little over two hours the worst of it would be over. If this ridiculous exercise wasn’t going to work out, I could quit. I could take the office position if it was still available. Or, I could get through this experience and hopefully laugh about it one day.

Marly gathered a handful of the odd-shaped cassette tapes, “carts” she called them, and set them aside. She helped me position my “cans”—headphones, that is—and sat to my left where she had full access to the operations board. She tested the sound level on her mic and our cans, and then adjusted the levels of the incoming drive time show finishing up in Studio A. As she prepared, I could see she was more organized than her surroundings indicated. She told me to remain quiet.

A few passers-by walked down the hall outside our booth, but no one entered our space or even peered in. She fine-tuned several knobs and sliders on the equipment before us that I thought resembled spaceship controls in a 1950s B movie. I held my breath as if preparing for blastoff, and I could hear my heart beat in my ears, the increasing rhythm amplified by the cans.

The top-of-the-hour ID finished playing. Poised at attention and assuming a familiar grace, she spoke. “Good morning, you lazy butts. I’m Marly Minestrone, and this is Gayline!”