Talk To Me

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The next day at work an otherworldly time warp caught hold of me as minutes dragged one moment and sped by the next. Board op filled me with anxiety. “Nothing is worse than dead air,” Marly cautioned. Broadcasting in real time scared me almost as much as finding a job in the first place. I was afraid to adjust the sliders on the board more than minuscule increments for fear I might make a mistake that would inadvertently wreck her show. I could not understand how Marly could be so relaxed. Fortunately, she sat close, guiding my every move.

The first hour of Gayline showcased CDs from a woman artist I’d never heard before. Marly took several calls. Actually, I answered the phone while music was playing, and it was decided that a few callers would “go live,” meaning to speak with her on the air. These callers were familiar with the music, and the discussions that followed focused on the artist’s budding career and upcoming concert dates.

My nervousness did not prevent me from enjoying the show. The music was good, and I got a lift every time I answered the phone. It gave me a sense of importance to take Marly’s calls, and the immediacy of our actions was exhilarating. It reminded me of the last play I’d seen at the Old Globe; the actors performing live on stage behaved as if speaking in front of an audience were the most natural thing in the world. That kind of bravado was beyond me, but being behind the scenes was fun—a bit like Hollywood, with me providing assistance to the busy star.

A more sensible choice in clothing improved my physical comfort—slacks paired with a cotton shirt, and my hair in a ponytail tied with a colorful elastic band that kept it neatly in place. Unfortunately, the extra deodorant I applied after my shower fell short. On the other hand, Marly’s tank top revealed a generous patch of dark hair sprouting beneath her arms. It seemed unlikely that I would offend her.

I wanted to fit in to my new situation at KZSD. At some point, I would know my job well enough to move into the adjoining booth. Marly would be relying on me to do everything right and I wanted to do a good job for her. Eager to return to her preferred format of less music and more talk, she compiled a list of regular callers and suggested I put them on the air as much as possible while I got up to speed.

Though she made it look easy, she obviously put a lot of effort into her show. It puzzled me why she had such a hard time finding a suitable call screener. It was true she could be volatile. Not everyone wants to be around that kind of intensity. Some might not have liked the confines of the screener’s booth, even though the large pane of glass separating the rooms gave the illusion of open space. At times I had the sense that it was only us in Studio B, but I knew better. The pressure of performing for an unseen audience did not inspire relaxation. During those two hours on the air, time flew by if all went well, or could be excruciatingly slow if we hit a snag. It was disorienting. The combination was exhausting, and I was relieved when eleven o’clock came and the show ended. The time warp over, I was left much to my own devices for the remainder of the afternoon and spent my time reading, strolling the halls, and watching others prepare and perform their own shows in Studios A and C.

After work I picked up my cell phone, made a simple dinner in my apartment, cleaned up, and called the one person with whom I wanted to speak.

“Jennifer? It’s Mom. Hi, honey, how are you?”

“Oh, Mom. Okay, I guess,” she replied.

“How are high school preparations coming along?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay? C’mon, can I get some details?” Jennifer grunted. Why did this have to be so hard? I swallowed and continued. “Well, I have good news. I got a job.”

“You did? What?”

I played up on her glimmer of interest. “At a radio station, KZSD AM 780. I’m going to be a call screener.”

“KZSD? Really? I know that station. How’d that happen? I thought you were trying to get, like, an office job or something.”

“It’s a funny story. I started yesterday. It’s very different, and I think I’m going to like it, I mean, I do like it. The woman I work for is bright and interesting. And she’s nice, well, most of the time. She’s definitely intense. She plays music and talks to callers. Have you heard from your brother?”

“Dad talked to Jonah. Hey, Dad. Pick up the phone.”

“No, no, honey. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, bye.” I ended the call. Tears filled my eyes. I let them roll lazily down my cheeks where they fell and moistened my shirt.

The stress of the past two days caught up with me. Who was I kidding? The stress of the past weeks. Months! I can’t say why I chose to work for Marly when I could have settled on something less chaotic. I was sure returning to work would be difficult. Pressures bore down on me—moving into my own apartment, being without Ted, Jenny’s anger, Jonah’s indifference, or was it avoidance?

The final breakup with Ted had been a nightmare. All the warm fuzzies from my “Teddy Bear”—gone. An arctic winter set in. I had been thrown out onto the street and chose to live in a hotel for ten days rather than suffer the humiliation of staying on a friend’s sofa. Most of my friends were Ted’s friends, too, and I couldn’t face them—not yet. Finding any apartment without sky-high rent had been a challenge. Moving gave me a sense of purpose. I had not taken much from the house and settled in quickly. Soon I had more free time on my hands than anticipated, gaps with no agenda, unsettling my once orderly life. Where the busywork ended, guilt took over. It was my doing.

I had not been alone since college. Before Ted, my guitar had kept me company. Then for years it stood in a closet collecting dust. I was always too busy driving the kids here and there, tending to anything out of place around the house. There was never a good time to take it out. On impulse, I brought the instrument with me. I sat on the bed and unlatched the worn case. Smells of old wood and lacquer along with the memories they held filled my mind—jamming with friends, setting poetry to music, laughing over silly made-up lyrics.

The tuning pegs creaked as I tightened the slackened strings. I managed a rough rendition of “House of the Rising Sun,” the dead strings sounding dull beneath my clumsy fingertips. Surely there were other songs I could remember. I tried using the tortoiseshell pick, but it felt strangely unfamiliar as I swept it across the strings. The reverberation faded away and the silence beyond the notes was more than I could bear. As many times as I had fantasized about playing without interruption, this was not how I wanted it to happen.