People on Air

**This story contains numerous profanities & explicit sexual references.**

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t like Guaramire,” said the Caller. “I just don’t think you should be giving them so much air time. Like … there are tons of way better bands.”

Ellen had picked up Phone Line #1 at approximately 2:52 pm. Her show would be over in less than ten minutes - less than three, really, if you took away the final two and half minutes allotted to pre-recorded ad time, plus the additional three minutes and fifteen odd seconds it would take for Trent Reznor to finish singing about how badly he’d like to engage in animal-like fornication with one - to Ellen’s mind, anyway - very lucky lady.

God, those lyrics were dumb, but she loved that man so much. If given the opportunity, she’d let him pick her up late for a date, be kinda mean to her cat, and spend the rest of the evening making obscene references to animal sex and she wouldn’t even mind for a minute, not for one single second.

So, why even go there? Ellen thought. Just say ‘thank you' and call it a day.

“To be fair, I think I’ve played Guaramire maybe four times since I started here," Ellen said, instead. 

“But…”

“We are a COM-MUN-IT-Y radio station, Sherry. We are literally being funded to promote bands from our town. We’ve got to keep the lights on somehow, right?"

“ ... I guess.”

“Okay, great! Thanks for call-”

“I still just don’t understand why you can’t play, like, I dunno, other stuff. More popular stuff.”

Ellen closed her eyes, massaged her head, and pressed her palms deep into her orbital sockets. This was the fourth time this chic had called in to her show in the last month. And this was the fourth time they had had this exact conversation, in some form or another. Ellen was done. 

“Tell you what, Sherry.”

“What?”

“Go grab your credit card.”

“Uh …”

“Go on, grab the card and read me the 16-digit number on the front. Then read me the expiry date and that little 3-digit bullshit thing on the back you need to buy stuff online. Go on, get the card. Read me the numbers.”

“You want me to read you my credit card information … on the air?”

“Yeah, for sure! That way, I’ll be able to process the ginormous amount of cash you’ll be donating to the station today.”

“What?”

“And thank you so much for that, by the way, from all of us here at CJKB 104.3 FM !” 

“I am NOT giving you a dona-…”

“Sure you are, Sherry! How else will we be able to afford to tell our current donors exactly where it is they can stick their undying support of local talent?”

“Um, that’s not…”

“Oh! And as for all those local musicians you despise? You know, those bands we have the audacity to allot a whole twenty-frickin’-percent of our air time to? Well, fuck them, Sherry! Fuck them all! Because now, thanks to you, we can finally forget about those bozos and their empty, childish dreams.”

“I don’t think…”

“Oh, and the best part? Thanks to your incredibly generous donation, the station can get rid of all that wasted ad space that was formerly reserved for small local businesses! We don’t need those assholes anymore, Sherry ... we’ve got you!”

“That isn’t what…”

“And then you can sit around and laugh as those little family businesses slowly burn to the ground because now, Sherry, now they’ve got no more access to affordable advertising in this town."

"No... "

"And as their children starve watching their parents’ humble dreams go down the toilet, you can just sit there, laughing triumphantly because our whole town is now basically owned by Walmart! How does that sound, Sher-Bear?! Sounds pretty great, right?”

“That’s not what I...”

“And it’ll all be so worth it, Sherry, because from now on, thanks to you and your brilliant suggestions, we’re gonna start exclusively playing hits from all those 'other bands’ that are, ‘like ... waaaayy better than GuAramiiiiirrre’."

“Hold on a...”

“Just picture it, Sherry! It’ll be nothin’ but gutless bangers from here on out. And then you can finally be happy! Everyone will be happy! And we’ll never have to speak to one another again.” 

Steve glared at Ellen through the production room window. Ellen didn’t care to notice.

“K, whatever,” said the Caller. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Great.”

“God, it was just a suggestion! Like, isn’t that the whole point of community radio?! Taking listener input?”

“It is not.”

“Ugh, whatever. K. BYE.”

The phone line clicked. Ellen glanced up at Steve, then looked right back down at her show notes. Why bother? She knew the beginning, the middle, and the end of this story:

“Ellen, while we appreciate your … enthusiastic … defence of our station’s funding channels, you know you can’t say ‘fuck’ on air. And you can’t talk to callers that way. You just can’t.” 

“I know.”

“So, what are we going to do about this, then?” Steve’s voice was thin and tinny through the showroom speakers. 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe my production manager could start screening my calls so that I can stop having the most mind-numbingly pointless conversations with the dumbest, most entitled dolt that ever existed?

“Ellen … Sherry has just as much of a right to call in as anybody else in this town.” 

Steve’s tone was always condescending. Always. But he wasn’t her boss - he was nobody’s boss - and so she had learned many months ago not to care. 

And she didn’t. At all.

“Steve, I’m a frickin’ volunteer DJ for a non-profit radio station in the middle of B.F. nowhere. I’m really not here to inflate the tires of some Karen-In-Training with zero taste and nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon than to harass a frickin’ volunteer DJ about actual, literal nothing.”

“You’re a decent DJ, Ellen. But you’ve got to learn how to … ”

“Thanks, Steve! Just gonna wrap things up, here.”

…

Outside the station, the 4 o’clock air felt pretty good. And, beneath the very light film of guilt left over from the two slightly-less-than-becoming transactions she had taken part in earlier that afternoon, Ellen felt pretty damn good, as well.

She was a decent DJ. She was actually doing the thing.

She had been listening to 104.3 FM since she was a kid. Although she had grown up more than three hundred miles from Bridging-Lam Creek, her hometown had randomly picked up the signals for the station, and the sound was always clear as day, no matter where you went in town. Her love of music was due, in large, to this very station.

A couple years ago, before she had even finalized her decision to move to Bridging-Lam Creek in the first place, she had said to herself, When I get there, I am going to march right into that radio station and become the host of my very own show.

And then she’d gone and she’d actually frickin’ done it. Now, how about that?

If that in and of itself didn’t justify a celebratory cocktail or two, then, well, Ellen didn’t know what did.

….

“So, let me get this straight,” Ellen said. “Another radio station…is doing their own radio special … about radio DJs from other radio stations … that’ll be aired over the radio … How meta.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

“Well, cool. I don’t mind the sounds of that! Sure, I’ll do it. When will the special air?”

Ellen and Steve had just started their pre-show brief session on the Tuesday following last Thursday’s end-of-show … kerfuffle. 

“They said it’d probably air in March.”

“And what’s the special they’re doing called, again?”

Steve flipped rampantly through the unnecessarily countless number of pages on his clipboard, eventually landing right back on page one. His pointer finger underlined a sentence as he replied, “It’s called People on Air: Portraits of the People that Make Radio Stay.”

“Okay, and you’re sure they wanted to interview me for this thing? Not Kelly or Chris or someone like that?

“They said they wanted you, yes. I was surprised, too.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, I told you I was sorry about that whole Sherry thing, right? Well, not so much sorry, per se, as I am, well … I’m not sure what word it is I’m looking for, here. ”

“Well, funny you should mention that. I guess they heard your little rant last Thursday and thought, for whatever reason … I don’t know, they’d just like to interview you.”

“Ah.”

“I told them that if you agreed to it, you could do the interview with them before your show this Thursday.”

“Oh.”

“So, you’re in?”

…

On Thursday, at 3:00pm on the dot, the phone rang in the production studio. Ellen jumped on the receiver.

“You got Ellen! What you sellin’?!"

“Um … hello?”

“Hi, sorry. Yes, this is Ellen. Is this Connor from CKS?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, hi, yes, sorry. That’s just my tagline for when people call into my show. It’s a joke, really. I thought maybe you might want to hear it, you know, live and in person, as part of the whole ‘getting to know’ me thing.”

Silence.

“You know, for the interview,” she continued.

“I’ve heard your tagline, yes.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

“So, I guess you guys are doing a show on DJ personalities?” Ellen asked. “You’re trying to understand why radio has survived the Age of the Internet, or something like that?”

“That’s the one,” Connor replied.

“Cool! I dig that.”

“Great, well let’s just jump right in then, I guess. Oh, and I should ask - you don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

“Go for it.”

“Great. So, Ellen … how do you think you rate?”

She thought for a moment. 

“Hard seven, I’d say … on a good day.”

Silence. 

“Um … n-no,” Connor stuttered. “I mean, like…how do you think you rate as a DJ? Like, on the radio?”

“Ohhhh.” Ellen laughed. “Sorry, duh. Um, I dunno, that’s a tough one.”

“Okay, well we can leave that one for now. So like, what are you into?”

“What am I into?”

“Yeah. Like, okay, what do you do outside of radio?”

“Oh. Oh, okay.” Ellen coughed, turning her mouth politely away from the receiver. “Well, I work for a law firm … a ‘law firm that shall not be named’.” She made air quotes to no one and gave it her best Voldermort impression. 

Connor didn't laugh. “Oh yeah? What do you do there? You a lawyer?”

“Um, no, not exactly … You think some big time lawyer would be volunteering at a radio station, every Tuesday and Thursday, at 2 o’clock in the frickin’ afternoon?

“Uh … I guess not?”

“Ah, I’m sorry, man. I honestly didn’t mean for that to come out so rude. No, I am not a lawyer. I am an assistant in the Human Resources department. I’m basically a glorified mail runner, except with literally zero glory whatsoever.”

“Cool.”

“Not really.” 

Then Ellen laughed, pretty hard, both at and in spite of herself. 

“I guess I’m just trying to get a picture of who you are. Like, as a person.”

“Oh, you mean like, versus who I am as a hyena or a chicken or an ork or something?”

Silence.

“Bah, shiiii–oot. I’m sorry, man. I do not know what is up with me, lately, honestly! And I know you’re just trying to do your job. But it’s just … hard.”

“Yeah.”

“It is! It’s just hard, you know? Trying to talk about yourself in that way. Like, try defining who you are in words that are coming out of the mouth of the very thing you are trying to define. You know what I mean?”

“Um.”

The clock in the production room ticked, ticked, ticked.

“Maybe if you gave me a different prompt or something, I could take another stab at it?”

“Oh okay, yeah, sure. I’ve got a list of questions here.”

“Hit me.”

“Yeah, okay, so what’s it like being a host on CJKB-FM?"

“Dude, I thought you just said you wanted to know stuff about me outside of my job at the station.”

“I do.”

“Then why the eff are you asking me what it’s like being a host on the effing station!?”

“It’s one of the questions on my list.”

This conversation had pretty much burned to the ground before it had even really started, but Ellen figured that at this point, verbal diarrhea had to be at least marginally better than actual radio silence. 

If she didn’t give him something, this nightmare might never end. So, she thought, screw it. 

“Look, man. I love being a host at the station. Probably for the same reasons as anyone anywhere at any time would love being a host on any music station. I get to flap on about music and share stuff I like and feel marginally important and like I remotely know what I’m talking about to people who are at least marginally interested in spending even a tiny fraction of their day listening to me, you know?”

“Sure.”

“And I have other interests, too, obviously, yes. I mean, I love music … duh. Sometimes I read … I dunno, I like movies? I don’t like my actual job that much but then, honestly, who does? It’s all just pretty basic, regular stuff! But there’s obviously more to me than just that.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t know, man! I have thoughts and feelings and opinions about the world around me. I’ve had bad experiences and shit! Isn’t it your job to pull that kind of stuff out of me, like, as the interviewer in this scenario?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

…

A few months later, March 18th came. The “Portraits of People...” special was airing on CKS 99.3 that evening and, despite Ellen’s protests, Steve had gone ahead and forwarded news of the special - including air date, time, station, subject matter, a certain DJ to be featured, etc. - to everyone on the station’s email list. Everyone.

Somehow, up until now, Ellen had managed to almost completely repress the fact that this thing was actually going to air at some point. But now, here she was, twisted up on her bed in her dimly lit room, bracing herself like a Powerlifter about to PB.

What in the name of all that is Holy were they going to use from that interview? What in God’s name could they possibly use from that interview? Having instinctively blacked out that intervew from her memory almost immediately upon hanging up, Ellen remembered pretty much nothing of what she had actually talked about or said.

She knew one thing for sure, though: if they used anything, literally anything, from that interview, it was not going to be good for Ellen. No, no. This was going to be really, really bad.

Dear Lord, in all your infinite, unsurpassable wisdom, please, do NOT let them quote me on this show. Lord God, please, keep my ass OUT OF THIS FRICKIN SHOW, MERCIFUL LORD! GOD ALMIGHTY, FATHER OF ALL LIVING THINGS, CAN YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!

The clock time crawled toward 5:00 PM, reaching it - Ellen could swear on it - at least forty-five minutes late. She turned the knob on her little bedside radio - covering it in a film of finger sweat - to CKS 99.3FM. She took a deep breath, and listened.

The special started with a guy, whose voice made him sound a lot more important than he probably was, talking about how radio had surpassed everyone’s wildest expectations by remaining a viable and, it seemed, universally loved form of media, despite all these advances in technology and the sheer existence of the internet. 

About ten minutes in, after the guy had laid claim that perhaps it was, in fact, society’s unwavering love for radio DJs, in particular, that kept the world more or less tuned in, Ellen’s nightmare became a reality.

“To try getting to the bottom of this hypothesis," the radio man said, "we spoke with hundreds of listeners, and hundreds of DJs, DJ's like Ellen Smith…”

Dear God. No. 

“... a volunteer DJ at CJKB 104.3 FM …”

No. Stop, please, no.

“... who shares her take on why…”

Kill me now. Just take me right now.

“... radio show hosts love being radio show hosts, and perhaps why they even become radio show hosts in the first place. Ellen declares that she 'loves being a host,'

Probably for the same reasons as anyone anywhere at any time would love being a host on any music station."

Ellen's stomach dropped. This was her.

"I get to flap on about music and share stuff I like and feel marginally important and like I remotely know what I’m talking about to people who are at least marginally interested in spending even a tiny fraction of their day listening to me.”

Ellen went numb for a number of minutes.

But then, almost out of nowhere, a giggle spilled up from Ellen's wrenched gut. The giggle turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle became an uncontrollable cacophony of riotous laughter and an overwhelming sense of relief.

They'd asked for a self-portrait, and hey, she had nailed it. She had totally frickin’ nailed it.