Radio Jet Lag, page 20
Tucking his folded clothes under his right arm, he used his left hand to grab the wooden handrail. The gate came up to his hip, but Steve prided himself on being flexible. He pulled his left knee up to his chest and pivoted ninety degrees to the left, before extending his leg over the gate and back down onto the narrow ledge of wood flooring at the top of the stairs. It was a small foothold, but he managed to set his toes and forefoot on the floor. The gate pressed firmly up into Steve’s groin as he straddled it. He was just starting to rethink his decision when his extended right foot started to cramp. The pain swelled quickly, so he clasped the handrail tightly and hoisted his right knee to his chest with considerably less care. Somewhere in the middle of the awkward motion, the pain in his foot peaked. He grabbed it instinctively, dropping the clothes in the process. His desperate grip eased the pain, just as his left foot slipped down a step and led the rest of him over the baby gate. Steve’s tall timber-like frame would have gone all the way down the stairs, if not for the tight grip his left hand had on the banister. Still, he was suddenly off balance so he grabbed the child gate with his right hand. But the top clasp of the gate wasn’t shut properly, so it popped out with a much louder clang than the one he’d wanted to avoid in the first place. He leaned back over the precipice, clutching the gate desperately as it accordioned out with him. Feeling himself reach the point of no return, Steve lurched around one hundred eighty degrees and managed to face downhill when his left foot slipped out and brought his backside crashing down onto the step, before bouncing down the next twelve in rhythmic, painful succession.
He sat at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the searing pain in his tailbone to subside and the inevitable cry from one of the babies upstairs that would surely follow. But once again, to his amazement, there was no sound. Not a peep.
When he’d gathered his clothes, he retreated to the bathroom and turned on the light. As his eyes adjusted to the bright glow, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs, he gazed at the reflection of his physique in the large bathroom mirror. The image depressed him instantly. Steve had gained more than twenty-five pounds since Noah was born. He’d started at a hair over two hundred pounds, but in the sleep-deprived year and a half that followed, he had added the weight of a bag of Rosie’s dog food. Not only that, but nearly half his hair had turned grey. When he was thirty-three, Steve was occasionally mistaken for a student journalist or an intern. At thirty-five, he could have passed for someone ten years older.
It was nearly 04:15 by the time he was dressed, and as he pulled on his shoes by the front door he remembered with regret his promise to Carole that he would start cycling to work. The local CBC morning guy cycled to work every day, she’d said; maybe Steve should give it a try too. It would only take ten minutes to ride his bike downtown, and he could still make it on time. But he wanted to stop at Tim Hortons on his way to work, in spite of his other promise to Carole that he would start bringing coffee, breakfast, and lunch from home. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll be a better person tomorrow.
The inferior version of Steve jumped into the Volvo and drove to the Tims in Rock Bay. He knew there was a new outlet of the ubiquitous Canadian coffee franchise downtown, but he liked this one better. He liked the familiarity of the friendly staff, the regular customers, and even the troubled souls he saw pounding the neighbourhood’s pavement. The first two reasons made sense, but Steve wasn’t quite sure what to make of his motivations for the third. Why was he interested in the homeless drug addicts, people paralyzed by mental illness, and sex workers? Was it journalistic interest, simple curiosity, voyeurism? Whatever it was, he remembered the pull it had on him as he turned onto Rock Bay Avenue. He also remembered the tent city on the lawn of the Victoria courthouse that was now being dismantled as the homeless campers were offered indoor accommodation.
Steve stood in line behind a young, tattooed man who seemed tormented by itches he couldn’t scratch. The simple task of ordering coffee and donuts proved almost too much for him, but the patient Filipino man behind the cash register helped him through the ordeal. Steve was still marvelling at the man’s calm demeanour as he walked back to the car with his coffee and muffin.
Driving to work along the quiet streets, he pondered the friendly Filipino, the sex workers, and his own family. Will my boys help others when they grow up? Will they struggle? Will I be able to look after them for a few decades? He was often philosophical in the waning minutes when his time was still his own.
When he walked into the newsroom, he was instantly on company time again. He remembered how much he liked working in the news business and interviewing people on live radio, but he also felt the crushing weight of fatigue. He could feel the difficult task that lay ahead of him in simply making it through the day. He knew that if he were a single man with no family to support, there would be no way he would continue in the job; he would either quit because of the hours, or sleep in too many times and be fired. But his current family status meant there was no other option than to trudge into work on a Monday morning at four-thirty. Three small kids and one big mortgage.
“Welcome back!” Susan interrupted his melancholy with a big smile and a white envelope. “I got you this card.”
He smiled and took the envelope, opening it to find a greeting card with an illustrated picture of a bleary-eyed man standing beside a coffee maker and pouring himself a cup under a bold font greeting: Welcome Back to the Daily Grind. He laughed weakly, then opened the card to find a plastic gift certificate inside. “Hey, thanks!”
“It’s for Habit Coffee,” Susan said enthusiastically. “I thought you could use it every day after your nap.”
“Fifty bucks? Susan, you didn’t have to do that!”
“That’s okay.” She lowered her voice, glancing quickly around the newsroom. “Honestly, Steve, I am so happy you’re back. You have no idea what it’s like to work with Mary!”
He laughed.
“I mean it,” she whispered. “I’d have to quit if she was the host. I honestly …”
“He’s back!” Sheila Campbell gushed, returning to the newsroom from the washroom. “We are so glad you’re back, Steve! You have no idea!”
“Thanks, Sheila,” he laughed. “I’m feeling pretty rough this morning, but you guys are making me feel better.”
Seeing his colleagues again was the only thing that went right on his first morning back. He was anything but sharp. He felt like he was listening and speaking through fog the entire morning. Simple words and pronunciations were a challenge. It was even difficult to spit out the first two consonants in ‘British Columbia.’ Steve’s mouth was sluggish and prone to errors, but his brain was a bigger concern. He tried to read the background articles and notes but couldn’t focus on more than the first few sentences. He had difficulty listening to what his guests were saying. For the first year and a half he had interviewed guests on live radio, his ability to listen to what people were saying had been his saving grace. Even when he could barely keep his eyes open or focus on the written words in front of him, he could close his eyes and listen. Invariably, questions popped into his head. But today, even his saving grace was sunk. On any other day it could have rescued him during an interview like the 06:50 interview with a municipal councillor in Courtenay. The issue — a battle between bylaw officers and a busker whose accordion was irritating shopkeepers — was ridiculous. But Susan had booked it because she thought it could be entertaining, and a good chance to play a little accordion music, which she loved. The municipal councillor from Courtenay was in no mood to have fun, however; he’d had an earful from local residents since the story was printed in the local newspaper the week before. Now that Victoria radio station CIFU was phoning, he was in no mood to discuss it and offered the brief responses of someone who wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Steve fired through the eight questions Susan had prepared for the conversation in fewer than two minutes.
“As I’ve said a few times now,” the councillor responded crisply, “this is not a final decision. We will discuss it at our next council meeting, and Mr. Schmitz has been invited to address us at that time. There’s nothing more to say.”
Steve froze. He could not think of any more questions to ask the man. Not one. On any other morning, he would have come up with something. But his mental well was dry. After an awkward few seconds, the well was still dry.
“Hello?” the churlish councillor said. “Are we still on?”
“Uh, yes,” Steve said, sounding as confused as he ever had on live radio.
“Ask him if Schmitz will play the accordion!” Susan commanded in the talkback.
Steve looked stunned, but managed to replay the command in his sluggish brain, and remember enough of the words to repeat it a second later. “Will Schmitz play the accordion?”
“What?” the councillor spat, sounding more outraged than the topic could ever justify. “What did you ask me?”
“Uhhhh …”
“Will he play accordion for the councillors,” Susan repeated clearly, “when he comes to their meeting?”
Steve forced his eyes open, struggling to hear his colleague’s helpful suggestion and keep a toehold in the radio conversation. He paused again, repeating Susan’s suggestion in his mind one last time before spitting it out. “Will Mr. Schmitz be invited to play the accordion when he comes to speak to you and your fellow councillors?”
“I don’t have time for this,” the councillor huffed, just before hanging up. “Good bye!”
Steve snapped up in his chair at the telephonic exclamation point.
“Go to the music!” Susan said.
Steve nodded slowly, took a deep breath, and paused.
“At the bottom of your script!” she yelled.
Of course! Now that he knew what music she was talking about, Steve looked to the bottom of the script and found both the name of the grumpy municipal councillor and the introduction to the song Susan had selected. “That was, uh … Councillor Martin Blackmoor … and while Stan Schmitz and his accordion may be verboten on the streets of Courtenay … we can still enjoy the accordion stylings of the Glücklich Accordion Orchestra here on CIFU Morning Edition.”
Susan hit play on the digital recording just as Steve finished the script, and the repetitive oom-pah oom-pah oom-pah-pah burst onto the radio airwaves to fill the next two minutes and forty-eight seconds. If only it could have filled the next two hours.
“Sorry,” Steve mumbled through the talkback to Susan.
“That’s okay,” she sighed. “At least we have time to play the whole song!”
“I didn’t know you loved the accordion.” Steve yawned.
“Oh yeah,” she enthused. “Every summer, back home in Kimberley, we had the accordion championships. It was amazing!”
“I bet,” Steve said in distraction, trying to read the background notes for the next interview.
“I know you’re just humouring me,” Susan replied with a hint of defensiveness.
Steve’s eyes skittered over the words on his laptop screen as his ears soaked in the accordion-infused soundscape. His brain floated in a fog somewhere between the two. The accordion gave way to the sound of Sheila reading the seven o’clock news. The introduction and questions Susan had written for the next interview barely registered with Steve. The lack of sleep had left him as dazed and as dopey as his consumption of beer in his university days ever had. He was fall-down-drunk tired this morning. It was a dangerous headspace to be in for anyone working in live radio, but at least he was aware of his impairment. Just stick to the script, he implored himself. It may not be great radio, but it’s better to be safe than sorry today.
“… earthquake, tsunami, fire, flood, hurricane, or civil unrest. The future is uncertain! You’ll find peace of mind and emergency supplies at Certainty Preparations in Sooke.”
Steve took a deep breath and read carefully from the screen in front of him, hoping the next interview would be simple and wouldn’t require much quick thinking, or any thinking at all. “There’s a new controversy over the cost of a new sewage treatment plant that’s planned for the Capital Region,” he read dutifully. “The contentious plan was approved by the regional district recently, after years of debate about where it would be built, and whether it was needed at all. But there is still considerable disagreement on both of those points. And to find out more this morning, I’m joined by Victoria city councillor Andrew McHaver, who is the …”
The computer froze, just as Steve tried to scroll down to the next line of the introduction and the scripted questions below. Right when he needed them most, when he couldn’t think for himself and wanted to lean on each and every written word in front of him, those words had disappeared. Steve was hanging in limbo on live radio. He clicked his mouse firmly, then forcefully, then frantically, trying to scroll. He tried refreshing the script, which resulted in nothing, then made a ham-fisted attempt at pressing control-alt-escape that was actually control-shift-enter. All of this took less than five seconds, but was just enough time to alert radio listeners that something was wrong and to bring Steve closer to panic than he’d ever been on live radio. He made one last vain verbal attempt to stall for time, by repeating that Andrew McHaver was a city councillor in Victoria, and that he was on the phone, hoping against hope that the computer would unfreeze and the next words in the script would instantly appear. Instead, an error message flashed onto the screen:
FU News Item could not start because the file
For the first time this morning, the implications of the words in front of him were perfectly clear. He was fucked.
“My laptop is frozen!” he shrieked to Susan through the talkback, before instantly lowering his voice to its usual radio register and continuing into the microphone. “And as I mentioned, twice actually, Andrew McHaver is a Victoria city councillor who is on the phone. Councillor McHaver, good morning!”
“Good morning, Stephen.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, councillor,” he said, “but we’re having a few technical issues right now, and I’ve lost the exact wording of your role on the sewage committee.”
“Well, you’re not the first!” The councillor laughed. “It’s a mouthful, but I suppose it’s important to the conversation we’re having today. So, yes, I am a Victoria city councillor, but in addition to that I am the co-chair of the Capital Regional District’s Core Area Liquid Waste Management Deliverance and …”
“It’s still frozen!” Steve repeated in panic to Susan through the talkback, aware that he was now awake, but knew next to nothing about the specifics of the interview.
“… which is certainly a mouthful,” Councillor McHaver continued, “but you could just say sewage committee if you like.”
“That suits me fine,” Steve replied, grateful for both his garrulous guest and his producer who was now sprinting into the studio with a freshly printed copy of the script that Steve so desperately needed.
“That makes two of us,” the councillor agreed. “Anyway, what would you like to know about the sewage treatment project?”
“There has been a lot of debate over this contentious project …” Steve stalled one last time, just as Susan handed him the warm paper script. His desperate eyes met the first question with a relief he’d never thought he could experience in radio. “On Friday it emerged that the overall project cost has gone up again and is inching closer to a billion dollars. What led to this latest cost increase for the project?”
“Well, first of all, we’re still some distance away from a billion dollars. If you factor in all of the related and ancillary costs, it is getting closer to nine hundred million. But to be fair …”
Steve turned off his microphone and let the councillor ramble down the long-winded answer he seemed intent on giving. The laptop computer was still frozen, so Steve held the power switch down to turn it off and turn it on again, anticipating the first question that would surely come after the show from Bill in IT. Then he looked at the rest of the questions printed on the paper in his right hand and listened to the councillor’s meandering tangents with a patience that would make any respectable journalist blush. He knew he should jump in and force the councillor to get to the point, but he wasn’t willing to rush him along too much until either his computer or his brain was fully restored. He still had another half a dozen interviews to conduct before nine o’clock. The radio nightmare ended about five minutes after it had started, when the laptop appeared to be back up and running in full health, and Susan came trotting back into the studio with printed copies of all of the scripts Steve would need that morning, just in case.
“Councillor, I’m sorry to interrupt you but we’re short for time now. So, I just want to ask you a few precise questions in the few minutes we have left. First of all, are you confident that this latest cost projection will be the final cost?”
Now rushed along, the councillor answered four more questions in relatively short order, which left Steve and the majority of his listeners believing the cost of the massive infrastructure could still go higher. Though Steve was still largely ignorant of the specific issues in the interviews that followed, the frozen laptop had woken him up sufficiently that he could read all of the scripts and listen intently, learning about each subject along with the radio audience. All things considered, it was not a bad morning of local information programming. But when Steve and Susan emerged into the newsroom, both were exhausted.
