Chapter Five ~ Trisha
* We Don’t Say Wallflower *
How does a girl go back to her regular life when her teenage boyfriend just announced his undying love for her on national TV?
The streetcar.
As I rolled into work, my body automatically assumed my office demeanor. Emotion, especially anxiety, had to be put aside to do my job. Setting my coffee on my desk, my butt had barely hit the chair before two people came into my cluttered space, needing help with their computers.
Hum 103.1 in Toronto might have had a stellar lineup of shows and guests, but it was run on a shoestring budget sometimes, and that meant equipment didn’t always get updated on a reasonable schedule.
As usual, the first hour of the day was spent running around the entire building, fixing problems, and explaining for the millionth time what was possible and what was impossible with the current state of our systems and gear.
Sometimes I could just do the work, and sometimes people who thought they were being helpful wanted to suggest terribly wrong ways to fix it. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a person who knew just enough technical words to repeat them, without having a clue what they actually meant.
But some people were simply frustrated by the delay in their workflow, and I did everything in my power to help them quickly, explain shortcuts, and make their lives easier.
There were a few older people who needed to hear things a few times, in a few different ways, but now I knew the secret. I would walk them through the process, then make them do it while I stood behind them. Then we’d write down the steps together, including as many personal references as possible.
I had actual procedural documentation that included the line, “While it’s booting up, pretend it’s a burrito in a microwave and time it for two minutes.” Taking the scariness out of tech was a little talent I tried to cultivate for my coworkers. Leaving them laughing was a daily personal goal.
By noon, I needed to treat myself to a walk in the park and a slice of butter chicken pizza. By two, I finally caught up on the daily bits and pieces, and could concentrate on my real work. The station wanted to increase its online presence by streaming video of the most important interviews and shows. They even made a couple of sets in what used to be our warehouse storage room.
Thankfully, I was given an actual budget and enough time to set it up at a reasonable pace. We were ready to do a test next week to make sure that everything ran smoothly. We’d start doing recordings and posting them on our site later, but the live stream had a few extra little things to iron out before I could completely trust it.
Before I knew it, it was five-thirty, and I got a text that Carrie was waiting for me at reception. Quickly stopping to scrub my hands so that they didn't feel like cable residue, I grabbed my purse, locked my office, and went out to the lobby. Carrie was there, gossiping with our receptionist, Kim.
"I just knew that he was going to win from the start,” Carrie gushed.
Kim tilted her head back and forth, pondering. Her bright green shimmer eyeshadow flashed in the light of the artsy chandelier overhead. "I thought that at first, but then Jenna really brought it with that song about her brother."
"Oh my God, I know," Carrie said, clutching her heart, bracelets jangling wildly. "That was an ugly cry night."
"Right? But then Nate just kept doing the sweetest songs for his high school girlfriend. Nobody could beat that,” Kim said, rolling her eyes.
The girls turned to me, laughing. “Trisha watched it for the first time last night," Carrie said. "What did you think?"
I shrugged, pretending to check that my phone was in my purse to give my hands something to do. "It was pretty good. I liked that the show focused on the music instead of people just prancing around in sexy outfits."
"Nate could wear a garbage bag and make it look like couture,” Kim laughed. Then she shot me a saucy look. “I bet you wish you were his Trisha.”
My attempt at laughter may or may not have seemed natural.
Carrie turned to me. "You sounded a little down last night. Brain scrambled, or whatever you said. So I'm dragging you out for a glass of wine. Or three."
"Great idea, thanks," I said quickly. "Have a good night, Kim."
She waved, flashing a dozen gold rings and bright green nails. As I passed her monitor, I saw that several browser windows were open with various gossip and fashion websites. Kim was already the office gossip, and she certainly didn't need more inspiration. She seemed to feel that actual work was beneath her, and had obviously gotten the job because her Uncle Gary was the station manager.
Once we were three blocks away with a carafe of white wine between us, I took a deep breath and tried to settle down. "Take a few sips, then tell me what's up," Carrie said gently.
The Pinot Grigio went down too smoothly, as I drained my half glass. "You must have needed that," she laughed. "Now, I don't mean to be nosy, but you know it's my job. What's going on?"
I took a moment to look around the room. Somehow the cheap leather, old wood, and ancient stained glas
s in Duncan’s little pub always comforted me. "Before I sent you that text, I was just having the usual amount of angst,” I began, tucking my long hair behind my ears.
"Well, I know it wasn't the photo of Fluffmatron that made you worse," she said.