The Ex Talk

Kent snaps his fingers. “Remind me to catch Mary Beth before she leaves. The only way Meatball eats her food these days is if she transfers every single nugget from the dish to the floor.”

“Only a few minutes, right?” Dominic’s voice wobbles.

“Five, tops. You’ll be great.” Kent flashes us a grin and turns back to his office.

“Please don’t mess up my show,” I say to Dominic before I slip into Booth C.

* * *

—

Dominic Yun is in my studio.

Technically, it’s three adjoining studios: the one I’m in with the announcer and mixing console—aka “the board”—the small call-in studio, and Studio A, where Paloma’s sitting right now with her show notes, a bottle of kombucha, and an empty glass of water. Dominic is next to her, wringing his hands after spilling said water on Paloma’s notes. Ruthie had to race to print off another copy.

“Mary Beth’s here,” Ruthie says, coming into the studio behind me after mopping up Dominic’s mess. “And yes, she has water, and her dog has water.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” I put on my headset and scan the show’s rundown, my heart thumping its familiar preshow rhythm.

Puget Sounds is an hour-long burst of adrenaline every weekday from two to three p.m. As the senior producer, I direct the live show: cueing Paloma, calling guests and patching them through, tracking the time spent on each segment, and putting out any number of fires. Ruthie brings in the guests, and our intern, Griffin, works the call-in line in an adjoining booth.

Sometimes I can’t believe I get to do this five times a week. Thousands of people across the city are turning their dials and apps and web browsers to 88.3 FM, and some of them will be so inspired, amused, or even furious that they’ll call us to share a story or ask a question. That interactive element—hearing Paloma through your speakers one minute and chatting with her live the next—is why radio is the best form of journalism. It makes the world a little bit smaller. You can be listening to a show with hundreds of thousands of fans across the country, but it still feels like the host is talking directly to you. Almost, in some cases, like the two of you are friends.

I bounce my tan ankle boots up and down on the lowest rung of my usual stool. Next to me, Ruthie adjusts her headphones over her platinum blond pixie cut before placing a hand on my leg to stop my fidgeting.

“It’s going to be fine,” she says, nodding toward Dominic through the glass separating us. We try to keep our feud secret, but Ruthie, with all her brink-of-Gen-Z intuitiveness, picked up on it within weeks of his start date. “We’ve dealt with worse.”

“True. You’re my eternal hero after rebooking all four guests on our irrational fears show last minute.”

I adore Ruthie, who came to us via commercial radio, which is faster paced despite the near constant ad breaks. Every so often, I catch her humming the 1-877-KARS-4-KIDS jingle under her breath. She says she’s haunted by it.

In the center of the studio, Jason Burns rises from his announcer chair, an ergonomic contraption he specially ordered from Sweden. The board stretches in front of him.

“Quiet in the studio, please,” he says in that warm maple syrup voice of his, hands lingering over a couple of faders. Jason’s a sweet thirtyish guy I’ve only ever seen in plaid flannel and jeans, the uniform of both lumberjacks and Seattle natives.

The ON AIR sign next to the clock lights up.

“You’re listening to 88.3 FM Pacific Public Radio,” Jason says. “Coming up, a breaking local story on Puget Sounds. Plus, Paloma Powers asks a trainer your burning animal behavior questions. But first, here’s your national news from NPR.”

The ON AIR sign goes off. And then: From NPR News in Washington, DC, I’m Shanti Gupta . . .

There are few sounds more calming than the voice of an NPR news anchor, but Shanti Gupta doesn’t soothe me the way she usually does. I’m too focused on the utter wrongness that is Dominic next to Paloma.

I hit the button on my line that connects me to Dominic. “Don’t sit so close to the mic,” I say, and he must be so startled by my voice in his ears that his eyebrows jump to his hairline. “Or all we’ll hear is your heavy breathing.”

His mouth moves, but I don’t hear anything.

“You have to press the—”

“You really don’t want me to be good at this, do you?”

The question lingers in my ears. If Paloma’s paying attention, she doesn’t show it, instead making notes in the margins of her rundown. My sweater suddenly feels too warm.

Ten years ago, I was the wunderkind, the intern who crafted perfect rundowns and researched riveting show topics and proved to Paloma and to her former producer, a guy who retired before I took his job, that I was something special. “This good, and she’s only nineteen!” Kent would bellow. “She’s going to run this place someday.”

I didn’t want to run the place. I only wanted to tell good stories.

And here’s Dominic: our newest employee, fresh off a master’s program, already on the air.