The Ex Talk

I am not sacrificing my bed to a seven-pound dog. WWAMWMD, I think, though surely this advice doesn’t apply to anxious Chihuahuas.

When I inch closer to the bed, he growls.

So I change into pajamas and pad down the hall to the guest room, moving Blush ’n Brush paintings off the bed so I can slip inside. The sheets are scratchy and a lamp throws eerie shadows on the walls, making me feel like a guest in my own house.

There’s probably a metaphor here.

* * *

—

Steve wakes me up at five in the morning by pawing at the guest room bed. I maybe should have splurged on a better mattress for all my “guests.” My neck aches and my back is all twisted. I’ve never felt the signs of aging sneak up on me like right now. He left a couple presents in my bed, so I heave everything off and into the washing machine. When we go outside, he’s slightly better on the leash, except then he doesn’t want to come inside. By the time I get into the shower, I only have a few minutes left to dry my hair.

“I’ll be back to walk you around lunch,” I tell Steve before I shut the door. “Please be good.”

So really, I’m in fine spirits by the time I get to work for our last day on the show.

“Is that cereal in your hair?” Ruthie asks as I drop my bag beneath my desk.

I pull it out, examining it before flicking it into a nearby trash can. “It’s dog food. Lovely. I, um, adopted a dog yesterday.”

Her eyes light up. “You did? We should have a doggie playdate! Joan Jett loves making friends.” Photos of Joan Jett the goldendoodle cover Ruthie’s desk.

Given Steve’s current emotional state, I tell her it might be a while before he’s ready for a playdate.

“Hi, team,” Paloma says during our morning meeting. She got an offer to host a jazz show on a commercial station, and she insists she’s excited about this new direction of her career. I want to believe her. “Well. Today’s the day. We had a good run, I think. Eleven years? Most shows never get close to that long.”

“You’ve been phenomenal,” Ruthie says. ?

?We were all lucky to learn from you.”

Paloma smiles, but I can tell there’s some pain there. “Thank you, Ruthie. I was ready to come in here and make a grand speech, but I think all I can do at this point is thank all of you for being so wonderful to work with. You’re as much a part of this show as I am.” With that, she sniffs, as though holding back tears. “Ready for our last rodeo?”

Paloma, Ruthie, and I designed this show to be something of a retrospective. We spent hours finding clips of Paloma’s best shows, the funniest moments and most heart-tugging ones. The driveway moments—the ones where you can’t bear to go inside until you finish the story.

On Monday, Dominic and I will take the next steps forward in planning The Ex Talk. The real work will begin. But today, I am still a producer, and this is still my show.

An hour has never gone by so quickly. Toward the end, our coworkers crowd into the studio with champagne. Ten minutes left, and then five minutes left, and then Paloma takes the mic for her farewell.

“To the listeners who’ve been with us since the beginning, and to the listeners who maybe only recently discovered us, thank you for your support all these years. Starting next week, you’ll be able to hear me on 610 AM Jumpin’ Jazz radio. And our senior producer Shay Goldstein has a new show, so keep your ear out for that.” She catches my eye through the glass, and I hold a hand to my heart, mouthing a silent thank-you.

Then it’s time for her final sign-off:

“And that’s a wrap on Puget Sounds. I’ve been Paloma Powers, and you’re listening to Pacific Public Radio.”

Over to Jason for the time and the weather, and we’re officially off the air.

The studio erupts into applause, and on the other side of the glass, Paloma wipes away a tear.

We’re done. Puget Sounds has been my entire public radio career, and now it’s over.

An ending, and soon, a new beginning.

Our coworkers rush her studio, trading hugs and reminiscing, I’m sure. I can’t hear any of it, and I’m not certain I should be part of it. Paloma’s leaving. I’m staying. In a few days, I’ll feel better, but right now, it’s bittersweet.

Dominic’s waiting in the hall, leaning in the doorway of the break room. My brain’s so weird that I can’t even appreciate his forearms today. He tips his thermos of coffee at me as I head back to my desk.

“Good show,” he says, and he must be ill because I think he means it.