The Ex Talk

And although I have never eaten a chia seed in my life, I reach into the drawer beneath my desk and pull out a bag filled with them.

This is what a good producer does. I’ve trained myself to know what Paloma wants before even she does, to anticipate her every need. If your host isn’t happy, your show can’t be great. Paloma is the reason people love Puget Sounds, and I am the reason Paloma is able to put on a great show.

“You’re a peach,” she says, and gestures to her yogurt. “Literally. What would I do without you?”

“Eat subpar yogurt, obviously.”

I used to be terrified of her. I’d grown up listening to her anchor the morning news, and when I met her the first day of my internship, I choked on my words, unable to believe she was real. Puget Sounds was her idea, and even today, there aren’t a lot of female public radio hosts, and fewer queer women.

Paloma’s in her late forties and doesn’t have kids, and she and her art history professor wife spend two weeks every summer in a remote location I’ve never heard of, coming back with stories about how they got lost or ran out of food or narrowly escaped a wild animal. And yet while she’s here, she operates on such a specific schedule that if I ever left, it would take weeks to train someone new on all her idiosyncrasies alone.

Paloma readjusts her shawl, a deep blue and green knit, and takes her yogurt down the hall to the conference room, where it becomes immediately clear that this is Very Serious Business. Everyone looks grim, and no one’s on their phones. Even the early morning people, who are usually too peppy for their own good, are slightly less pepped than usual.

Paloma might not be worried, but I linger in the doorway, suddenly overcome by the where do I sit? feeling I knew so well in high school when Ameena and I didn’t have the same lunch period. A senior staff meeting still feels a little like a club I tricked someone into letting me into.

A tall figure in a sky-blue-striped button-down approaches from the other side of the hall, and I tighten my grip on my notepad. Dominic’s in jeans today, a rarity for him. They’re perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. This is another reason his height is so frustrating: If he weren’t a giant, I’d be able to more comfortably look him in the eye instead of cataloging his choice of legwear.

“Senior staff only,” I tell him, plastering on a false-sympathetic smile. A place where I fit in and he does not. “Sorry.”

“Dom! Come on in,” Kent says from the head of the table, waving him inside.

And just like that, he brushes past me with his thermos of coffee, already inducted into this club it took me years to join. I hope the coffee burns his tongue.

“Stellar reporting,” says senior editor Paul Wagner. “And the mayor resigned?” He lets out a low whistle.

“Thanks, Paul,” Dominic says, running his free hand through his hair, which is looking a little flatter than usual. “It makes it worth getting here at five a.m., that’s for sure.” Ah. That explains it.

Paul gives a hearty laugh at this. “The news never sleeps.”

I usually listen to PPR on my drive to work, but this morning I was finishing up a podcast. Dominic’s investigation got the mayor to resign. No wonder he’s been given a golden ticket to this meeting. It won’t stop me from silently fuming about it, though.

I find a seat next to Paloma and flip to a fresh page in my notebook. Emergency Meeting, I write at the top of the page, feeling a bit less important now that Dominic is here.

“Good morning,” Kent bellows when all eleven of us are seated. “Always a pleasure to see everyone’s smiling faces bright and early.” His M. C. Escher tie is hypnotic, and sometimes I forget how commanding he can be in front of a group. He’s like Rob Lowe’s character on Parks and Rec: positive to a fault. “Shay, do you mind taking notes? You’re so great with details.”

“Oh—sure,” I say, scratching out Emergency Meeting and flipping to the next page to rewrite it more legibly. I wasn’t expecting to be put to work at my first senior staff meeting, but I guess I am good with details. And I’m not about to argue with a compliment from Kent.

“First up,” Kent continues, “I’d like to congratulate Dominic on his reporting yesterday, both live on Puget Sounds and into the evening as he tracked the story.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, and make an executive decision not to record this particular tidbit. Dominic seems to make an attempt at looking humble, his cheeks even turning pink before he lifts a hand as though to remind all of us who he is.

“Cut to the chase, Kent,” says Isabel Fernandez, our morning show producer. We’ve always been friendly acquaintances more than actual friends, but suddenly I adore her. “Are we moving up a pledge drive to bring in more money, or

what?”

“Didn’t we just finish a pledge drive?” Marlene Harrison-Yates asks.

“We’re always either just finishing or just starting a pledge drive,” Paloma mutters next to me, and I stifle a laugh because she’s not wrong.

“No, no, nothing like that. Well.” Kent clears his throat, straightens a stack of papers. “We’re going to be rearranging our programming.”

Now that’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one.

“Please don’t put me on mornings again,” Paloma says.

“Well, I don’t want afternoons,” says our a.m. drive host, Mike Russo.

“Let him talk,” I say, and Kent offers me a grateful smile that soothes, just a little, the churning in my stomach.