He wanted to surprise her with Cole Porter. Something easy, in his range. Something that Jimmy Stewart got away with.
==
At the radio station, early or late, noone else around, he found her crying. They often did the too-early shifts together, and when needed, the too-late shifts. There was always a lot of coffee and very little light.
"Hey, where's the news?!" He rounded the corner of the cubicle before he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
She looked away quickly. "It's here, " tearing the sheet off the old fax machine. The slick paper and the purple ink always rubbed off on his hands and he'd stare at his fingers in the control room. Turning knobs, wondering how he'd gone wrong and why he didn't merit his own engineer.
"You're crying!" He declared. He was getting very good at these declarative statements; no matter how early it was, he could still identify reality.
"No," she shook her head, avoiding his eyes. When he came close, she backed away, as if he were going to attack her by giving her a hug. She was still new at being his assistant, and he knew he was failing her. She had introduced herself as a lifelong fan (which only served to make him feel old, not honored. She'd been watching his 22 year old self on tv. The time machine.) And all he ever did was yell. He was an even worse boss.
"Look, I'm sorry if I raise my voice all the time," he was following her down the hallway of carpeted cubicles, back towards the control room.
"It doesn't matter. It's not you," she called over her shoulder.
He heard the record ending, and as always, pondered the size of his listenership. How much dead-air they would take. It might even be his signature style. But he never let it go longer than a few seconds. And he was due for a bunch of business, the ads, the station id, the news.
Instead of chasing her to the Ladies room (he didn't even know her THAT well, yet), he went back to work.
She walked in, just as he was coming back from commercial. Even though he was reading the news off the blurry paper, he felt her eyes on him. He even tried to make eye contact when he could. As soon as he finished reading, he was able to set the next record by feel. His hands moving, carefully in sequence, to get the record moving, to pull up the sound on turntable 2, already cued up. To turn off his mic and the other faders, just in case the used car commercial was repeating itself. He held her eyes, waiting for her to talk.
"When I was a kid, I'd watch your show with my brother. He was a year younger than me. He loved it because I loved it. It was only on in the summer, and we'd go out and play-usually a variation of the plot of whatever show we saw. He was killed when he was 11. Today, it's his birthday. And it marks the same number of years that I had known him as he's been gone. And somehow, even though I know it's not true, I've always throught that you were a witness to him, to us playing together. Like you shared all those mornings. And I'm completely aware that you aren't--"
She stopped talking just as the record finished and he announced the next one. It was their signalling language, nodding to each other when he went back to steering the big ship (The Titanic). He was a pilot, a captain, making sure the music kept rolling on. Silence was the crash, the train wreck.
"That you weren't there. But after he died, I confided to your poster. And it was a great copng mechanism. And I don't expect that in real life----, I just wish that I could cnfide in you and that you would be kind enough to listen. And instead, all you do is yell at me,"
His hand had been resting a few inches from hers, the music was playing, but the room was silent and motionless. He reaches his hand out slightly to rest his fingers on hers. But the music ends abruptly, Something's wrong with the continuity of sound; the great ocean is turbulent again.
She leaves the door slightly ajar, breaking the sanctity of the dj booth, but at this hour, it was only them anyway and no other sound will leak in. The entire office is silent.
==
At the radio station, early or late, noone else around, he found her crying. They often did the too-early shifts together, and when needed, the too-late shifts. There was always a lot of coffee and very little light.
"Hey, where's the news?!" He rounded the corner of the cubicle before he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
She looked away quickly. "It's here, " tearing the sheet off the old fax machine. The slick paper and the purple ink always rubbed off on his hands and he'd stare at his fingers in the control room. Turning knobs, wondering how he'd gone wrong and why he didn't merit his own engineer.
"You're crying!" He declared. He was getting very good at these declarative statements; no matter how early it was, he could still identify reality.
"No," she shook her head, avoiding his eyes. When he came close, she backed away, as if he were going to attack her by giving her a hug. She was still new at being his assistant, and he knew he was failing her. She had introduced herself as a lifelong fan (which only served to make him feel old, not honored. She'd been watching his 22 year old self on tv. The time machine.) And all he ever did was yell. He was an even worse boss.
"Look, I'm sorry if I raise my voice all the time," he was following her down the hallway of carpeted cubicles, back towards the control room.
"It doesn't matter. It's not you," she called over her shoulder.
He heard the record ending, and as always, pondered the size of his listenership. How much dead-air they would take. It might even be his signature style. But he never let it go longer than a few seconds. And he was due for a bunch of business, the ads, the station id, the news.
Instead of chasing her to the Ladies room (he didn't even know her THAT well, yet), he went back to work.
She walked in, just as he was coming back from commercial. Even though he was reading the news off the blurry paper, he felt her eyes on him. He even tried to make eye contact when he could. As soon as he finished reading, he was able to set the next record by feel. His hands moving, carefully in sequence, to get the record moving, to pull up the sound on turntable 2, already cued up. To turn off his mic and the other faders, just in case the used car commercial was repeating itself. He held her eyes, waiting for her to talk.
"When I was a kid, I'd watch your show with my brother. He was a year younger than me. He loved it because I loved it. It was only on in the summer, and we'd go out and play-usually a variation of the plot of whatever show we saw. He was killed when he was 11. Today, it's his birthday. And it marks the same number of years that I had known him as he's been gone. And somehow, even though I know it's not true, I've always throught that you were a witness to him, to us playing together. Like you shared all those mornings. And I'm completely aware that you aren't--"
She stopped talking just as the record finished and he announced the next one. It was their signalling language, nodding to each other when he went back to steering the big ship (The Titanic). He was a pilot, a captain, making sure the music kept rolling on. Silence was the crash, the train wreck.
"That you weren't there. But after he died, I confided to your poster. And it was a great copng mechanism. And I don't expect that in real life----, I just wish that I could cnfide in you and that you would be kind enough to listen. And instead, all you do is yell at me,"
His hand had been resting a few inches from hers, the music was playing, but the room was silent and motionless. He reaches his hand out slightly to rest his fingers on hers. But the music ends abruptly, Something's wrong with the continuity of sound; the great ocean is turbulent again.
She leaves the door slightly ajar, breaking the sanctity of the dj booth, but at this hour, it was only them anyway and no other sound will leak in. The entire office is silent.
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