To Whoevers Listening

Two : Not So Bad After All

What's the worst that could happen?

I watch as Obie drives away down the mountain, glaring at his tail lights as they disappear into the falling snow.

Thanks, Obie, that was real comforting.

When he's gone, I turn back around to look at the radio live room. The song he chose is probably going to be ending any minute now. I can't leave just dead silence. He'll probably be listening to the radio in his car, not to mention everyone else in our small town of Goldview.

I flex my fingers down at my sides, estimating how long I have left, before I force myself to walk across the wooden floorboards, open the live room door and step inside.

Obie has walked me through how to operate the controls just in case an event like this ever arose, though I hoped that it didn't.

And now here I am, stuck here, alone in these bullshit mountains with a designated job I would literally pay anyone else to do for me.

But surely it couldn't be that hard. Obie and Maggie do it every day. They're adults. They know what they're doing.

I sit down in the wheelie chair in front of the main mic. The set of headphones Obie was just using are sitting on the desk and I pick them up and put them on.

All previous knowledge flies out the window and I'm left sitting there like an idiot with a pair of head muffs on as the last song slowly fades into electronic buzz in my ears.

Speak.

Speak now.

I stare at the mic.

Speak, you fool!

I jam my finger on the button and bring my lips to the microphone.

"This is Moira here, broadcasting from Obie Tower, your favorite radio station with the best music on air." I say, than grapple through the piles of paper and empty record covers around me for a new song idea. I click on the computer. I find one, and I smile.

"I'm gonna start off today with one of my mothers favorites." I say, my mouse hovering over the selected song. "Hey Jude by The Beatles."

I click.

"Dial in for any requested tracks." I finish as the song fades into the headphones.

For a moment, I listen, shocked and staring, as if I'm just waiting for Obie to call and tell me what a horrible job I did, not that he ever would.

But after a few minutes of sitting, there isn't a call. The station doesn't implode. The speakers don't crackle and die.

I did an alright job.

I do a little giddy shake of my hands and grin.

Maybe this isn't so bad after all.