Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [31]
The euphoria even carried over to the extra rehearsal Dumb scheduled for Wednesday lunchtime. I told them Phil would just be playing their MP3 on air, but they didn’t seem to care. For thirty minutes I sat back and felt the glimmer of pride that historically precedes the most catastrophic falls.
Rain was misting in from the Puget Sound when we arrived outside the downtown studio of KSFT-FM; or rather, the stained concrete office building within which the studio was buried. Windows reflected amber streetlamps, but there were no signs of life inside. I pressed a buzzer marked KSFT-FM, and waited.
And waited.
When 7:50 came and went, I pressed the buzzer again.
And waited again.
I was practically shaking by the time Ed tapped my arm to let me know the door had clicked unlocked. It was 7:56, so we tumbled inside, partly because we were getting drenched—being true Seattleites, none of us had brought an umbrella—and partly because our interview was due to start in, oh . . . four minutes.
I scanned the not-to-scale map on the wall and hurried everyone toward the only elevator. It was 7:58 when we made it to the fourth floor.
“What kept you?” said the breathtakingly large man who met us as the doors opened. “Never mind that. I’m Phil, and you need to take the second door on the right and get settled in the booth at the far end of the studio. I need to pee.”
As we hurried into the studio I realized there was no way we’d all fit into the booth. There was barely room for three people, and Phil seemed to equate to three people all by himself.
“I’ll stay out here,” I said. “You guys cram in. Just do your best.”
Ed placed his hand gently on my arm. “Where’s the producer?”
I looked around but there was no one else in the room. I shrugged.
Just then Phil bumbled back in, scanning the room like he’d lost his keys. “Anyone seen an ugly kid with acne?” he asked.
“No,” I said sharply, wondering which of us he meant.
“Damn. He was here a moment ago.” He pulled a fistful of gummy bears from his pocket and jammed them into his mouth, and suddenly I had no hope of understanding him. “That’s . . . trouble . . . interns,” he mumbled. “When . . . no pay . . . disappear.” He gawked at me like I was supposed to respond, but at least it gave him time to swallow. “Forget it. So which one of you wrote to me?”
I raised my hand.
“Great.”
Phil wrapped an arm around me and led me over to a desk just outside the booth. The pit-stain in his T-shirt was delightfully visible across my shoulder. Through the large window I could see Josh surreptitiously pulling a microphone toward him, ensuring he’d have a starring role in tonight’s interview, but everyone else had their back to me.
Suddenly Phil was tapping me on the arm. “You deaf or something?” he chuckled.
I nodded, pulled back my hair so he’d see the hearing aids. Phil didn’t seem thrilled by this discovery.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “Look, here’s what’ll happen. You’ll hear us through the studio monitors. Whenever I say it’s time for a break, you press this.” He pointed to a button on which the words “OFF AIR” had been handwritten in thick black ink.
I took a deep breath. “I might not be able to hear you.”
“But you can hear me now.”
“It’s different.”
Phil’s shoulders slumped. I got the feeling he was a man who was used to receiving bad news.
“Okay, look, when I raise my right hand”—he raised it helpfully to show me which one that was—“you press the ON AIR button. When I raise my left”—the other arm popped up—“press the OFF AIR button. Got it?”
I nodded, resisted the temptation to point out that deafness hadn’t yet compromised my ability to tell right from left, but thanks anyway. Besides, Phil was already barreling into the booth, evicting Josh from the office chair and exiling him to one of the off-balance stools on the other side. The office chair dipped about six inches when Phil sat down.
I swung around as I felt the floor vibrate. Ed had stamped his foot to get my attention. “I can do this if you’re not comfortable,” he said.
“No way.” I pointed into the booth. “You need to be