1000 Watts

The last DJ meeting I'll attend. We went in a circle and introduced ourselves. I was last.

"I'm Jessica. I have the Awkward Hour every Sunday morning, six to nine. And for all you new people," I said, looking around and the new group of trainees. "I haven't been here that long, but this is the best group of people, and the greatest thing, so don't leave it so quickly."

I had to look down and away to keep from crying. Clark and Ben and Robert and Kyle and Duane and Chris and everyone else started clapping. Clark and Chris and Tom and Robert and a few other people came to my reading. I read the end of "1000 Watts" and nothing else could have been more fitting.

At the end, I got a giant KBGA hug. In the middle of Duane and Chris and Robert and Clark and Ben and Tom and I kept myself again from crying.

Holly lay awake for what felt like an hour. She listened to Chris breathe heavily beside her. Rhythmic, steady. Undisturbed, and untroubled. She listened to rain beating on the window, on the roof. She thought of nothing, the sheets above her, the rain, and Chris’s breath.

She rolled to the side and her eyes fell upon the digital clock beside her. Red numbers blared into her eyes. 7:40. She watched the colon between the numbers blink to show the passing seconds. She counted 36 blinks. 7:41. Holly closed her eyes and dug the side of her face deeper into the pillow. Her hand gripped its softness. She smothered herself, feeling tears seep into its fabric.

She uncovered herself and quietly got dressed. Holly lifted a canvas bag off the counter, groping it to make sure a thin, square was within. She didn’t look back at Chris, her focus only on pulling open the door and closing it gently behind her.

She was hit with an unexpected burst of cold. Barely 60 degrees in late June. She pulled her hood up and tugged the jacket tighter around herself. The fabric was thin at best.

Holly started her walk to the station, the bag swaying around her arm with each step she took. In a matter of minutes, the cold rain soaked and penetrated her clothes. Flip flops weren’t ideal in this weather, but they were a mindless habit this time of year. Besides, her thoughts weren’t on shoes and rain when she got dressed this morning. Her feet ached with cold, turning pale from the water and chill in the air, but it was with ease that she ignored these details right now.

Holly lifted her hood and looked up at the studio’s window. Rain pelted her face, ran down her neck and inside her sweatshirt. Strands of hair turned dark as they grew wet. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her canvas bag and she followed the steps up to the station.

Once inside, each step felt so overwhelmingly familiar to her, so normal, so routine and so comfortable. The underlying knowledge of these being her last weighed heavily on her. Walking to the studio slowly now, she could herself tracing all her past steps. She felt the memory of her first time here rise from the floor, through her feet, her body, to her mind. She remembered being scared, nervous, excited, intimidated, self-conscious. She fixed her hair and clothes over and over again, forcing them to lay exactly as she wanted them to, her fingers nervously fixated with the chain around her neck. And now, this final time, she walked calmly, a mess, soaked.

It was Sunday morning, so the station remained deserted except for the on-air DJ that had taken over Holly’s permanent show. Holly carefully and quietly opened the glass door as little as she could, and slipped inside the studio. The DJ turned around, a look of surprise on her face, and then a smile of acknowledgment.

“Hi,” Holly said in a small voice.

“Hi there,” the other girl said, pulling the headphones from her neck and setting them on the countertop. They stood in silence for a few awkward moments, until the girl piped up again. “Oh, do you, um, want a minute?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Holly said quickly, attempting to cut her off, turning red from embarrassment at her situation.

“No, really, no, it’s no problem,” the other DJ said, getting ready to leave the studio for a few minutes, and Holly talked over her at the same time, “Really, don’t worry about it, please stay,” and the other girl talked as well, “I can go, only for a few minutes,” and Holly made gestures with her hands to show her leave was unnecessary. The girls fell silent again. The DJ made the executive decision to leave Holly in the studio alone, a final good bye, and slipped past Holly before she could protest. She looked around her, looked up at the colorful posters, the soft light coming from the old fashioned lamp, the rows upon rows of CDs.

Her body wandered over to the wall of shelves, and her fingers slid across the CD covers, touching their spines, the familiar plastic. She stopped at the end of the “D” section. She bit her lip and glanced at the phone. It sat still, unringing, mute. She sighed and walked to the soundboard, looking down at the glowing keys. The yellows and reds began to blur in her vision into one beautiful mess of luminescence. She blinked back the tears, and looked up to the window, speckled in clear water drops. Rain ran down the window, collecting gobs of water droplets in long streams. The sky was unforgivingly grey, harsh, heavy. The tips of her fingers unconsciously felt the sliders, followed the tracks they slid on. She touched the CD players, ran her fingers over the open/close button, the fourteen lights that lit up in a neat row to signify the seven-second delay. This was a lovely place, Holly thought over and over. This was a lovely place.

She stood there for a long time lost in her own reflections and memories. She remembered the first time she touched these instruments, how intimidated she was, how afraid she was of messing up and looking like an idiot. How live air felt like such a monumental thing, and how she walked home from her first show, thinking the whole way, I was on the radio. People heard me. They don’t even know who I am, but they heard me. The sun was unseasonably warm on her walk home that day. She had that stupid smile that she couldn’t keep off her face, even though she walked alone.

Holly watched the nanoseconds pass on CD Player One. The yellow numbers started flashing to signify only ten seconds left of the current song. Holly picked up the headphones and hesitantly slipped into them, bringing her face close to the mic. As the song ended, she switched it on.

“You are listening to,” she said slowly, feeling each word circle through her mouth and out her lips. “KBGA, Missoula.” She paused. “Thank you.” She took the headphones off gently, resting them on the counter beside her and listening to the last song she’d pick fall from the speakers, as the rain fell from the sky. Both seemed to soak her in the same way, a cold feeling that wasn’t totally unpleasant. By this time, though, Holly felt eyes on her back. She came back to reality, quietly apologizing for intruding, for being here. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t look up.

Instead, she grabbed her canvas back and pulled out the thin square wrapped in plastic, the vinyl record safely inside its cardboard sleeve. The Best of Mozart. She left a note, simply saying, “For Dustin,” and carefully placed it beside the collection of other records for him. Holly glanced at the DJ and gave a quick and forced smile before turning to leave.

Once into fresh air, Holly took a breath, and sighed, standing a moment to reassess her life, and at the same time, wishing she didn’t have to think at all. The rain stopped. She looked up at the sky and found a very thin strip of blue. She started her walk home, flip flops squishing under her feet, waterlogged. As she walked, she suddenly felt the same heat of the sun on her neck. She stopped at this, and looked back at the station, but the sun caught in her eye and she saw nothing. She turned, and kept walking.