When Mitch got home he forwarded the reel to Ingrid. The next day, she reported back that her boss liked it, then followed up by asking what day worked best to swing by the station with emphasis on sooner rather than later. He half-joked that he could be there tomorrow, not expecting the idea to land; minutes later she confirmed that it worked and threw out a few times to meet.
“What the fuck?” he huffed a laugh while reading the text out loud.
For the next 24 hours, Mitch’s anxiety shifted into overdrive. At first he sat in denial that any of this was happening at all, because how could something so coveted emerge from out of nowhere? Not that a weekly 3 hour public access radio spot would be life changing nor fiscally sound, but getting paid for a hobby was enough for him. Even the slightest amount of steady income would be a godsend, if only to cover extra expenses a month. Mostly he wanted to be able to throw extra cash at Jodie, who he’d never be able to repay at this rate.
And though Mitch hardly believed in fate, he toyed with the idea that this could possibly be a sign which he ought to pay attention to. The idea of leaving Monument still hung heavy because all of the full-time, well paying gigs were in larger cities. But with Nate factoring into his future, he had a reason to stick around. The slot might not be much to start with, but neither were seed packets prior to their contents planted. It was based around potential, and for once he dared to be optimistic.
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The interview passed quickly. Mitch sat at a conference room table, across from Ingrid, who wore an enviable threadbare cardigan with a band t-shirt and jeans, and an older man named Tom with a long gray ponytail and a goatee. There were hardly any inquiries at all, to his surprise, mostly keeping it to shop-talk at a languid pace. Mitch found it easier to keep up than he expected, and on several occasions Ingrid reiterated that there wasn’t much of a difference between college and public radio. “Are you familiar with doing pledge drives?” she asked with a knowing smirk. God, was he ever.
“Oh yes,” Mitch laughed. “Very much so.”
They touched on Mitch’s career for a few minutes, and then Tom asked what bands he liked. Earlier, Tom waxed poetic about the glory days of being a Boston DJ through the 70s to the 90s; with that in mind, Mitch played it safe and answered with the likes of Cheap Trick and Lou Reed, then took a small gamble by throwing Supergrass into the mix as well. He wasn’t lying, at one point or another these all took top slots on his listening shelf. Less so, lately, but that was neither here nor there.
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Once Mitch finished, Tom nodded and appeared to briefly digest this list, then turned to Ingrid and said, “Well, it’s your project. I’m fine with signing off if you wanna do a test run with him.”
Mitch thanked both of them for their time, shaking Tom’s hand a little too enthusiastically before taking off. The second he stepped outside, he had a cigarette ready to go and lit it with trembling hands. Seconds later, Ingrid joined him. “Can I get one of those?” she asked, and he was all too happy to comply.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked while she took a drag.
“Have at it,” she answered after blowing a few smoke rings.
“This kinda thing- did someone put you up to this? It seems too perfect to be random. It’s like you found my high school journal or something.”
“Ah,” she grinned. “No Mitch, I didn’t read your diary. Although I wish I did, I bet you were a pill back then.”
“I was a bundle of gay anxiety, not much different than now.” She burst out laughing at the response, and a smile crept up on his face.
“Hm, so yes and no for the randomness factor. Jodie put a bug in Rodney’s ear a few months back about work when you were shelved and apparently going through some other shit.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Hey, none of my business if you’re not advertising.” The sentiment was appreciated. She flicked some ash, then put the cigarette between her lips again and readjusted her loose bun. “Anyway, he passed the message onto me since I’ve been counting down the days since Jesus’ 13th apostle announced his retirement. Originally we were gonna hire another person to keep running that program, but I told Tom that I’d quit if we kept it up.”
“Oh, so your brilliant idea for a replacement is the antithesis of that?” Mitch joked.
“A few old people’ll be mad, but fuck ’em. We’ll lose some donors at first, but we’re in desperate need of new blood anyway. And after the last two years of this hellhole country’s bullshit, I don’t care. Fuck them and fuck their god, the sky one and the orange one.”
“Amen,” Mitch folded his hands in prayer, popping Ingrid yet again, her braying laughter elevating his ego.
“You’re a good kid. Oh, I’m glad you let me bully you into this. This’ll be so fun,” she assured him, but he could tell that he didn’t need it.