Sympathy

Car brakes squealed from wear as I slowed my '01 junker up to the guard booth of the gated business complex. I cranked down my window and my arm trembled a bit, but before I could even open my mouth to speak, the guard waved me through without a second glance. Unsettled by the ease of entering, I pulled through the gate and parked in front of a radio station. The station shared a parking lot and exterior walls with other businesses. The doors of the station could be differentiated from the other businesses by the neon green letters boasting 'We're YOUR independent radio station!' I had never noticed how nauseating that color really was...

I worked at this radio station during my sophomore year of college and I've relived that year every day since. If I'm being honest, I didn't really work there; I was just a paid intern. They paid me well but the work I did wasn't exactly crucial to the station's existence. I organized and filed and occasionally recorded ad spots when they didn't want to hire a 'Talent' from the city. I say 'Talent' but in reality, the voice actor they usually hired from the city wasn't really that talented, but what do I know?

I gathered the boxes of catered chicken out of my passenger seat and persistently marched towards the station doors. Usually delivering catering required several trips, but the number of station employees was so small, I could carry the food in one load. I remember my first day of work surprisingly well. I know I was nervous because I can still remember the distinct tickle in my stomach: when I first walked into the tiny station , there was the lobby, then two booth rooms, a utility closet, and a conference room. Most of the walls were glass, making the small space seem bigger, but I had a tendency for paranoia even back then, and I always felt like the place was a glorified closet, and, still more, that someone was watching me while I worked. So I called the station the Fishbowl for that reason.

I can close my eyes to blink and still see the reception desk with its pen holder, business cards, and plump unexpressive receptionist. Brenda never smiled when I entered the lobby, but the first time I met her, she growled out her name–Brrrrrenda–with a firm squeeze and one shake of my right hand. Her squishy arms looked inviting. Maybe she'd hug me and offer me warm snickerdoodle cookies, but one look at her eyebrows said, 'Don't you dare.' There were also several disc jockeys who made there way in and out of the station throughout the day like really big bees (one look at their shirts, usually print button-downs, and you could tell exactly which show they hosted: Aliens Live Amongst Us!, Beach and Shag Tuesdays, Jazz is For Everyone) and two feuding men who worked sound engineering with the software and hardware: the Scotsman who infrequently wore his kilt to work and the Irishman who, every time the Scotsman wore his kilt, boiled for no reason beyond the fact that their grandparents had been born on different islands.

The Scotsman went by Ron. If he wasn't wearing the kilt or bickering with the Irishman, you would have no reason to assume his heritage–he only brought it up because he knew it got under the Irishman's skin and which gave Ron a laugh. He was a hefty American man who worked hard and often assisted me with my work. He even got me a few jobs, freelance, outside of the station setting up sound and DJing for parties and charity events because he said I was a hard worker and he knew how much I needed the extra cash. He dressed in a rough way and almost always wore the same Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt, but his Kia Soul car told you a lot more about his personality than any t-shirt ever could.

Ron was perfectly contrasted by the Irishman, whose raging catchphrase was something along the lines of 'Fuck you, I'm Irish.' His greasy hair reflected the station lights and he often dragged his fingers through his long snarly red beard, pulling his lips up to his nose and his nose up to his eyebrows as his fingers worked their way through the knots. He smelled of cigarettes, weed, and strong liquor at any given time of day. It was a miracle if he made it more than a month without a run-in with cops. Everyone at the station always heard about his latest adventures too, because he had an aggravating problem with oversharing. Around the end of February or maybe March, he received a DUI and couldn't get to work on days that his brother couldn't give him a ride . The station manager was hesitant to fire Pat because, like me, he had been a talented intern during college.Unlike me, however, he stuck with it all four years and was hired right after graduation. He had become indispensable to the station over the past eight years since he graduated because of his knowledge of sound engineering and equipment, and on the days he made it to work, he was still capable of fixing sound issues no one else could. I had gathered that his unreliability had grown over the years, but despite all of his negative qualities, the station manager had latched onto the hope that one day life would ease up on Pat and he could be something great again for the station.