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| From Talk to Me by Neil Coleman |
Chapter 1
Damn, I’m late. I pulled into the underground car park and rushed upstairs to the studio. They were playing music from the Sixties to fill in time, presumably until I was in the hot seat. I had to go past my producer, Jean, first.
‘You’re on, Garry,’ Jean said.
It’s always the same—the rush of adrenalin, along with the dread. Yes, dread. I get old-fashioned nerves each time that red light goes on. Up until that moment, I’m in my own world: thinking about what’s for dinner, how my face looks in the mirror, did I put on that new cologne I got for Christmas? Damn, my heads in the clouds one minute, and then I remember I forgot to turn off the element after I had fried my eggs for breakfast.
Shit, this has to stop. It’s the same each morning. Maybe I should try the graveyard shift. There’s plenty of lulas on there. I can relate to them—more my kind of person, give or take a few brain cells, of course. But this is where I am now so I better get on with it.
‘Good morning, fellow humans and those of you who are still wishing to attain that level.’
‘Careful, Garry’, Jean interrupted. ‘You know what the boss said.’
Damn. Does Jean have to remind me, the gormless twat? I wish she’d stop crawling up the boss’s arse. God she’s so far up there, she needs rescuing.
‘Better pull back on that one, my lovelies. What’s it gonna be this morning—the bus or are you gonna risk driving? Lookin’ out the window, I can tell you that you’d be superficially mad to take the wheels. It’s fair pissing down and the roads are like rivers of tears—.’
Jean intruded again. ‘Keep this up, boyo, and it’ll be your tears.’
Jesus, will this cow shut the fuck up? Get a life. It’s not like I give a stuff what she thinks, boss or no boss. I thought she had agreed to cut me a bit of slack.
‘If you’re still in bed, stay there. Ring in. Light up those boards—talk to me. OK, first caller. John, how’s your day going?
‘Crap. Just bloody crap.’
‘Careful, John. I don’t want to yellow-card you.’
‘It’s my damn neighbour. The creep’s had a party going all night. I haven’t had any bloody sleep—.’
‘What—music, yelling?’
‘You name it, Garry, they done it. Hell, if it wasn’t for my missus, I’d have taken a bat to the creeps.’
‘Warn him just once more, Garry,’ Jean said.
‘Hey, John, this is your last warning. Come on, mate, this isn’t the graveyard shift. You don’t want the boss in my ear, eh?’
‘Sorry there, Garry, but it’s just so frustrating. I tried Noise Control, but they didn’t do stuff all—is it OK to say that?’
‘Yeah, John.’
‘Well, they came, for what damn good that did. Jesus, these shit—. Oops, sorry, Garry, swine, they—.’
‘Who, John?’
‘What? Oh, the Noise Control dudes. They did nothing. Aren’t they supposed to take the sounds or something? Well, it made no difference. They were at it again within minutes.’
‘I take it you rang again, John.’
‘Yeah but a fat lot of good that did, eh. They were at it for another hour before they came back.’
‘And then?’
‘Nothing, bloody nothing. Oops.’
‘I’m taking him down, Garry.’ Jean again.
‘No, wait, Jean! Oh damn I’m sick of you doin’ this.’
‘We’re gonna take a break peoples. Be right back.’
‘Jean, how the fuck do you think I can run a show with you bitching it up all the time?’
‘Calm down, Garry, you know the rules. How many times do I have to pull the plug? You know it affects our ratings.’
‘Stuff the ratings. Anyway, my show is at its highest since I came here!’
‘Don’t shout, Garry, this has come from the top. Break’s over.’
‘Welcome back, people. Well, you heard what happened to John—let’s keep it seemly. Right, who have we on line two? Celia? No, Janet. Talk to me, Janet.’
‘That last guy was a wimp, Garry. Hell, I’m a first-time caller and I know the rules. Hey, all he had to do was keep ringing. They eventually fix it. He needs to grow some—well, you know what I mean. Gosh, we sorted out our neighbourhood real quick. We don’t have any loud all-night parties here any more. You know what we did?’
‘You gonna tell me I–’
‘It’s real good around here now. I mean, we don’t wanna spoil people’s parties but hey, they gotta have respect. Yes, that’s what it’s all about. When I call them they—.’
‘Garry, for God’s sake we need to hear you too,’ Jean said, once again interrupting me.
‘I know. Just get out of my damn ear, Jean. I know what I’m doing without you butting in every few seconds.’
‘Just do your job, Garry. We can talk about this later.’
‘Janet, it’s talkback, not some platform for you. You know, a two-way process. So how have you solved the perennial problem of loud all night parties then?’
‘By not using big words, Garry. We warn them—and then call the Noise Control. We got this system where heaps of neighbours all call in and we swamp them. That gets action and if they still don’t shut up, we go around ourselves. I can tell you we have had a few real good stand-ups with a few of the ones who weren’t getting the message. They soon—.’
‘Well, it seems that Janet’s got it all sussed. How about we hear from a few of you who live in suburbs where, to put it kindly, the police and Noise Control are simply not doing their job?’
‘Careful, Garry.’
‘Hey, will you just stay out of my head for a while? Damn, I’m gonna push the wrong button soon and the listeners will get a mouthful. Is that what you want?’
‘We need to talk after your shift. Back on.’
‘Peter, how’s your day going?’
‘Do you always cut people off, Garry? Why don’t you let them finish?’
‘Sometimes people go a bit overboard. You know what I mean, Peter?’
‘Like they swear and say something you disagree with. You are all the same—’
‘Whoa, stop right there, Peter. It’s not so much the disagreeing—hey, let’s face it, I sometimes play the Devil’s Advocate, you know, to keep things going. We wouldn’t want just people agreeing all the time, would we?’
‘Yeah, suppose so. Anyway, I disagree with that Janet lady. I have nothing but praise for the Noise Control in my area. We don’t need to confront the noisy ones ourselves.’
‘So you’re more than happy with them then? Got any examples, Peter?’
‘Well, the other night some young hoons were having a bit of a barmy in their garage—you know, all that language like F this and mother—oops, you get the picture. I swear they were on something, cause they were really goin’ for it—language, fights, the lot, along with that low-life music.’
‘What’s low-life music, Peter?’
‘That stuff with no tune and heaps of bad language like what I nearly said before.’
‘Glad you didn’t, Peter, very glad.’
‘They need to throw away the key with those sort. Stick the sods in the army, make them sweat. It wasn’t like that in my day.’
‘Was your day that much better, Peter? I take it you were around in the last war.’
‘I was. We all pulled together then. Not like now—it’s dog eat dog, too bad about the community. What they need is faith.’
‘You sure are covering a lot of ground, Peter. We’ve had faith, war, low-life, music—you’re on a roll.’
‘We need to lock ’em all up, chuck away the key.’
‘What about sticking them all on an island?’
‘Garry, I know where you’re going with this. Stop playing with him.’
‘Sure, Jean, and you stop—.’
‘You agree with me then, Garry? Discipline.’
‘I’m not agreeing or disagreeing with you, Peter.’
‘It’s fence-sitting guys like you who have got us into all this mess, if you ask me.’
‘What mess, Peter?’
‘It’s all going to the dogs.’
‘You need to be specific, Peter.’
‘I know what you’re doing—you’re taking the piss. You know what I mean.’
‘I keep asking you to give me an example then we will all know what you mean.’
‘Young people don’t respect us any more. If we did what they do—hell we would get what for. Who’s going to employ them? They’re lazy and—.’
‘Gee, Peter, you really don’t like the world, do you.’
‘You are—.’
‘Well, that was Peter’s take on, what can I say—everything?’
‘You goaded that guy, Garry. This has to stop.’
‘Just play some music, Jean.’
‘You must stop playing with them.’
‘Jean, how long have you been in talkback? It’s not about you. I have to push them or it goes nowhere. I can’t let every bloody crackpot have a stage without challenging them. You are cramping my style. Why don’t you look at the ratings when I’m on? Doesn’t that tell you something?’
What can I say? You see what I put up with every day from that cow. She has no damn idea what talkback radio is all about. Christ knows how she got her job. Rumour has it she left the last job under a bit of a cloud. Nothing gets me going more than being interrupted in the middle of a session with a caller. Of course I goad them. If I didn’t, the show—yes, show, because that’s all it is—would be pretty damn boring. Sure, they all say it’s about letting people exchange ideas and putting alternatives across, but I don’t care what they say. It’s a show and it’s simply about ratings and money.
OK, I’d had my hissy-fit. The rest of my shift was the usual crap, a mixture of religious nuttos, trendy lefties and right-wing yesterday’s men. Somewhere in the middle I heard from a few “reasonable” people, not too many. After all, who the hell reacts to nice people? I try to keep their calls short.
So it’s home to an empty house. Well, not quite. There is a crazy Jack Russell who has most probably been driving the cat nuts for the last few hours. Yes, Jasmine uses her brains and goes to visit the neighbours. She has worn them down with her unremitting love, and now they think that she’s the cat’s whiskers. My partner comes home at some ungodly hour—I am well asleep by then.
I open the gate and there she is, peering out the window. No, not the neighbour—the dog, the Jack Russell. There is a distinct difference. Most dogs welcome their masters, with an ebullient wagging of the tail. Not this one. She jumps, whimpers, whines, scratches, barks and demands. Demands what? Well, she just wants to go and meet her mates down at the bay.
It’s like this every day without fail, no matter what the weather is doing. I win in two ways: my physical and mental health. If I don’t take her, all hell breaks loose. Honestly, you should see the damage she does when I resist her pleas. The toll so far is: two computer chargers, numerous speaker leads, Mum’s old rocking chair and all of the pillows. Then there is the unknown damage or soon-to-be-discovered trail of destruction. So I give in and peace resumes, after the walk of course.
‘How’s my little girl?’ I say. I try to open the door without dropping anything, because it’s into the garden for objects I drop and then, damned if I can get her to return it without a bribe. I pile my stuff onto the table, increasing the general flotsam that has gathered over the last few days. My partner clears it every so often, which equates to piling it up somewhere else. Bills, important receipts (needed for warranty), library books, dog lead, shopping that hasn’t been put away—all of them compete for space on the little table.
By now, Spot’s excitement has reached a level that cannot be ignored. I have to say, ‘It’s OK, we are going walkies. Just wait.’ She knows what I mean. If I don’t say those words, she kind of figures we are not going walkies and eventually settles down, planning revenge on the furniture and any part of me that drapes over the couch. Of course I know that putting off the walk is a no-go zone.
I change as quickly as I can, make a decision as to whether I take the gumboots, jacket and, on extreme weather days, the leggings. If I have time I may put the slow-cooker on so that I can arrive home to the aroma of a stew or some other delight. Usually that has been taken care of by the partner.
Now begins the attempt to put the lead on. She has often grabbed it in her mouth and in her excitement attacked it with her little sharp teeth. After a few commands of ‘Up, up’ she jumps with the lead onto the top of the couch. I click the lead around her neck and she jumps down and heads for the door. I gather the poop bags, car keys and lead her out the door.
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