The air inside WRYL Studios was thick with the scent of dust, old electronics, and coffee. It was the smell of analog broadcasting being done on a shoestring budget. In the small, bustling reception area, a woman with a bouffant hairdo kept her gaze fixed downward, her fingers a blur on the typewriter.
“Good afternoon,” Ethan said, his voice hesitant.
Clack-clack-clack. The woman didn’t pause.
“I’m Ethan,” he tried again, taking a step closer. “I… uh… I just got a call. My show?”
The woman stopped abruptly, snatched the paper from the carriage with a rip, and looked up, her expression a mix of impatience and professionalism. Her eyes were framed by sharp cat-eye glasses.
“About time, Ethan! Mr Stoddard wants to see you right away. He’s in his office.” She pointed to a closed office door. Ethan just stood there confused, unsure of what to do. The receptionist snapped. “Try to keep up, dear.” She punctuated her statement with a shaming glance at his vintage casual wear and a finger pointing to the closed office door..
“R-right,” Ethan stammered, feeling like a high school kid late for detention. He turned and walked towards the designated door. The wall behind Ethan was lined with framed, yellowing photographs of stern-looking men and women in suits—presumably past station managers or local celebrities. The door was marked with a gold-plated sign: E. G. STODDARD, STATION MANAGER.
Ethan knocked.
“It’s open, you insufferable nitwit! Get in here!” roared the same booming voice Ethan heard on the phone.
Taking a fortifying breath, Ethan pushed the door open. Behind a massive, cluttered metal desk sat a man who filled his tweed jacket completely. He had a bristly gray crew cut and a face that looked perpetually annoyed.
“There you are,” Stoddard barked, pointing a stumpy finger at a clock on the wall. “Twenty minutes to air. You’ve been late three times this month, Ethan. Three times! You keep this up, and the sponsors will pull the plug on ‘Ethan’s Afternoon Exchange.’ You want to go back to scrubbing dishes at the Lunch Box Cafe?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Ethan answered, swallowing the impulse to inform the man he had never scrubbed dishes in his life. Everything he was hearing felt like a line of dialogue from a play he hadn’t rehearsed.
Stoddard ignored him and shoved a typed sheet of paper across the desk. “News first. You need to hit these three headlines hard. The new community pool—it’s the biggest project since the war. Second, the missing Royal High School mascot uniform—it’s a scandal. And third, make sure you mention Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses again. She buys ad time. You scratch her back, she scratches ours.”
Ethan picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the impossible, anachronistic news items: “Pool construction ahead of schedule.” “Manhunt for perpetrator of mascot theft.” He was being asked to discuss current events in a town he didn’t even recognize an hour ago.
“And what is the interview?” Ethan asked, trying to sound professional and not completely insane.
Stoddard sighed, rubbing his temples. “The usual routine. Mrs. Percy from the Garden Club is coming in to discuss the annual Lilac Festival. She’s bringing her notorious triple-layered lemon cake. Be nice, nod a lot, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention her ex-husband. Last time you did, she almost threw a vase at you.”
Ethan blinked. He had a history here. Apparently a clumsy, tactless history with Mrs. Percy.
“Alright, Ethan, listen up,” Stoddard said, leaning forward. “This station is the heartbeat of Royal. It’s a good job, a steady gig, and you’ve got a real knack for it. But you need to be professional. Get it together. Now, go warm up your voice and get into Studio A. I’ll send the engineer in shortly.”
Stoddard gestured toward another door within the office.
“Studio A?” Ethan inquired.
“Yes, Studio A! Where you host your show five days a week! Now move!”
Ethan retreated, stumbling into a small sound-proofed room. It was tiny, dominated by a large microphone and a console covered in sliders and knobs. Through a thick glass window, he could see a second room with a turntable and a reel-to-reel tape machine. The air was colder here, quieter. The world outside felt very far away.
He sat down in the upholstered chair, the smooth vinyl squeaking under his weight. He touched the heavy, chrome microphone grille, feeling a sudden, strange rush of adrenaline. He was about to go on the air as a radio host in a 1950s-era town that had materialized out of thin air.
This is it, Ethan thought, placing his hands on the worn desk.
The door opened, and a middle aged man with thick black glasses and a worried expression slipped in, clutching a stack of 45-rpm records.
“Ethan, you look pale. Did you get any sleep? Stoddard’s furious,” the man said, his eyes magnified through the thick lenses. He smelled faintly of mint and engine oil.
“I… I’m fine, just a little off,” Ethan said, studying the man’s familiar-but-unknown face. “And you are?”
The man stared, flabbergasted. “It’s me! Bobby! Your engineer! Are you still mad about that time I accidentally played the wrong ad and you had to fill four minutes with a story about a goat?”
“Oh! Bobby! Right,” Ethan mumbled, trying to connect the dots. “No, not mad, just… stressed.
Bobby, visibly relieved, flipped a switch on the console in front of Ethan, causing the words “ON AIR” to glow red..
“Theme music is cued up. Five seconds,” Bobby announced, tapping a gauge on the console. “Remember to hit the news first, and for God’s sake, say hi to Mrs. Gable! She’s listening!”
Bobby quickly retreated to the engineer’s room, giving a thumbs-up through the glass.
Ethan felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He was staring at the microphone, an inert piece of metal that was about to connect him to an entire town of strangers who thought they knew him.
The music swelled, a bright, jazzy, slightly tinny melody. A green light on the console flashed.
He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and leaned into the microphone.
“Good afternoon, Royal! This is…” he paused for a fraction of a second, “…Ethan.”
