5. Filling the Gap #2
Ronald, nonchalant, gave a small grin, “Right. I’m not afraid of no ghost.”
Carrington gave a low chuckle, looking skeptical, “Sounds like a stretch. But hey, I’m not here to judge anyone’s faith. Only their fashion. And in that department, Ronnie is just fine. Unlike… well, some other points of the Trinity triangle.”
Japheth looked down at his outfit, brow furrowing, “Do you not like vests?”
“Not worn as a shirt, no,” Carrington replied, deadpan.
Rebekkah, glancing down at her feet, shifted nervously under Carrington’s hawklike evaluation, “Is it… what? Is it my platform sandals?”
Carrington paused, raising an eyebrow, “Are you being funny?”
Rebekkah stammered, “Uh… Yes! Hahaha!”
Carrington’s eyes glinted, “Then yes. Don’t wear them again.
You represent WWJD radio now. Are you ready for your meeting with Emma-Lou?
She’s excited to hear your ideas for the Trinity Radio Hour.
It is an hour, live on the air, so I hope you’ve been sharpening your pencils and dulling them with ideas. ”
Rebekkah could hardly contain her excitement, “Oh my gosh, that sounds so incredible. The Trinity Radio Hour! Yes, we’re ready, right, guys? We’re pretty sure she’s going to love our new direction.”
Carrington waved them forward, “Well then, let’s not keep her waiting. Follow me.”
Ronald stood tall, flashing a grin as he hitched up his pants, “Don’t mind if we do.”
The heavy oak door slammed behind them as Emma-Lou whirled around, her eyes blazing with disbelief.
“No fudging way!” she barked, her voice rising as she pointed toward the closed door. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this, and I don’t want anyone else overhearing this cockamamie! Jiminy Cripes! You three want to Weird Al Yankovic a bunch of top forty music?!”
Ronald leaned back casually, unfazed by her outburst, “If we ditch the organ music and chanting and…”
Japheth interrupted, on the defence, “Not all the chanting. We can still have some hymns.”
Ronald shrugged, “Rebekkah’s really good at rewriting lyrics, so we just sample…”
“STEAL!” Emma-Lou shot back, her hands now firmly planted on her hips.
Rebekkah raised her hands in surrender, “It’s more of a sample really, but just to all get on the same page, sure, we’ll use your language.”
Ronald jumped back in, “We steal these pop, rap, country and R her disbelief now tinged with frustration, “How in H-E-double hockey sticks will that help us? We’ll be just like every other maleficent morning show!”
Japheth took a step forward, “Not if we clean up the lyrics, Christianize them! We’ll reach a new audience.”
Ronald nodded, “We’ll replace all of the super slutty and R-rated lyrics…”
“And we subtly and sneakily slip some faith into our listeners’ lives,” Rebekkah finished, with a wink.
Emma-Lou looked around the room, her voice dropping in volume but rising in concern, “We’ll be sued… and WWJD is already in trouble.”
“What?” Rebekkah’s excitement deflated instantly.
Emma-Lou sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping, “Yes, it’s true. I didn’t want to worry the talent, and so I’ve been hiding it, and I’m sorry.”
Rebekkah blinked. “Thank you for calling us the talent. I’ve never been called that before. It’s… very nice.”
Japheth stepped forward, concern riddling his voice, “But I thought these radio-thons weren’t about raising money. I thought they were just an opportunity to swing a spotlight on local talent, like the balloon animal sculptor or the garage sale auctioneer.”
Emma-Lou’s face tightened with stress, “The problem with the radio-thons is that it was something my parents came up with. It worked for a while. But we can’t expect people to donate every week.
The other problem is… balloon animals don’t translate well to radio.
The auctioneer does well but only in small doses.
It’s hard to listen to for more than an hour. ”
She paused, looking at each of them with heavy eyes and a heavier heart, “WWJD Radio Station is all but nailed to a proverbial cross and bleeding money. No one wants to advertise with us.”
Ronald shook his head, “Because you don’t play jams or jive about what people really want to hear. About what’s real. Every time I turn the dial to WWJD, I turn it right past because it sounds like a drone of bees saying ‘Halle Berrys’.”
“Hail Marys,” Japheth corrected gently.
Ronald waved it off, “What?”
“Never mind,” Japheth muttered, “Not important right now.”
If divine inspiration could be summoned on command, Emma-Lou would’ve prayed for it right then and there, preferably in the form of a lightning bolt that would burn the station to the ground along with all her worries and troubles.
Instead of wisdom from on high, all she got was Gregorian chant–slow, solemn, and sonorous–on loop, impossible to ignore, seeping through the corner mounted ceiling speakers like a ghost choir trapped in the ductwork.
The monks’ voices lapped in endless waves of B-flat minor Latin lament, cloaking the room in unearned piety.
Every other tiny sound in the room seemed to punctuate their holy hum as the group stood awkwardly and anxiously looking at each other, unsure how to surpass the impasse.
The gentle tick of the wall clock, the wheezing sigh of the air vent, the faint static and spit of a copy machine down the hall diligently doing its duty.
The music gave Emma-Lou’s office an aura of divine moral authority it didn’t deserve over a space that was decorated like a tax filing franchise in a strip mall.
The walls were lined with framed photos of Emma-Lou’s parents shaking hands with local politicians, each proudly holding a plaque that read Community Faith Award in gold foil.
The carpet was a faded mauve, worn bald in places by Mamma’s chunky platform heels.
A dusty snake plant strained toward the sunlight and was surrounded by rolled posters of past WWJD programming, the edges curling like ancient parchment.
Emma-Lou circled and sat rigidly behind her desk, a fortress of mahogany and unpaid bills.
Behind her, a cross made of driftwood collected while on a beach walk with Big Daddy leaned slightly to the left, crooked from years of conviction without upkeep.
Emma-Lou reorganized a stack of papers on her desk as she continued to sit as straight as her beliefs, staring into the void between Japheth, Ronald and Rebekkah.
She wore a cream pantsuit with a brooch on her lapel shaped like an angel clutching a microphone, and an expression that suggested this meeting had already gone on too long.
Carrington perched on the corner of Emma-Lou’s desk like a well-tailored crow, notepad in hand in case someone, anyone started to come up with a plan.
Their expression hovered between acute curiosity at their boss’ lengthy internal assessment of the situation and rubber necking glances at the others that hinted at the anticipation of an accident waiting to happen.
Through the office intercom, the faint voice of Suwarna could be heard whispering notes into her HR log, eavesdropping under the pretence of risk assessment.
And Trinity stood shoulder to shoulder, like a trio of street buskers that had accidentally wandered into a corporate tribunal.
Emma-Lou eyed them with suspicion as she pinched the bridge of her nose, “Let me get this straight. You want to take pop songs, songs that belong to other people, and just… rewrite them with Christian lyrics?”
Rebekkah blinked innocently. “Not rewrite,” she said, pressing her hands together pleadingly, “Revitalize. We’re breathing new life into them. Like Lazarus! But with a beat.”
Japheth jumped in, his enthusiasm bubbling up, “Exactly. Like what Weird Al did for the eighties, but holier, and with better hair.”
He felt Carrington’s eyes rake him, “Hmmph.”
“And more Jesus stuff,” Ronald added, helpfully.
“That’s stealing,” Emma-Lou said flatly, enunciating every syllable as if she might carve them into a Commandment.
“Not sampling. It’s illegal, immoral, and…
” She paused, glaring up as the monks hit a particularly droning note, “...repetitive. Why not create new, original songs? Why rewrite what’s written? It seems a bit reductive.”
From the ceiling speaker, the Gregorian chant grew louder, vibrating with fervour. Somewhere in the ether, incense practically ignited itself.
“Omnes artes aliis artibus aedifiantur,” murmured the chorus.
Suwarna’s voice crackled through the intercom, “All art is built upon other art,” she translated for the benefit of the group, and her pencil could be heard furiously scribbling in her HR notes.
“Potential ethical and legal loophole. Possible use in icebreakers at staff retreats. I’m thinking… playdough, Modigliani…”
“You hear that?” she said, turning dramatically toward Emma-Lou, “Even the monks agree!” Rebekkah’s eyes went glassy and she brought a hand to her heart.
Before Emma-Lou could protest, Japheth spun around and dropped to the floor, drumming his palms on the dusty mauve carpet like a makeshift snare.
Ronald grabbed a ballpoint pen from her desk and began tapping it rhythmically against a stack of invoices.
Rebekkah seized Emma-Lou’s calculator, her manicured finger pressing the buttons in a steady beat and each digital beep became syncopated synth chords.
The fax machine joined in with a hissing counterpoint, like a malfunctioning hi-hat.