Esteban lifted the ancient filing cabinet, causing an unsettling cacophony in the ever-abandoned radio station. There had been several attempts to restart the station through the years; a nostalgia-led venture in the 1950's was the famous one, which fell apart when the company leading it went under after it came to light that it was largely-Soviet funded, and never disclosed that fact to the Feds. And then there was the infamous one that led to a fire breaking out, which killed the contractor doing the initial work; official report said it was "improper electrical safety", but popular rumors claim it was dramatic suicide. The company abandoned after a jury decided they were liable, and had to pay out a large sum to the family; Port Astor juries could be like that, sometimes. And now, Esteban had been hired by the current operation to revive Radio Station KPA, or whatever its callsign would be when it was reactivated. He hoped that if this joined the other tries in failure, that it would be the communist-scandal type, and not the burn-to-death kind.
All that said, Esteban had no idea why he was the only one alone, working on-site. As best as he could figure, the reputation of the site probably scared the popular outfits; that, and the job paid shit. Hell, if he hadn't had the long string of bad luck for several years, Esteban probably would have passed on it, too. Two general contractors stiffed him on pay for major gigs, a guy he hired stole equipment to sell for drugs, and at the home he seemingly never got to see anymore his wife just gave birth to a very much unplanned child number three.
And so, Esteban labored in the dark, alone. The specific thing he had been hired for was to prepare the station for the remodeling and utility sub-contractors to do their things. He was just supposed to toss everything, but Esteban figured that if some of the things he found made their way to scrap dealers for some extra side money-- one mans trash, and all that.
With a final heaving, the cabinet was upright after unknowable years of laying down on the job; only thing left was to wheel it to the staging area, and to do it several hundred more times. Esteban wiped the sweat and grime from his brow, and looked up; unexpectedly, a light faintly shone from one of the old studios. He cursed and tensed-- the last thing he really wanted to deal with was wire-hunting scavengers interrupting his own sanctioned-scavenging. Esteban grabbed a crowbar, and slowly made his way down the derelict passage.
When he neared the doorway where the light was coming from, Esteban spied around the frame into the space. Inside, an older man in a worn suit, dusty, was just standing there, seemingly just reviewing some of the junk left inside. Feeling something approaching relief, Esteban stepped just in front of the doorframe, and cleared his throat.
"Are you lost, man?" Esteban asked with more authority than he had. The suited man calmly turned, revealing a receding hairline and thick round glasses.
"Oh no, friend, I'm right where I ought to be." he said in an accent that belonged more in old movies than the real world.
"That right?" Esteban suspiciously queried back.
"Oh, indeed-- I work for The Radio." the man spoke as a statement of absolute fact; "Are you the man we have clearing the way?"
Suddenly nervous that he was being less than gracious to a client, Esteban swiftly changed tact.
"Oh shoot, gotcha! I was nervous someone with a habit broke in and was needing chasing out!" Esteban rattled off before trailing into an uncomfortable laugh.
"Nothing of the sort, but I do admire the gumption" the apparent-client said evenly. "Why don't you take a break, and come chat with me in the studio?"
Unsure of what exactly he should do, Esteban figured "why not?", and stepped into the light.
Esteban sat down in the comfortable-if-worn chair within the studio, and waited while The Host moved the microphones into position. The studio was lit softly by dim overhead bulbs, and a much harder desk-lamp for the host that somewhat awkwardly shone on Esteban across the table.
The adjustments seemingly complete, The Host gave a questioning thumbs-up to which Esteban responded in kind. The "ON-AIR" sign came alive with a dramatic click, and the host began.
"Hello people of Port Astor; this is 'Watt in The World', and I'm your host Bob Wattson, brought to you by our friends at the Port Astor Ginger Ale Company. Today, we are joined by Esteban Esquivel-- Esteban, how are you?"
"I'm swell Bob, thank you for having me." Esteban said autonomously into the microphone, feeling like he had forgotten something very important.
"Esteban, tell the listeners a little bit about what you do." The Host said in his broadcasting tone.
" Sure Bob, I work in construction, and actually have done some work here at the station before!" Esteban said with enthusiasm he wasn't sure where he got, nor could he recall when that work was to have happened. It just felt natural to say, like it was expected.
" Oh, is that right? I should have opened with 'welcome back', then." Both men then tamely laughed.
"What kind of construction work do you do, Esteban?"
"Preparation, for the most part, making sure that everything is ready for the heavy work and all that." he said suddenly feeling a slight unease.
"Oh, really? Here's my question Mr. Esquivel; doesn't 'construction' typically mean 'building' something?" The Host asked from across the table, lighting a cigarette. The light from the lamp began to feel very warm.
"I mean, sure, most of the time. But construction is a wide field that has a lot of niches that need filling. And those niches create jobs, which is important these days, Bob." The Host nodded subtly while puffing on the cigarette, the smoke from the exhale swirled hypnotically and dreamily in the light, vaguely obscuring his face.
"That is a more than fair point, Mr. Esquivel, more than fair. Is it a good line of work, what you do?"
"It's work like any other, and it keeps the lights on, kids fed." Esteban replied tensely.
"I hear what you are saying, Esteban, but for how many years have you been at it, and watched your peers find greater success in the world, while you have stayed where you are?" The Host asked without any change of tone, but the barbs were as implicit as they were hidden.
Esteban shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "I mean, you have dreams when you start, but then you actually begin your own comp--"
"How many people in your 'company', Esteban?" The Host interjected.
"Oh, well, we-we had several emp--"
"'Had', as in past tense?" The Host cut him off again.
"Y-yeah, I, uh, you know how it is, and when--"
"Do I know 'how it is'?" The Host, again.
"Yeah, yeah, like you hire people for a job, but things change, they don't work out, or work runs short" Esteban managed to squeak out before an anticipated verbal ambush.
"Oh, now I think I see. Tell me, Esteban, do you think your work is no longer valued?"
"Uh, you know the saying; 'it's a dirty job, but someone has to do it!" Esteban said defensively, even though even he wasn't sure he meant it.
"Now, I do know the phrase, yes, but how often do you end up alone?"
"Like I said, I had employees, but--"
"Not just them; when was the last time you saw your family?" The Host cut in again, and this time with an unexpected weight to their words.
"W-what do you mean?" the light was nearly searing Esteban, and the sweat made him feel gross.
"Well, Esteban, I meant exactly what I asked; when was the last time you saw your family? My understanding is that it has been quite some time."
"How do you know that?" Esteban asked quietly.
"You see, as a professional, I feel that it is very important to read up on my guests, which my producer, Sam, agrees. Esteban, we know all sorts of things about you; how you've been sleeping in your car for a while now."
Esteban sat petrified, staring sharp and hard into the desk, the same thought screaming through his mind; "this can't be real."
The Host leaned in vaguely closer, the desk lamp and smoke made him look nearly inhuman, "Esteban? Mr. Esquivel, I promise you, this is very much real."
Esteban's eyes rose to meet the indifferent-yet-inquisitive eyes of The Host which he could only barely make out, and saw something worse than accusation; he saw an understanding. And in that moment, Esteban felt a great animal rouse inside him.
"What do you know, Bob? What about hard work, knowing that there are people depending on you, and things you can't control?" Esteban choked out in a low growl.
"Well, I asked didn't I, Mr. Esquivel? Tell me." The Host said maintaining his impartial tone.
"I look for work, good work, and look, and look, and look, and am outbid by people who can take a loss if it means being competitive, and leaves me with shit pay, and--"
"Oh, is that right?"
"Yeah, and you try to pay it forward and hire someone, and they just fuck you, leave you high-and-dry to finish a job undermanned, and leaves you to explain to the client why your meager ass is holding up an entire project, and--"
"Tsk, tsk, what a mess for you, Esteban."
"And then you get it when you do go home; the bills are piling up, more mouths to feed, and people spending the money you never get to actually see, and then one fucking day you learn that there is suddenly a new little bastard, but you scratch your head because you can't actually remember the last time you and your lady got it on!"
"My god" The Host said without exclaim.
"But, what does it matter? It's just another kid I don't know, and don't see. So, yeah, I sleep in my truck, don't go home, and do every-fucking-thing on my own. Because I, because I..." Esteban trailed off, breathing heavily, sweating through his shirt.
"There, Mr. Esquivel, was that so hard?" The Host asked, and slid a loose cigarette over the table. After a moment of hesitation, Esteban accepted, and placed it shakily in his mouth; The Host leaned over, lighting it with a match. A moment of dead air filled the space, and left Esteban feeling numb.
"So, Esteban, have you heard someone ever say 'the purpose of the thing is what it does?'"
"What?" Esteban asked with genuine confusion.
"Well, you sound like you've gotten a great weight off yourself, but given what you've been saying, you have left a great many things behind for a man that talks like he has to support everything himself."
"I... I guess."
"Do you think it is okay that in some way, that you've abandoned your own children and wife?"
"If it keeps them fed, then I guess" Esteban said tiredly, not even denying the words, and sounding unconvinced.
"Or, perhaps, Esteban, you're afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Esteban said, his face scrunched up in faux-bewilderment.
"That you could have changed anything, at any time, and that you don't because doing so would be an admission that you were wrong."
"Are you fucking kidding me" Esteban exclaimed, pushing himself away from the desk, the cigarette in his mouth dusting his pants with ashy flakes.
"Let's just face facts here, Esteban, it sounds like you blame others for every problem you have faced, and somewhat of your admission, you lied earlier in this broadcast."
"I'm no liar!" Esteban bellowed reflexively, as if he has done it a thousand times before.
"Oh, but you are, Esteban; when you told me and the listeners that your job was a good line of work, or when you tried to say you weren't all alone." Esteban tried to glare at The Host, but the light from the lamp felt like it could blind him if he stared anywhere near it, near him.
"See, now, you've stuck yourself in an impossible place; you work a good job, that doesn't give you what you need, all to support people you don't see, and do not appear to even care for."
"But I love them." Esteban said weakly.
"Do you?", and a long silence followed.
"Alright, Esteban, alright." The Host said, as if ready for something. Esteban felt exhausted, defeated.
"You see, Esteban, I don't say all of this to hurt you. I say all of this, because I understand." The Host spoke, sympathetically.
"A long time ago, I had a problem, too. I loved the horses, Esteban. I love watching them down at the tracks, and I loved betting on them, because being able to predict which horse would win the race made me feel like I was a clever man, and the money could be nice."
Esteban, the wreck, looked up, listening through the haze.
"But, while it was fun for a while, my luck turned out to not be so good. I had bookies and disreputable sort coming after me at all hours, here at the station, I felt like I was circling a drain." The Host said, seasoning his words with dramatic delivery unlike how he had been talking before. "But then, I met him, my producer. And he made me a new deal just before a show one night."
Esteban sat there, waiting for The Host to continue.
"And that's what we are doing here tonight, Esteban. My producer and I want to make you a deal."
"What... what kind of deal?"
"You agree that you've been wrong, all along, and come to work with us. And in turn, my producer will make sure you never need to worry about being wrong ever again."
"I..." Esteban began, shaking. The Host raised his eyebrow in the smoke.
"I was... I was wrong."
"Welcome aboard, Esteban." The Host said, the smile implicit in his voice, face fully enveloped by the smoke and the burning light of the lamp.
The work at the abandoned station was cancelled when the desiccated remains of a man were found in an old studio. The body was never identified. The Port Astor Police have so far not declared that it is in any way related to the disappearance of Esteban Esquivel.
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