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Authors: Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
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realization she had just come to, but it seemed inconceivable that everyone had overlooked it. She opened her eyes again and began scrutinizing the documents in the large pile, this time with more attention.
A sheltered community should be a safe haven for the unfortunate, like a fortress to protect the most needy and vulnerable members of society. But that was clearly not the case. What had actually happened there?
Chapter 4
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Thank God there were only ten minutes of the programme left. Margeir couldn’t recall ever being so desperate for a broadcast to end, however bored he usually was by the end of the day. The host of the next show hadn’t arrived yet, but that didn’t matter: Margeir was going off air on the dot. He would just rerun an old show and hope no one complained. He doubted anyone would; already about half their output consisted of repeats, as it was the only way to keep such a small private radio station going. The number of listeners decreased throughout the evening anyway, and it was unlikely that the few who were still listening by this time would make a fuss. Margeir’s show was hardly keeping its head above water; it was based on listeners phoning in, so when he didn’t have any callers, there was no show to speak of. For far too long he had put off asking the station manager to get it moved to an earlier time slot, to the extent that now he’d got sick of it; it showed in his performance, which in turn made it less and less likely that his wish would be granted. Margeir couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment when his interest in his job had started waning, nor did he understand what had caused the decline, but suddenly he was plagued by apathy – and it showed.
A red light blinked, indicating that a listener was on the line. Margeir turned down the volume on the music he played to save having to come up with the inane babble he resorted to between callers. His producer was on holiday and there was no budget for a temporary replacement, so Margeir had been forced to relearn all the technical details he’d been taught years before: how to play advertisements, cue up songs and answer phone calls. Others had lined up the more complicated elements before he went on the air, and he’d been told on the phone that all he had to do was turn up, wait for the pre-recorded show ahead of his to finish and jump in at a designated time. On his way to work he had wondered what he’d do if the preceding programme had stopped before he got there. He decided that rather than try to get help he’d just go home, allowing the screeching of the broken equipment – or just silence – to be sent out across the ether.
The light blinked faster and Margeir cursed inwardly for not having had caller ID transferred over so that he could see who was on the line. When the producer was on duty he was told in advance whether the caller was a ‘friend of the station’, one of the ones who called every show to talk for the umpteenth time about their interests – or rather, their obsessions – with an enthusiasm that bordered on mania. Their complaints were never original, and none of them was interested in having their views refuted; they considered the station their private soapbox. It was precisely these people that had drained away all the pleasure from his job; every recycled word eroded the happiness and expectation that had characterized his first month at the station. Originally, the focus of his show wasn’t meant be politics; the idea was to broach lighter subjects, and by doing so reach a younger audience. It hadn’t worked. The people who called in had no interest in movies or new music, and even less in the lives of actors and pop stars. The same group that listened during the day listened during the evening, and all they wanted to do was hold forth on political topics. The light was still blinking; apparently the listener hadn’t given up. Margeir didn’t even need caller ID, he
A sheltered community should be a safe haven for the unfortunate, like a fortress to protect the most needy and vulnerable members of society. But that was clearly not the case. What had actually happened there?
Chapter 4
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Thank God there were only ten minutes of the programme left. Margeir couldn’t recall ever being so desperate for a broadcast to end, however bored he usually was by the end of the day. The host of the next show hadn’t arrived yet, but that didn’t matter: Margeir was going off air on the dot. He would just rerun an old show and hope no one complained. He doubted anyone would; already about half their output consisted of repeats, as it was the only way to keep such a small private radio station going. The number of listeners decreased throughout the evening anyway, and it was unlikely that the few who were still listening by this time would make a fuss. Margeir’s show was hardly keeping its head above water; it was based on listeners phoning in, so when he didn’t have any callers, there was no show to speak of. For far too long he had put off asking the station manager to get it moved to an earlier time slot, to the extent that now he’d got sick of it; it showed in his performance, which in turn made it less and less likely that his wish would be granted. Margeir couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment when his interest in his job had started waning, nor did he understand what had caused the decline, but suddenly he was plagued by apathy – and it showed.
A red light blinked, indicating that a listener was on the line. Margeir turned down the volume on the music he played to save having to come up with the inane babble he resorted to between callers. His producer was on holiday and there was no budget for a temporary replacement, so Margeir had been forced to relearn all the technical details he’d been taught years before: how to play advertisements, cue up songs and answer phone calls. Others had lined up the more complicated elements before he went on the air, and he’d been told on the phone that all he had to do was turn up, wait for the pre-recorded show ahead of his to finish and jump in at a designated time. On his way to work he had wondered what he’d do if the preceding programme had stopped before he got there. He decided that rather than try to get help he’d just go home, allowing the screeching of the broken equipment – or just silence – to be sent out across the ether.
The light blinked faster and Margeir cursed inwardly for not having had caller ID transferred over so that he could see who was on the line. When the producer was on duty he was told in advance whether the caller was a ‘friend of the station’, one of the ones who called every show to talk for the umpteenth time about their interests – or rather, their obsessions – with an enthusiasm that bordered on mania. Their complaints were never original, and none of them was interested in having their views refuted; they considered the station their private soapbox. It was precisely these people that had drained away all the pleasure from his job; every recycled word eroded the happiness and expectation that had characterized his first month at the station. Originally, the focus of his show wasn’t meant be politics; the idea was to broach lighter subjects, and by doing so reach a younger audience. It hadn’t worked. The people who called in had no interest in movies or new music, and even less in the lives of actors and pop stars. The same group that listened during the day listened during the evening, and all they wanted to do was hold forth on political topics. The light was still blinking; apparently the listener hadn’t given up. Margeir didn’t even need caller ID, he
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