The radio stations have been sold and new owners take possession on the 11th. It is a subject I've been silent on out of an intense desire for self-preservation, although I could tell some stories that would make you shake your head in disbelief (and have the audio tapes to prove them.)
The transition has been painful to say the least, although I have been assured that I will keep my job. "The Drive" will most likely go away with the arrival of the new owners and a new format. It has been suggested that I may become a producer for one of the talk radio shows, or perhaps some other form of low-level management minion with hit points of 0 and charisma of -1.
Each day as I pull into the parking lot my chest seizes with the uncomfortable tightness that comes from not knowing what office drama will be unfolding when I hit the door. Yet, I persevere. Today I was able to duck and cover so as to not get any of it on me, although there was plenty to go around.
But when I got to the studio I was informed that even though the transmitter was down I should do my show as usual because it might come back up. So for over an hour I played music and yakked into the microphone as if I were on the air... As if anyone was listening... As if it mattered. The rest of my night consisted of cutting the overnight weather, checking the fax machine a couple of times and pretty much watching the walls until time to go home. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to show up.
When at last the time came, I put the radio stations to bed, gathered my things and headed toward the door. Just then the phone rang. Who calls a radio station at straight-up Midnight? I figured it was one of the out-going regime making sure I hadn't left 30 seconds early. That really put a wrinkle in my jockeys. I was anxious to get home and put the finishing touches on my tribute to Star Trek fan films and didn't have time to play these silly games.
"Hey, I just wanted you to know that I think you guys are the greatest," said the unsteady voice on the other end of the phone. The impediment sounded natural, with perhaps only the slightest help from something medicinal.
Great, one of those.
I put on my perky voice. "What can I do for you?" I asked, hoping I could rush him off the phone after a quick request.
"I can't remember the name of the song or who it's by," He said.
I sighed to myself. These guys always take forever. The sad part is that even if he remembered the title and artist, I couldn't play it anyway since what we were broadcasting at the moment was a satellite feed from God only knows where. But the dutiful DJ response is, "I'll see if I can find it," or "I'll pass your request along to the air-staff."
Then he said, "My name is Frank and I work at Wal-Mart. I listen to you all the time and I think you guys are wonderful." He went on, "I'm fifty-five years old and I lost my son about four years ago when he was fourteen. You play some wonderful music that helps me feel better. Sometimes I come out to the lake at night and listen to you on my little headset and watch the water. I'm sitting here looking at the lake right now." I could hear the station playing softly in the background.
I tried to offer a kind word, but I was a little choked up. I could hear the loneliness in his voice. I could hear the gratitude he felt toward us for being there-- a friendly voice in the darkness, playing songs from better days. It seems odd that someone could feel such a personal connection to people who hadn't a clue he even existed, but perhaps that voice in the darkness was the closest thing he had to a friend. I wonder how many Franks there are, alone in the night, tuning in to the voice like a beacon of human contact. Perhaps it is not an exaggeration to imagine for some it is the only thing connecting them with the rest of humanity.
Maybe in a way the music that we play is somehow a shared experience, as if they feel we are choosing each song just for them; saying to them, "Hey Frank, remember when you brought your kid to the lake and he caught his first fish? This song was on the radio then too." I wished that he could remember the title of the song he had wanted to hear. I wished that I could play it for him. I stumbled through the perfunctory promise to look for it in the music library. I thanked him for his call and wished him well. He expressed his thanks again and we hung up. I came home to write this. Frank returned to the voice, the darkness, the waves, and songs from better days.
Call it coincidence, fate or the mysterious hand of God, but I needed to hear Frank's voice tonight as much as he needed to hear mine. I hope that by some quirk of luck the satellite DJ will play the song Frank was hoping to hear. I hope he feels that he made the connection he reached out to make. I know I won't soon forget him. I know why I'm going to work tomorrow.
So many of your descriptions is exactly how I have felt about my own present "job" at various times, these passed eight years; remembering the motto on my name tag sums up this post. "Making a difference in People's Lives." You have indeed made a difference in so many lives, Tehuti; at the Radio Station, through your Blog, and in your personal life - even if y ou don't have many Franks telling you so. Thanks for being there.
Posted by: Falconmyst | April 05, 2006 at 08:40 AM
We never know who we might comfort by just a warm voice or a pretty song. You touch and have touched more lives than you will ever know. Thank you for touching my life. I hope Frank got to hear his song. I love you.
Posted by: Victoria Rose | April 05, 2006 at 06:31 PM