Blowing Out One More Candle

I'm having another birthday in a couple weeks, which is kind of weird since it seems like I just HAD a stinkin' birthday. These yearly milestones do seem to come around a lot quicker than they used to, that’s for sure. I guess it’s true: time flies when you’re having fun...

 

…Or getting older.

However, surveying the demographic landscape it appears I've now wandered into a wasteland of years that totally defies description. I'm at that "awkward age"; an ambiguous and paradoxical period of life located somewhere between still relevant and completely not. 

 

It's a strange and tenuous place where, if I croaked today, caring friends would lament, "Oh, he died way too young." But the mere fact that I haven't yet remains an unending source of amusement to these same caring friends. So welcome to my brave new world. 

Had I known this was coming, though, I'm sure I would've been a kinder, gentler youngin’, forgoing making sport of the middle-aged and elderly. Shown more respect. Oh, who am I kidding? No I wouldn't. Back when I wasn’t one of them yet, giving the 'oldsters' the needle was always good for a laugh.

 

But, my, how the worm has turned.

 

I'm getting it back in spades now from my buddies and co-workers, most who reside in the 20's and 30's crowd. Like I was at their age, they remain innocently naive about ever getting older. And like I was, they are blissfully unaware of how quickly the advancing years encroach and advance. But if I can stick around long enough, I'll try really hard not to laugh when it happens to them.

It is kind of funny, though, that something nobody has any control over- like when you were born- turns out to be such an easy source of so much mocking. I mean, much as I'd like to, I can't go back to my mother’s womb and marinate a few more days, weeks- years- longer. I was hatched when I was hatched. But I guess that's the easy part. The real trick comes later on, when you're more than just knee deep into the living process.

 

For me, it wasn’t until after all the spilled milk and broken eggs, mistakes, failures, challenges and growing pains before I finally began to evolve and accept the still-a-work-in-progress guy I am today. Life's not easy; and I'll admit there were times I wanted to capitulate and check out when it became more than I thought I could handle. Yet, somehow, the really tough times didn't break me. Not yet, anyway.

 

But I can't take any credit for that. Whether I realized it or not, it was God who each time saw me through. When I was about to give up, I can only credit Him for the successful intervention. I can't really take any credit for this either, but you don't get this far along in life without developing at least some resilience, character and, maybe even a little courage. Not that I'm brave or special or anything. But somehow, I've always lived to fight another day, a lot of other days. And that ain't me; that's God. 

So the way I look at it, as the big ball of life rolls downhill and gains speed, I've got two choices. I can let it run over me and concede all my best days went with it. Or I can hop on, enjoy the rest of the ride and see what's going to happen next. I think the latter sounds a lot more fun than the former.

True, another birthday means, at some point, more likely sooner than later, I'll be closing in on the end of the road. But that doesn't mean I should stop running. Not while I'm still strong, healthy and out there 'gettin' it done'.

Of course, some days are harder than others; but it’s that way for everybody. And as long as I live I won't ever be immune from life occasionally leaving me down in the dumps. But I still have goals and things I want to do, and reasons to keep getting up every day. And whether I accomplish everything or not, all I really want to do is finish strong. I want: to complete the race standing up.

Besides, what difference does it make how many candles I'll be blowing out (except to the Fire Department)? Shoot, everybody grows old; it’s just the nature of things. You either keep having birthdays, or you don’t; short of dying young, there isn't much any of us can do about it.

Plus getting older does offer one huge advantage- it beats being dead. And mercifully, for the time being, 'the end' is still out there off in the distance, just one of the many coming attractions.
No, I may not always look forward to them as much anymore, but I refuse to retreat from them anymore, either.

Another birthday? So what? Bring it on. And happy birthday to me.

 

Mama Mia!

The other night after taking in a movie, the lovely Amy and I decided to get a bite to eat. Not super-dooper hungry, we pulled into the Higgins Corner Quisno’s to grab a quick sub and some chips to take home. The sign said they were open till 8, but when we tried to go in the door, it was locked. The time was 7:55.

 

The two guys on duty were, apparently, serving their last customer of the evening, a scruffy looking gentleman. Amy and I would've loved having the last call honor on this drizzly Sunday night, but the Quisno’s guys continued finishing up their work, taking money from the disheveled dude and steadfastly ignoring the semi-hungry, and not as untidy, couple standing outside their locked door. So we left.

 

But it wasn't a big deal. There were other places to eat and we didn't go home un-fed. And it didn't really bother me that the boys of Qusino’s were getting a head start on closing up for the night, either. I’ve worked in food service and know, often, that's just standard operating procedure. What bothered me was the general lack of good customer service. At Mama Mia’s, the Italian joint I worked in one summer, had I, or anyone else on duty, turned a hungry customer away because we were trying to close up, we would've been fired.

 

Crazy. I hadn’t thought about Mama Mia’s for years. But as soon as we got turned away from Quisno’s, the not-there-anymore little hole-in-the-wall on busy Manzanita Avenue in Carmichael was there again. And so was I; 19 years old, working the night shift, working the kitchen.

 

Mama Mia's closed at ten p.m. But the way Tom, our boss, ran his store you’d think the closing sign on the door was merely a suggestion. Like it or not, we served customers right up till 9:59:59, and mainly because Tom said so. He believed in squeezing every last dime out of a business day. "Even if they don't show up till one minute to ten, you will serve them. Period." Tom threw in a couple other colorful words for emphasis, but I got the point. Everybody working the night shift got the point. There was even one Sunday night when we had to stay crazy late after a party of eight showed up at 9:55. Assholes. I mean, Great for business! But I think we were there that night, cleaning up till after midnight.

Like the food he served, Tom Mariano was very Italian and very proud of it. He had dark hair, mustache, and a well-honed hair-trigger temper if pushed, Tom had the part of Gambino family member wanna-be down quite well. Maybe, too well. I didn’t work often during the day, but when I did, at least twice I observed Tom sipping beers between the lunch and evening rush with a couple of brainless looking, granite jawed “gentlemen”. They both looked right out of central casting and fully expected someone to make a deal someone else couldn't refuse. Turns out one guy was the beer distributor; the other the bread supplier. They were just Tom's drinking buddies. So what did I know? I was a just kid with a wild imagination.

Though he scared me to death at first, because I didn’t know him and he seemed a little intimidating, Tom was actually a teddy bear—at least, as long as you did your job and followed his rules.  The waitresses were all early 20’s, the rest of us working in back were all under 20, but he treated everybody as grown-ups and made it a fun place to work. Nobody made much money working there, but even so Tom was fair and a pretty decent guy to work for-- even if he did have ties to the Mafia (just kidding).

 

My first sister-in-law, Lynn, helped me land the gig. She was one of Tom's waitresses and the catalyst in getting both me and my best friend, Glenn Vogel, in the door. I’ve always appreciated for not only how she greased the way for me, but going above and beyond for Glenn, too. I started in late in May- Glenn about a week later- and, with Mark Roberts, who was there already, we worked the dinner shift together from 5- 10 p.m., Sunday through Thursday nights.  The job was cook/busboy, cooking when it was busy, busing tables and washing dishes when it wasn’t. It was steady, if not lucrative, work- $ 2.00 an hour and around 25 hours a week. And I got one free meal per shift, too, though I had to cook it myself.

 

Until the end of June, though, Glenn and I were coaching Little League, the games were in the evenings, and posed a scheduling problem. We couldn’t be in two places at once. But Tom was a Dad, had played Little League and the Mama Mia’s had even sponsored a team one too, so he worked with us. Until the season was over, on game days, Glenn and I were allowed to swap hours with the lunch crew. To help out Mark, Tom stayed late those days to get though the dinner rush and close down. There were only 5 or 6 games remaining that conflicted with the work schedule, so it wasn’t a huge deal. But it cemented my opinion of Tom being a great boss.

 

I liked working the dinner shift, because Tom left by 7, it was busy, so there wasn’t a lot of slow time, and closing the place down was almost like a party. As the last patrons finished their meal in the dining area, Glenn or Mark and I began closing down in the back areas. We divvied up the duties- putting all the food back into the refrigerators, sweeping the floor and running the next last batch of dishes. (If anyone was still in the restaurant, they’d be washed last). The waitresses helped out too, straightening up in the dining area and locking the receipts in the safe. But after the last diners had left the premises, or at 10:00- whichever came first- that’s when the fun began.

 

We’d b.s. with the waitress for a while until she left, too, and then Glenn, Mark and I played a variation of the game, "3 Flies Up". Instead of a baseball, we used meatballs as balls and a big ladle as the bat. Home plate was at the cash register and the outfield was the dining area. The fielders had to chase frozen meatballs all over the place to make a catch. Though solid, after being hit a few times, these little projectiles tended to bounce off walls and windows too, rather than break glass or dislodge any of the signage or decorative knick knacks hanging on the walls. Nevertheless, we sometimes knocked over chairs and tables and other odds and ends to make a catch. So the place was kind of a mess when we were done.

 

For the record, though, we only played this game after finishing our work and never in sight of customers. And everything was always left clean, spotless and back in place when we locked up for the night. Besides, the games didn’t last more than 10 or 15 minutes because we’d generally run out of usable meatballs. At that point, the ones that looked beyond salvageable, we’d toss. The rest, we reshaped into balls again, washed them off and tossed them back into the refrigerator.

 

I was convinced they’d be fine, though, because, when served, the ones that weren’t deep friend were microwaved at over 400 degrees; any microbes inadvertently picked up from their ‘other use’ probably wouldn’t survive all that grease or heat. But would I have wanted to eat those meatballs, knowing the abuse they’d been through? Probably not. Put another couple of years under me and you probably wouldn’t find me whacking meatballs around my place of employment, either. But at 19, and probably no more mature than 12, this one gets filed in the young and dumb folder and, hopefully, isn’t ever used against me in a court of law. Besides, what the health department didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

 

But then when we were done playing “3 Flies” and putting the restaurant back in order, we cooled our heels with a couple drafts out of the Olympia keg. Of course we were all underage, but who cared and who’d ever know? I did, of course and of course, knew better. However, I’m less ashamed about drinking up Tom’s profits than hitting his meatballs for sport because he gave us his permission. Sort of. He unexpectedly dropped in one night after closing.

 

Mark had left early because he had a date, so it was only Glenn and I “quenching” our thirst when Tom showed up. Thrusting his hands on hips like he was about to scold us (or call a cop), yet in a very non-threatening voice, Tom said if we wanted to have one beer it was okay with him- but only after we were officially off duty, the work was finished, and only if we drank it in the back of the building, away from the windows. So from then on, whenever extracting some liquid refreshment from one of the restaurant’s kegs, we drank it in the back parking lot and drank a toast in Tom’s honor- sometimes tow or three- for the privilege.

 

And, yes, I’m well aware I was under 21 and, technically, drinking on the job. However back then I chalked those summer nights up as just a harmless rite of passage…although most other bosses and the Highway patrol might disagree.

 

One more reason I liked working at Mama Mia's was the complete lack of a dress code. As far as Tom was concerned, as long as we weren't naked he didn't care. So I came to work every night (or day) in cutoffs and a tank top. I'm not sure you could do that today, working so closely with food. But back then it flew- at least at Mama Mia's if flew. Anyway, the kitchen area was an absolute sweat box so the less clothes the better. Wearing those ratty clothes to work had another fringe benefit, too- besides totally irritating Mom- they showed off my tanned legs and drove the ladies wild. Well, sort of.

I'm not kidding, though, when I say I had great legs and one of the waitresses- a redhead named Linda- noticed and thought so, too. She liked them so much, the rest of that summer she called me “Legs”. Do you know how special that made me feel? A girl- no; a woman (Linda was probably around 24) had given me a term of endearment. Me: 19 year old, insecure, non-ladies-man, goofy me. I lovde being called “Legs” that summer, loved Linda for giving me the handle, and took as much mileage out of it as I could.

I mean, up till then, no female had taken much notice of any part of my anatomy at all. Linda had. She liked me. Just for being me… and having nice legs. In fact, Linda liked me enough that when she got a real big tip, a couple times she shared it with me, well actually, all of us working the shift with her. But I knew I was her favorite and that made me doubly like her. Linda was the best.

Funny what triggers a memory of people and places. I haven't thought about Linda or Mama Mia's in years. But sitting in the car, pondering our supper plight and watching the Quisno’s guys ring up their last customer- who wasn’t us- I smiled at the recollections. I really enjoyed that little dive and working with that little group of people. Shoot, I only worked at Mama Mia's, for Tom Mariano and with Linda, Lynn, Glenn and Mark for three months, and the place no longer exists. But when I think about it now, that was a really fun job and a really fun time in my life. 

My last day there was pretty hard, though. I was going off to college at Whitworth and, at the time, not very happy about it. But at the end of that last shift, and before clocking out for the final time, Linda gave me a little kiss on the cheek, told me to write often and said she'd miss my "legs."
And- thanks to a closed Quisno’s- all these years later I still think fondly of Linda, “Legs” and that little restaurant we all worked at in the summer of 1974.

Now, let’s go hit some meatballs!

Angels Among Us

I believe there are angels among us. Not in the literal sense, though. Certainly I've never even imagined seeing the archangel Michael hanging around. But I do believe there are flesh and blood human beings walking the world that God uses every now and then to come along beside you and, for a time, act as the earthly equivalent of an angelic presence. One of these special souls was Kim Clark.

 

Kim I worked together for almost a year at KNCO. I was in programming, she was in sales. A cute, perky thing, out-going and friendly seemed to come to her naturally, and served her well when dealing with clients and the public. But it wasn’t a put-on. She was genuinely likeable, sweet and sociable. Quite the opposite of me.

 

I’d just gone through nearly two years of turmoil trying to hang on to a failed relationship with another young woman, who'd also worked in sales at KNCO, and by my sour outlook in the aftermath should’ve ended all pretense and just worn a sign around my neck stating the obvious: “Unhappy, unloved, and don’t bother me”. 

 

But Kim wasn't there to replace Sally. She wasn’t there to love me, either. She was there to like me. And of all the tools I needed to dig myself out from under the ruins of a crumbled heart, the one I needed most was a friend. Just to get up in the morning and push on, I needed a buddy as much as I needed breakfast and oxygen.

 

However, still buffeted in a vortex of heartache and self-condemnation, the first few months Kim and I shared the same space at KNCO I barely even noticed her. Coming to terms with my former friend's recent marriage to someone not named me- and convinced love was never going to find me again- I just wanted to be left alone. My sole focus was on getting through each 24 hour period, a day at a time. But during one of those randomly hallow days, Kim came to my desk and asked me to work on one of her accounts. Just as it’d been with Sally…which should’ve been a red flag. And from there a friendship blossomed. Just as it’d happened with Sally….which should’ve been a red flag. I should’ve run like hell.

 

To be fair, though, Sally wasn’t my problem; I was my problem. She hadn’t done anything wrong except be honest with me. Sally was the first girl I liked, really liked, since Kelly; and the first once since Kelly who I thought might be special. So I really wanted this spark between us to work. But when it became clear it wasn’t going to, Sally told me so. Not in a mean-spirited or unkind way, she let me down as gently as she could. And then she moved on. I just couldn’t let go.

 

And for almost two full years I chased my tail trying to make something out of nothing. In hindsight, that’s a really hard thing to admit. Only losers do that. And maybe I was a loser. I’d been alone for almost a decade, though, and didn’t want it to be that way anymore. I wanted someone to love; and to be loved. And when Sally finally came along, I thought she was going to be ‘the one’, the first ‘one’ since Kelly. But when she wasn’t and started slipping away, I fought with all I had to hang on. All of course, to no avail.

 

Fast forward to the summer of 1987. My heart was still broken, too scabbed over to notice a new friend, seek new love, or feel anything but sadness. My world was pretty dark. But for whatever reason, work related or otherwise, Kim had suddenly reached out to me and for the first time, in what seemed like forever, I saw a pinprick of sunlight poking through the clouds of depression. First, while collaborating on projects, and then hanging out away from the office, a sweet camaraderie was developing between us. It wasn’t desire, and it wasn’t awkward. But I began to feel a tender closeness with Kim, the type I hadn’t known with anyone of the opposite sex, since college. We became very comfortable with each other.

 

Sometimes we’d be walking and talking and she’d rest a wing on my shoulder, like some of my grade school chums used to do. There were other times, if she ended up standing next to me during group bull sessions at the water cooler, where she’d casually drape an entire arm around as the discussion continued. I wouldn’t know why, but I certainly didn’t move away. It’d been so long since being on the receiving end of an affectionate touch from a friend I’d almost forgotten how pleasant it could be. Why would I distance myself from that? I liked it, and I liked her. Hanging out with Kim was about as sweet as nectar is to a bee.

And I could’ve so easily screwed it up. Still on the rebound and clearly not thinking straight- and not satisfied with our office friendship and working station events together- I decided to ask her out. Like, on a date. Dork! Compounding the problem, I was a dork at a loss for words because, like I was still in eighth grade, I wrote her a note and left it on her car. "Do you want to go out sometime?"  As soon as I did I felt foolish but fought the urge to retrieve it and walked away. By the next morning, feeling foolish had given way to feeling scared to death wondering how Kim would respond. By then, she’d have seen the note and could've crushed me like a bug. Frankly, I fully expected her to.

 

But when she joined me with a group at the coffee machine, she waited till everyone had wandered away, then pulled out the note and smiled. "Yeah, that sounds fun. I'd love to.” She would? I really hadn’t expected a ‘yes’. Acutely aware she could have done a lot better, I expected a simple rejection and quick cancellation of our friendship. She’d surprised me, though.  Yeah, I knew it was probably a sympathy date but I didn't care. I was being allowed to spend some time after hours with my cute friend from work. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I didn't feel like an outcast or a leper. I felt human. I felt valued.

 

However, one date became several, including one movie ("The Witches of Eastwick"), four lunches and a mini-golf outing. She also made dinner for me at her house a couple times, too. Actually, it didn't really matter what we did on these "dates". What mattered were the relaxed shared laughter and innocent joy she allowed back into my life. Life was once again fun. I was out with a girl who wasn't embarrassed to be with me and made no bones about liking me. Of course, it also didn't hurt I usually got a nice warm hug as our outings ended. That was nice, too.

 

And in August, after working our first shift together at the KNCO Broadcast Gazebo at Nevada County Fair, Kim and I shared a few wine coolers and rode a few rides before bringing the long day to an end. Always at the Fair only to work, this spontaneous time to hang out together afterwards was a nice way to actually enjoy it for a change. And during our evening in the carnival, as if I’d written the script, we rode the double Ferris wheel and got stuck at the very top. Above the lights of the midway and under the full August moon above, I closed my eyes and made a wish. I wished I could kiss. And, emboldened by the effects of the warm night, the close company and about five wine coolers, I thought I heard a voice in my head say it was okay “Whadda you waitin' for? Go on. Plant one on her, you fool." Fortunately, those words never found their way into the open.

Although secure in the freedom of a cozy friendship that permitted me plenty of play and leeway, why would I risk all that by complicating and messing it up? Though if I slipped and I said out loud what I’d been thinking, Kim would likely let my alcohol-inspired “pass” pass with a good laugh and we'd move on. But why take the chance?  Would the return outweigh any potential loss?  It was a question I wasn't prepared to field. So I was really glad when the ride moved and my feet were back on the ground again.

And the subject of amping up the friendship never came up either, and didn't have to. Besides, that really wasn't what being with Kim was about. Having her as my friend was the high that kept me running the rest of Fair Week, and the rest of the time she and I worked together. However, summer eventually ended and like all good things, my friendship with Kim eventually ran its course too. Several months after the Fair, Kim left KNCO and moved to the Bay Area.

It didn't really hit me till then, too, after she was gone, how much she'd meant to me. That old saying, you don't know what you've got till it's gone, really began to ring true. I missed her terribly, and spent many dark winter days pained by her absence. It was hard going to work. The little bit of sunshine Kim brought into my life there, was gone; permanently doused by her separation. And I missed it. I missed my friend. But spring comes again and the following April word came that Kim was engaged to a fellow she'd met soon after leaving KNCO. It was news that should've plunged me into an even deeper despair. But it didn't. I was truly happy for her.

 

But to understand why, I had to go back to Sally, although after that very platonic summer with Kim I‘d almost forgotten why I’d been so hung up on her in the first place. I remembered why she got to me, but for the first time I understood why. It wasn’t about her.  I wanted Sally- and would’ve done anything to hang on to her (as indicated by two wasted years trying)-because I thought she’d fulfill all my hopes and needs. My ‘love’ had been completely self-centered and, for the first time, I became un-blinded to the misguided fool who believed that’s all that mattered.

 

Although at one time I probably was in love with Sally, more likely I was in love with the fantasy she represented- that she’d fill every emptiness and yearning within me. Of course, it’s unfair and unrealistic to ask that of any human being and expecting otherwise was simply irrational. All good relationships need- actually demand- room to give and take; preferably more give than take. But with Sally, I’d given little and wanted it all. No wonder it failed and when I think back to that time today, it shames me for putting her through it; and sad I’d put myself through it all, too.

 

And while I hadn’t fallen in love with Kim, I did love her. But it wasn’t self-aggrandizing, flawed or idealistic. I loved her simply because she liked me. And in a season of life when I was down and struggling and not sure if giving up wasn’t the best option, her friendship was exactly what I needed. She picked me up and helped move me forward and when I think of her now it’s not a sad recollection at all; but instead a pleasant endearing memory of soft summer nights, wine coolers and a brief interlude of carefree fun when she was my best friend, a long time ago.

 

I knew Kim less than a year, and didn't even receive an invite to her wedding (but that was okay since I hate going to weddings). I haven't heard from her since mid-1988 either, and I'm not sure if we ran into each other today if she'd even remember me. I'm pretty easy to forget. Yet whether she knows it or not, Kim left me better than she found me. And I believe that's the mark of a true friend. Or an angel.

 

Long Story About a Quick Ending

I've been blessed with a long, if not lucrative career in broadcasting.

 

But in exchange for not making large sums of wealth for my work, no matter the call letters I worked under, I've always been given great friends to go through the experience with. For whatever reason, these people magically seemed to have always just shown up to come along beside me right when I needed them most. Amazing. I've also had the pleasure, or fascination, of working with some of the most colorful, and occasionally sleazy characters, my business seems to attract.

 

For sure, my time in radio has mostly been fun and seldom, if ever, dull.

However, whether just getting started or still laboring in the trenches, long time grizzled radio vets are always around to remind you of the same thing: Well if you don't get fired at least three times in this business, then you're not really trying." Or some such blather. If that’s true, though, I guess I've really been trying because I've been cashiered four times now. But whether I knew it was coming or not, each parting of the ways was painful, and each time I knew I'd probably never land another gig. And I was always wrong. However, because it’s an experience you've never been through before, you never forget the sting of that first time; that very first time you're asked to leave, to "turn in your key"; to take your check and just go away.

My first termination came at KZUN AM & FM-- "Cousin Country", as they called themselves-- in Opportunity, Washington. Opportunity is the sprawling Spokane suburb located east of town that extends almost to the Idaho State line. It was a terrific opportunity for me, too- pun intended- because I was hired to do morning drive, the time slot any jock worth his salt wants to have. 

To be completely honest, though, it wasn't exactly a dream job.

The air shift was from 6-9 a. m. Monday through Friday on KZUN-AM, a weak-ass little signal that wasn't much stronger than a kids' walkie-talkie. I didn't get to play much music, because for most of the show I had to read a lot of news and sports and run taped features. It wasn’t really a d.j. show and I didn't like it much, but at least I was on the air during peak listening hours. To get my actual "jock fix", I had to wait till Saturday night, when I got 6 hours on KZUN-FM, the big booming 100,000 watt signal that covered most of the Pacific Northwest.

The AM simulcast with the FM from 9a to 3p. At 3:00, the AM was on its own again, offering similar programming to what I did in the mornings; news, features, a little music, a lot of taped programming. The KZUN-AM afternoon show was only until the station signed off the air at sundown; which was anytime from 4:45 pm in the winter, to 8:45 in the height of summer. Some old dude did the afternoon segment.

Hardly anyone listened in the afternoons, but KZUN-AM did all right in the mornings when I was on. So that part was cool. But I hated having to wake up at a quarter to five every day to, to get to work. I still enjoyed staying out late with my friends and often didn’t get to bed until after midnight; rendering me nearly brain dead when the alarm went off at a quarter to five.

 

So there were a few mornings when, admittedly, I wasn’t completely awake when the recorded Farm Report ended at 6:04 am and I had to open the mic read ten minutes of local and regional news, live. I just prayed there weren’t any long or hard to pronounce names or places until the coffee kicked in.

 

For all the hassle it took to get there on time, mostly awake, and be half way good on th4e air, I was also only considered a part time hourly employee. I only made 4 bucks an hour and KZUN only employed me for 30 hours a week. 21 of those hours were doing what I trained to do- be on the air; the other 9 hours were, my ‘office hours’.

 

In this role, I did things I never thought I'd be doing as a "professional broadcaster", like getting off the air 9:00 and being  immediately directed to the KZUN front parking lot to tend to a couple of ancient planter boxes which sat anchored near the sidewalk. Islands in a sea of cracking asphalt, my boss Jim Swartz, instructed me to water whatever plants were still living and pull weeds.

 

In my extra hours I became the designated station gardener/jack-of-all-trades. If the planter boxes were tidy, I got to vacuum Jim’s office, or do his filing, or take out the garbage, or all of the above. He even sent me out for sandwiches a couple times for a sales meeting. I also cleaned out the storm gutters on the rickety old roof, and was handed a paint brush one day to re-paint the decaying walls in the men's bathroom with.

 

There was even one week in the middle of June when I worked both ends of KZUN-AM’s broadcast day. The ancient afternoon dude was off for a week, and rather than pull in a weekender from the FM to fill in, they had me do it. So after my morning shift ended at 9:00, I had six hours to kill before coming back at 3:00 to do the old codger’s afternoon shift as well. It worked out okay because it was June rather that January so I worked until 8:45; Jim rounded it up to 9:00 on my time card, so I worked a full 8 hour day that week; although it was a l-o-n-g 8 hour day.

But the biggest and most time consuming of my off-air odd jobs was cleaning up, cataloging and re-organizing “The Graveyard” as KZUN's downstairs basement was known. It’s where all the old equipment, records and other miscellaneous items whose useful lives had ended, was kept. It was a dark, cold, musty room; a tomb really, draped with cobwebs and crawling with bugs. It was almost a full time job by itself and there was no guarantee once you went down there, if anyone would ever see you come back up. Before sending me down there the first time, Jim said, “Organize whatever you find and if you don't come back alive, don't worry. We have your next of kin on file.”

Jim often thought he was funny. I didn't. The man was a bore. But when you're the boss, and one of the station owner’s sons, I guess you can be a bore. Jim Swartz had that part down real good. A family run outfit, KZUN was crawling with Schwartz's. There was Jim's dad, crusty old Bob Swartz, who’d owned the place since Moses, and his other son Jeff,  KZUN's sales manager. Between Bob, Jim and Jeff, it seemed like there was a Swartz coming out of every corner of the building. Even one of the receptionists was a Swartz by marriage.

Anyway, the story of my dismissal began one Saturday night when I was doing my shift on the big FM. Usually all alone, it was a surprise and complete shock to look up and see Bob and Jim out in the lobby with their wives. They were dressed up, probably coming from some fancy function they’d been to. I felt a little self-conscious because I was attired in weekend slob-ware. But I hardly expected company, certainly not the big guys. However, one redeeming factor of working for the Swartz’s, and maybe the only one, they had no Saturday/Sunday dress code.

While the ladies were taking care of business in the restroom, both Mr. Swartz and Jeff ducked into the FM studio. Jeff said, “Hey you’re sounding great tonight. We’re really enjoying listening to you.”  And the old man added, “Yeah, Keep it up son. You’ve got a future.” I was flabbergasted. I’d seen Jeff around, but we’d only said hello in passing, and I wasn’t sure Mr. Swartz even knew who I was. The only times he might have seen me during the week- if at all- was taking out Jim’s trash or hauling crap out of the basement.  He probably wondered why the janitor was on the air.

Nevertheless, I appreciated the encouragement because maybe, just maybe, I was really doing good. They liked me. Yess!   I thanked them both and went back to giving them the best Saturday night show ever heard on KZUN-FM-- or tried to anyway. In our business, it isn’t every day that you’re given a vote of confidence, in person, by the people that hold your professional life in their hands.

Monday came and I was still feeling pretty good about myself and about being on the KZUN team. Injected with a healthy dose of confidence, everything about my career seemed to be looking up--until my boss, Jim Swartz went on vacation the next day. Coincidentally, the old man and Jeff left town too. Go figure.

 

And though I didn't know it then, but I'd be leaving soon as well.

 

Left behind and temporarily in charge, was the assistant program director, Pete Hicks. I knew who Pete was, but as the midday guy, like Old Man Swartz, he probably only knew me as Jim Swartz’s gopher. On Thursday, Pete put up the weekend schedule and I noticed he had me down for 2 shifts that weekend, Saturday and Sunday night 6 p.m. to midnight. I certainly didn't mind the extra time on the FM, though it'd be a quick turn-around from Sunday night at midnight to Monday morning at 6 and my shift on KZUN AM. But it was okay. I could handle it because, "I had a future." Mr. Swartz had told me so.

Funny thing though, Saturday afternoon when I showed up at 5:30 to prep for the 6-midnight shift, there was a new guy already pulling records; somebody I'd never seen before. I wondered what was up. Confused, I asked Charlie Dee, the guy getting off at 6. The guy I was supposed to be relieving. But poor, Charlie. I think he wanted to be anywhere else because it'd been left to him to awkwardly inform me that Pete had switched the weekend schedule. I wasn’t supposed to be there till midnight.

Hey, thanks for the heads up, Pete. 

 

I'd played golf in the early afternoon, but had been home all morning and since 3:00 and all of Friday night too. If there'd been a change in the schedule, there’d been ample time to warn me. But I guess if the phone doesn't ring, it must be Pete.

 

I was starting not to like Pete Hicks very much.

 

The immediate problem, though, was having to turn around, trudge back home and force myself to nap- when I wasn't tired- so I could come back to work in 5 and a half hours and work all night. Of course, I’d been up all night before, but that was by choice- usually playing cards or coming back from a long road trip. This was very different and difficult.

 

I’d been out in the sun, consumed a couple of beers. Not enough to make it a problem working till midnight. But I wasn’t prepared to be going to work at midnight. Not even close. Had I any inkling they’d changed my weekend hours, I would’ve already adjusted my day to compensate for working all night. I certainly wouldn’t have gone golfing or had a couple Budweiser’s. So this caught me with no warning.

 

Naturally, when I got back home I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t tired at 7, 8, 9 or even 10 pm, either. I didn’t start feeling sleepy until around 11, just about the time I had to grab my keys and force myself back out to the Spokane Valley. Yawn.

I got to the station about a quarter to midnight and unhappily went about pulling my records. But being in the studio with him, the new guy appeared uncomfortable. Good. That’s how I wanted him to feel. I was pissed at Pete, but he wasn’t around. So I decided to be mad at the new joker and take all my annoyance out on him, even though it was all non-verbal. I didn’t even catch his name, though he called himself “Jack Daniels” on the air.  Oh gee, how original.

 

And at the moment, he was the immediate problem personified-- the elephant in the living room, so to speak. My sub-conscious wanted to pop him. But that would be highly unprofessional and grounds for dismissal, so I went about my business and gave him the silent treatment. After he left- without a word- I worked through the night in a somnambulist state of being. The next night was a little better, though I still felt like I was working in a fog. I needed to be as alert as possible though, because I had three more hours on the AM starting at 6.

When Tom Newman relieved me at 5:00 I figured I’d use the hour to go curl up on the sofa in the lobby and catch a few z’s before my morning drive shift. Tom was about my only real friend at KZUN, always real nice, friendly and talkative, interested in what I was up to. He made great coffee too. He didn't ask why I'd just been on the FM all night, which he should have; instead he just handed me a cup of fresh brewed 'joe' and started talking about his weekend, preventing me from gracefully slipping out of the control room to take my quick catnap. But a few minutes into my coffee klatch with Tom, guess who else came walking in?

Why, it was none other than my new best pal, Pete Hicks.

 

Pete never darkened the doors till after 9 on most days. But there he was, in the flesh at 5:10 in the morning, attired in his boots, leather vest and goofy cowboy hat. With his small wiry frame, he looked like an undernourished John Wayne. Pete said he needed to see me before the 6 am shift. Inviting me to bring my coffee, he led me to his office and pointed to his sofa. “Go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll be right back” he said before disappearing into the bathroom.

I thought he was going to apologize for hanging me out to dry about the weekend schedule. Or maybe the two FM shifts was going to be a permanent change. Fine, I could live with that as long as I knew what was coming. Or maybe they were going to promote me to full time. That'd be cool. But it never occurred to me that Pete was there to fire me, which he did upon immediately his return from the john.

 So much for that “vote of confidence” from the owner and sales manager, huh?

 

Pete and I talked for about 5 minutes. He said he was sorry, things just weren’t working out, they needed to make some changes, blah, blah, blah. I don’t recall even half of what he said because I was stunned, shocked. I’d never been fired from anything before. All I heard was, “We’re going to have to let you go.” After that, I checked out.

 

He cut me a check, already magically signed and pre-dated by the vacationing Bob Swartz, then asked for my office key. As he shook my hand and wished me well, he looked me in the eye and for the first time that morning was completely straight with me. He let honesty bubble to the surface.

"Look, this isn't my call. Its Bob's old lady. She thinks you sound, well, kind of young. She thought you were still in high school. That's all it took. Bob takes a lot of advice from his wife. I think you're fine, and if it was me, I'd keep ya on. But like I said, it’s not my call. And don't take it personal that Jim's not here to do it. He likes you, but whenever he has to let someone go, he leaves town and kinda leaves it to me. I'm really sorry."

So was I.

But at least I got the straight scoop. A lot of guys don’t ever get that. They’re just axed. Case closed.

On the way out, I poked my head in and said goodbye to Tom. He had a sad look, like he knew I’d just been offed. He probably did. He told me to hang in there, that something else would come along; saying all the other right things that, at the moment, I didn’t want to hear. I smiled weakly, thanked him, said good bye and let myself out the back door for the last time.

 

Outside I wanted to scream, punch something. I kept asking myself, why? Why me? Why now? I wanted to mourn. I was only 24 but had just suffered my first professional death.

 

      Here lies Rocket's short-lived career at KZUN Opportunity, Washington.

                                                   May 7, 1979- July 30, 1979 
                                   “We told him he had a future...But we lied”

 

Eleven weeks on the job and that was it. And being too green, naive or blind, I never saw it coming. I knew the radio biz had its ups and downs and people came and went all the time, and often not by their own choice. I knew that. I just never thought it would happen to me. 

However, for his honesty, though I wouldn’t have Pete Hicks over for a “Kum-bay-yah” night, I had a lot more respect for him, knowing the spot Jim Swartz had put him in. Some people may get a charge out of dumping people, but I got the impression Pete took no pleasure in it at all.

But the Swartz’? Besides a final paycheck and lesson in bullshit 101, all I got out of my association with that family was a loss of trust and a jaundiced view of management. Tell me one thing, then do the opposite; flatter me, then splatter me. That’s what I got out of working for the Swartz’s clan. And when Bob Swartz died in 1982 and the family had to sell the station because they were drowning in red ink, I had a hard time mustering up a ton of sympathy. What goes around...

Still, I've yet to forget departing KZUN that day, slinking out the back door like a whipped puppy before anyone else saw me. Fortunately at 5:35 on a Monday morning, hardly anybody would. I’m sure everybody already knew anyway. But besides Tom, I doubt any of them would really care too much, let alone, miss me.

However there was one person who probably glad to see me go. For sure he wouldn’t miss me very much, the guy who I ran into on my way out into unemployment land that morning; good ‘ol “Jack Daniels.” He was there at that early hour because he’d inherited my job and my identical hours. So "Jack" was probably thrilled to see me go.

He nodded as we passed each other in the parking lot, one going in, one going out. One starting, one leaving. Welcome to the cold, wonderful world of commercial radio.