What If...

My road through life has seen its share of potholes, detours and yes, regrets. Still, taken as a journey still in progress, I can't say I'm dissatisfied with where the ride has taken me so far. Yet every so often something triggers my brain to go back and second guess some of the turns and decisions taken along the way. Yeah, I know, it's really dumb. Nevertheless, the other day a quick glance at a map of Texas put me in one of those Monday Morning Quarterbacking frames of mind again.

In January 1982, I was working at KGA in Spokane. I’d started there in 1980 as just a weekender. During the week I had two other jobs, one other in radio, punching tapes on KCKO, a God station just down the road from KGA, and in a north side sporting goods store selling hockey equipment. Not bad for a 20-something living in the early 1980’s. Jobs were hard to come by then. But I had three. And for awhile that was okay. I was young and could handle the workload and, though none of them paid well added together, they afforded me a fairly decent income.

 

I lived near the hockey store, and the radio stations were both on the Spokane’s South Hill so I had to do a lot of cross town commuting, spend a lot of money on gas. But even that was okay. Gas was a lot cheaper then. And having the opportunity to flap your gums on a 50, 000 watt flamethrower like KGA was like making the major leagues as a baseball ballplayer. I was really ‘in the show”. It rocked.

 

But, I had no life.

 

For the first six months, my weekly calendar looked like this: Monday through Friday, I worked in the hockey store from 9 in the morning till about 1 in the afternoon. After that, I ran across town to KCKO and ran the board from 2 p.m. till 6 in the evening. Weeknights were free. Then I had 4 KGA shifts on the weekend, Midnight to 6 a.m. Saturday morning, 6 to midnight Saturday night, 6 in the morning till noon on Sunday and 6 pm to midnight Sunday night. Then back to work at the hockey shop at 9 Monday morning and the cycle started over.

 

Occasionally KGA would call me during the week while at one of my other jobs or after I was home and ask if I’d do a last minute fill in shift. Sometimes it’d be for overnights, sometimes evenings, but it was always a scramble. Once I was almost in bed, but I always made it and never missed work at my other jobs. Even on the overnight fill-ins, I got off at 5 in the morning and opened up the hockey at 9. And because I’d been a dependable and hard worker, by the spring of 1981 KGA promoted me. Sort of.

I was moved to overnights “full time/part time”. That meant I was the full time host on the overnight show, Monday thru Thursday nights 11pm till 5 in the morning.  However, I still had my “part time“ hours on the weekends although they did shave off the early Saturday shift. And technically, I had Friday night off, although I got off the overnight shift at 5:00 Friday morning. About six months after that I was “promoted” again, this time from overnights to evenings, 6 pm to 11pm Monday thru Friday. But conveniently- for KGA, anyway- they still had me working the weekends 18 hours or so. Neither promotion came with a raise and always came with the stipulation, “until we find someone else.” Six months after doing the evening shift I was ‘demoted’ I guess, back to the overnights when they did ‘find someone else’.

Early on, after the first promotion, I had to quit the hockey store. It was just too much to work overnights and during the day, every day. But I stayed at KCKO as long as I could. It was five minutes from KGA’s studios and I had a friend working with me who’d cover and swap shifts with me whenever I had a conflict. Eventually, I had to give that job up too. Nevertheless, I was working a butt-load of radio hours. And gaining a butt-load of radio experience. Which had always been my goal.

I was just getting burned out.

Deemed a “full time, hourly employee” in a non-union shop, and working in a state with (at the time) fairly lax labor laws, KGA/ KDRK-FM could pretty much work me every night or day, 7 days a week. And they did, without having to pay me overtime, even though at the end of many- many- weeks, my time card was well north of 40 hours. Heck, I would’ve settled for time and a half. Or comp time. Or maybe just a night off. But they didn’t have the manpower, or wouldn’t go out and hire any,  and as long as I didn't work over 8 hours on any given day, KGA was being compliant with state employment rules and I wasn't subject to overtime.

I did wonder how they got away with it, especially since I had twin, six hour Sunday shits. But, as my boss Tom explained, "as long as you've got a 6 hour rest period in between, it's okay." It was okay? For him maybe. I was wearing out. And I liked Tom. He was a good guy. But the way he said it sounded as if KGA was doing me a favor for working my ass off. Or maybe he/KGA thought we were all stupid or just too grateful for the job to raise a fuss. Maybe that was simply the company line. Whatever. And I really didn’t want to complain because I enjoyed my co-workers, loved the ‘prestige’ of working at such a big station and was happy to be surviving financially. But sometimes, that place made me feel like an indentured servant.

Worse than that, though, after doing the grunt hours for so long (and pulling pretty good ratings, at least when I was on at a time when Arbitron said it mattered), I kept getting passed over for full time, real full time with benefits, 2 week’s vacation and maybe even a five day work week. But after each of my promotions, always predicated on ‘until we find somebody else’ they always did. Not just once, or twice, but three times. Twice by people hired after me, and the third time by a dude brought in from outside the company. That was a huge let down. Worse than overused, I felt unappreciated and disrespected.

So I decided to do something about it. I began tossing feelers around the Spokane market as to my “availability”. It certainly couldn't hurt and, if I got a nibble, well, maybe KGA would sit up and take notice. Maybe give me a raise. Ha-ha. Or reduce my workload. However, not much was percolating on the local front; certainly nothing any better than what I was already had. Then I began to expand my search, perusing the National trade magazines for openings outside the area. There, the pickings were a little more bountiful and, soon, my tape and resume was out to stations all over the country. I didn't really want to go anyplace else, but figured if I got an offer I might use it to gain some leverage for the next daytime opening at KGA. And on a Monday morning two weeks into the process, somebody took the bait.

I got a call from the program director of KDOK in Tyler Texas. The man's name was Mark and, being that he was calling from Texas, I expected hearing a drawl of some kind. Instead, he sounded almost like Al Gilson, KGA’s smooth voiced afternoon guy and one of my buddies. And that’s who I thought it was at first. But Al would probably be giving me shit; not buttering me up, like this Mark dude, telling me stuff I seldom heard out of the powers-that-be at KGA. Mark said he loved my tape and loved my experience. Being well known in country music circles and the broadcast industry in general, KGA’s reputation was second to none. And having 50,000 watts behind it didn't hurt either. So I had that going for me.

Mark was eager and impressed that somebody from a monster like KGA might want to come work "....for my little country station down here in the middle of no place". In fact, he was so impressed he had a one time, today only offer, just for me. KDOK's night guy had quit that very morning; just walked into the office and with no warning or explanation, resigned. Mark thought it had something to do with the guy's unstable personal life. Anyway the packet with my tape and resume had arrived over the weekend and was waiting on top of Mark's stack of mail. It was the first one he opened and after listening to my demo, decided I was exactly what he wanted.

The offer was the same deal his ex-night guy had-- full time, on the air 7 p.m. to midnight Monday through Friday, plus three hours of production and one weekend shift every other weekend. The entire package, with health and dental and two weeks’ vacation, started at 1100 dollars a month. That was about 300 dollars a month more than what KGA was paying. At first I said nothing, suggesting I thought my leg was being pulled, or the offer was too good to be true. But I was blown away, and thinking. However, not wanting to beat anymore around the bush, Mark leveled with me.

"Look, it's chaos around here this morning. I like how you sound and don't want to waste any more time wading through a pile of other applicants. I just don't have the time. Frankly, you'd be doing me a favor if you took the job. So it's yours if you want it." Hmmm. So much for beating a bunch of other guys out of the gig; Mark was in a bind, either in a hurry or just plain lazy. He didn't want me because I was good, or better than anyone else he'd heard. Mark only wanted me because, by luck, my envelope landed on top of everyone else's and what he heard was okay enough to fill the opening.

"But here's the deal. If you take it, I need you to start next Monday, that's a week from today. And you have to let me know before 5:00 Central Time, today. Otherwise, I'm gonna have to look local.”  Mark's call came in about 8:30 a.m. Pacific Time (10:30 am in Tyler), just as I was cleaning up after breakfast. Doing the math, that gave me about 5 and a half hours to make a decision and call him back. 

The proposal was flattering, though, and momentarily elevated my head to the clouds. I was being offered a real job for more money from somebody in my chosen field by someone who actually wanted me. Any young professional on his way up would kill for The KDOK gig. It was a dream job. I could love that job! Yet at the same time I also felt like someone had just dropped a dumbbell over my shoulders. Heck, I could barely decide what to eat for dinner on a good day. And now someone was asking me to come half way across the country to take a new job and decide before the sun went down. Geez, no pressure there. Yikes!

And where the hell was Tyler, Texas anyway? So caught up in the moment and the offer and its ramifications, I forgot to ask. After digging out an old Atlas, I found Tyler was a small dot on the Texas map somewhere southeast of a much bigger dot, which was Dallas. Dallas was a long way from Spokane- as the crow flies, about 1500 miles- and I only had a few short hours to decide if that's where I wanted to go; and if I did, had a very short time to get there. Like less than a week. That was a lot to think about. Nobody had ever dropped an offer like that in my lap before and, frankly, I had no idea how to respond.

Do I go or do I stay?

I dunno. But all morning long and into the afternoon I walked around with a trail of dread following me. I was convinced everything was riding on my answer; my life, my future, my career. Everything. And if I made the wrong decision, the consequences would be irrevocable. I was in turmoil. Spokane was home and I was comfortable there. My heart wanted to stay because I'd lived there for nearly ten years and had dozens of close friends I didn’t want to leave behind. And KGA was where I learned to be a professional broadcaster. I had wonderful memories of the community and a strong loyalty to the radio station. 

But my head said 'go' because I needed the extra money and career advancement it afforded me. Plus I could easily make new friends, be comfortable and develop new loyalties in a new place like Tyler, Texas too, couldn’t I? Yet the very idea of uprooting my life in less than a week terrified me. I wanted to hash it out with someone but knew what everyone would say:  Go. And why wouldn't they? It was a fantastic opportunity. I sure couldn't run it by Tom Newman, though. Tom had always been a friend but was now my boss, too. I didn't want to force him into a corner, promote me or I leave for Texas. Good grief, I wasn't that stupid.  And I was savvy enough to know KGA wasn't going to beg me to stay either. I was a serviceable jock, but was easily replaced.

I thought about calling home, but knew what Mom & Dad would say, too:  Go. However admitting to both parents I had to think about such a fantastic offer instead of jumping at it would merely confirm what they already knew- that I’d yet to reach adult maturity, was a screw-up and a disappointment. Or that's what I imagined them saying. I’ll never know, though, because I never called them.

Instead, after a tortuous morning and afternoon of internal deliberation, at a few minutes to three I called Mark back at KDOK and reluctantly informed him that I wouldn't be coming. I was single and 27 with nothing to tie me down except my house, which I owned and would’ve been easy to sell (but probably not in one week). But I used it as my answer and though logical and basically true, I knew it was also a spineless way out. Sure, the house was my anchor to Spokane. But I wasn’t so chained down that it’d completely prevent me from at least exploring the potential greener pastures out in Tyler, Texas. There were ways around the house. If I really wanted to go. And I guess I didn’t.  I guess I was afraid.  But outside of fear, what it all really boiled down to was whether I wanted to try making a new life in a new place, and making new friends, or sticking with the tried and true and safe.

And I guess at that point in  my life I just wanted to stay safe at home.

The call took about a minute. Mark wished me the best, said good bye and hung up. Before he did, part of me hoped he'd drool all over himself pleading for me to come. But the more pragmatic part wondered why I didn’t at least make a counter-offer: take less money in exchange for a little more time. If Mark really wanted me to come, would it hurt too much to ask for two or three weeks to get my affairs in Spokane cleaned up? It wouldn’t have been out of line to, at least, ask. But I said nothing and the line went dead. And as a rerun of "The Flintstones" played on the TV with the sound turned down, I hung my head and wondered what the hell I'd just done.

I’ve questioned myself about this a dozen times or more since that day. Did I make the right choice or not? Would it have been the start of an anxiety-riddled nomadic existence, drifting from Tyler than to another city then, then another, one radio station to the next, never putting down any roots, never establishing any close long lasting friendships and someday wake up in some far away outpost like Sandusky, Ohio with my best years gone and my life and career? Why would I give up a potentially long and happy life in Spokane for that?  

But what if I'd come to this crossroad and instead of the road well-traveled, thrown caution to the wind, been adventurous and brave and taken that road to Tyler?  Heck, it might've been a hoot. Maybe it’d have been a springboard to other opportunities, maybe even into a different line of work? But if not and I even if I hated it, three or six months later I could’ve bounced right back to Spokane. It is a free country after all. But what if I actually liked life in Tyler? And what if I’d met someone there; fell in love and lived happily ever after? Was I a doofus for staying put, close to home; or an idiot not to? Who knows? But I can’t go back and second guess myself either. It'd drive me nuts. Life now is what it is.

Still, I've often wondered, mostly on long sleepless nights, how my life would have turned out had I just said 'yes' that afternoon in January 1983. Would I have ever made it back to Spokane? And if not, would I have somehow ever made it here to Northern California, to Grass Valley, to KNCO, to EMF Broadcasting? Would I have ever found Jesus again or met the lovely Amy? By not going to Texas, did I make the right choice? Was there a right choice? The simple answer is, I don't know. I can't possibly know. Not in this life anyway. I just don’t know.

All I know for sure is that the answers to these and all my other life riddles and perplexities, like everyone else’s, won’t be revealed and won’t become clear until the ride I’m on now comes to a full and complete stop.

The Walls Had Ears...And Tiny, Little Feet

I’d just moved from Spokane to Sandpoint, Idaho to take an on-air gig at KSPT-AM. It was August and a lot of the temporary summer residents were still in town, which left living space for new full time residents at a premium. But I’d stumbled upon a cozy little A-frame house on 3^rd Street, just a stones’ throw away from the shoreline of beautiful Lake Pend Oreille, and after a short walk-through was only too eager to sign the rental agreement. My work day was generally supposed to end early enough to get home, change clothes and go play. The idea of whiling away the remaining late summer afternoons sunning myself and swimming down at the beach seemed idyllic, and considered myself lucky I’d found such an amazing place to rent.

However, come winter time the setting wasn't so idyllic or amazing. Down the street, the lake lay half frozen and very uninviting. Night fell really early, too, and with only marginal baseboard heat (in only two rooms) and high ceilings, my cozy little home was seldom cozy or particularly hospitable. More often, the place felt like a cold, drafty cave. Plus, as the days shortened and winter settled in, the poor insulation seldom kept the warmth in or outside sounds out. Though I was fortunate to have a pretty nice roof over my head, sleeping there was like camping out- only in the dead of winter and with none of the charm.

 

The house was bleak and eerily clamorous and I seldom got a good night’s sleep; which is never a good thing when you have to be up by 4:15 in the morning. Not only did the paper thin walls refuse to hold the heat, they allowed every little sound to become amplified, both indoors and out. And one typically hostile north Idaho night, wrapped in multiple blankets and trying to coax sleep to come, I began hearing noises. The din was more disturbing than usual because it wasn’t coming from outside, or even from another part of the house. No, this racket was someplace in the same room with me. I strained to listen while my brain worked to de-code what it was. And after several more minutes of sporadic and infrequent bumps in the night, I figured out what it was: the scampering of little feet. Something was living inside the walls. And there was more than one of them.

 

After a few hesitant moments, debating whether I wanted to keep pretending I hadn’t heard what I know I heard, I snapped on the bedside lamp, propped myself on an elbow and waited. Now wide awake, I decided to confront the intruders and see what I was up against. And ten minutes after first drawing my attention, I met the enemy and the enemy was: a tiny field mouse. It scurried out from under the baseboard, across the room, and darted under the door. Damn! But satisfied it wasn't Godzilla flashing through the darkened room but merely a common rodent, I got up and grabbed my old hockey stick.

 

The bedroom door opened into the kitchen. With hockey stick in hand I followed the mouse’s last known destination and fumbled for the light switch over the oven. It took two tried before it clicked on. The bulb was only a 20-watter but cast enough muted light to survey the entire room, and once my eyes adjusted to the shadowy illumination I spotted the tiny creature under the kitchen table. At first, he sat on his haunches sniffing the air. But then he settled back on all fours and appeared to be staring me down, almost daring me to come after him. However if I moved, he’d move, too, and too fast for me to do anything. This could’ve led to a prolonged stalemate which, at 12:30 in the morning, was something I really preferred to avoid. So I took matters into my own hands, stamped my foot on the kitchen floor and loudly yelled “Hey!” And the impromptu plan of action worked.

 

The sudden thud caused the mouse to go into fight-or-flight mode and, choosing flight, he darted the way he’d come: directly towards the bedroom door and exactly where I was standing. He was coming right at me. I didn’t expect him to a retreat my way, but with only the blink of an eye to respond I took aim with my hockey stick and- whack!– the indoor slap shot propelled the mouse at light speed off a cupboard door under the sink. Bouncing off the solid wooden panel with a resounding whunk, the mouse landed on the floor on his back, four feet up and no longer moving, dispatched to rodent heaven. 

 

I know; it was probably overkill and I felt bad for bringing about the little creature’s demise so stunningly violent. On the other hand, it wasn’t a half-bad shot for half-light, half-sleep and half-past midnight. So, feeling pretty good about defending my turf, I went back to bed. But the victory didn't last long. As soon as the light went out, the rest of now-deceased rodent’s clan began stirring again. They were all rapidly milling about and probably organizing a counter-attack from somewhere behind the cheap paneling that masqueraded as a bedroom wall; the only barrier providing separation between me and ....them. However, the remaining mice remained holed up and unseen the rest of night and I was at last able to fall asleep, at least for a couple hours. But I knew they hadn’t left and next day I brought home some mouse traps and scattered them all over the house, dropping one near every orifice where I believed the mice were using as an entrance to my living space.

 

This worked pretty well, too, as later that night I was awakened by the unmistakable snap of trap in action and knew another miniature raider had met its maker. ”Oh, good…got another one”, I mumbled into the darkness. The war wasn't over, though. Sure, the mice had taken casualties. But from the racket of surviving mice still scampering in the woodwork and rafters, it sounded like they'd brought in reinforcements. This left me with the very creepy feeling of being nocturnally overrun. And as I stared at the ceiling knowing I wasn’t going to sleep that night, I knew I’d have to re-think my strategy. Beating back an army of invading rodents massing in my walls with traps, would be about as effective as trying to extinguish a forest fire with a water pistol.

 

Outnumbered, I needed heavier artillery. And for the big guns I'd need the assistance of Eleanor Bailey, the house's property manager. However, she didn't like me and hadn't from day one. I had no idea why, either because I can get along with everybody. But Eleanor was a nasty disagreeable person whose off-putting vulgar dialog and curt, insolence upon our first meeting should have made it abundantly clear that we weren't going to hit it off. The woman was as approachable as a wounded, cornered porcupine and I’m surprised she consented to rent to me at all. “I don't generally rent to punks”, she snorted when I inquired about the house. I suppose the rebuke was supposed to shock me into looking elsewhere. But off to such a good start, she put me even more at ease by growling, "I hate college kids and single people. You’re all trash." 

 

Speaking with the deep throated gravelly snarl of a life-long chain smoker, I’d never felt more unwelcome in somebody’s presence in my life. But the biggest mark against me was my source of employment. I have no idea what the radio station had done to piss her off, but Eleanor had a long simmering hate-on for KSPT. "You work at g-d K- Sucks-Putrid-Turds? I can't stand those guys. Or you guys" Yep, Eleanor was a real peach. Anyway, being too young, too single and being one of "those guys" made me someone of ill repute and, I guess, a bad risk. However, despite how badly my current life status offended her, she couldn’t find or make up enough stuff to invalidate the U.S. Fair Housing Act, so Eleanor had no choice but to approve the rental agreement. She didn’t have to like it though, and made it obvious she didn’t from the day I moved in.

 

She assumed everything was always the tenant’s fault, or in this case, my fault. The first week I was there I noticed a small hole in the bathroom window and asked to have it fixed. She said I must’ve broken it when I moved in, which was completely untrue because none of my stuff was in the bathroom except a razor and toothbrush. I also asked to have the other windows weather stripped before the weather turned cold but she said it’d already been done. It hadn’t. I ended up doing it myself. The bathroom window did get replaced, but not for 6 months because I couldn’t convince her I hadn’t done it. Yet even if I had, she was obligated to have it repaired as soon as possible, whether she charged me for it or not.  And how I could be blamed for the mice, I wasn’t sure. Yet at first she sure tried, insinuating, because, as a guy I must’ve been a poor housekeeper.

 

However, that was the last straw.

 

I’m really not a very confrontational person and can generally put up with a lot of crap before snapping. But I’d reached that point. And taking a tack I’d learned playing sports- that often the best defense is a good offense- I decided to offend her. Hanging up the phone after she’d blown me off about the mice a second time, I took one of the dead ones to her office and dropped it on her desk. “I’ll leave it there and bring back a new one each day until you do something about it.” Grousing that I'd stooped to such "disgusting blackmail", nevertheless Eleanor agreed to send an exterminator out “as soon as possible” (translation- as soon as she got around to it). So I picked up the gift I’d brought, but before I left she got in a few last shots.

 

“Don’t you dare bother me again about this you g.d. cocky son-of-a bitch”, she bristled and barked. "I wish you'd never g.d. darkened my doorway.  Yeah, me too. But between smoker’s coughs, on my way she invited me to send her the 'g.d' exterminator's bill. “And then I don’t want to hear from you again until the g.d. 1^st of the month. Got it!?”  Yeah I got it. But such people skills. So good with the public and such a way with the language: she’d dropped about 4  g.d’s on me in under 10 seconds, which must’ve been some sort of record. Anyway, I guess Eleanor really liked saying 'g.d' a lot (a term so offensive to me today, I won’t even write it out), but I wouldn't want to be standing near her in a lightning storm. What a piece of work.  Or piece of something. But living down to all my expectations, she didn't have the exterminator show up until 10:30 the following Monday morning. Which meant four more days- and nights- of living with my tiny house guests.  Thank you so much, Eleanor.

But when Exterminator Man was at last able to get to work, he really went to work. Eleanor let him in while I was at work and when I got home a few hours later, the rat-killer proudly showed off a bucket full of exterminated mice. Three dozen of them; three freaking dozen! No wonder it felt like I’d been under siege. No wonder it felt like an occupying legion of swiftly moving little pests had moved in with me. No wonder I’d dropped one of the dead ones in Eleanor’s lap- there were a lot more where that one had come from. But after an 8 day struggle, the War of the Wodents was over. And I won. I even slept a little better after that, too. 

However, I still had to write a check every first of the month to the loveable and charming, Eleanor Bailey, who remained entrenched in her belief that being a 28 year-old single male living in one of her units was close to criminal. Stubborness, and my affection for the location of the house had, for as long as I could take it, dig in my heels and stay. But you also can sense when you're not really welcome, too. And shortly after the mice moved out, I began looking for a new place to move into. But KSPT saved me the trouble by canning me 8 weeks later. Oh, well. So I stayed put until my last day in Sandpoint.

It was Saturday, March 31, 1984. It was the last day I worked at KSPT; the day I left town for the last time; the last day I was ever at Eleanor's closed office. And when I dropped the key off in her mail slot, I left something else behind, too. It’d been wrapped up and tucked away in a freezer on my back porch and seemed like  the perfect going away gift for my dear friend, Eleanor- a little, tiny well-preserved dead mouse.

Life Before Match Dot Com

Though I'm married now, there was a time- especially in my 20's- when I sincerely believed I’d always be dateless and single. Working mostly at night, 6 to 7 days a week, my social life been forced to languish on the side lines.

Can you say, LOSER?

So when a rare chance to shake off the rigor mortis slowly growing in my hardening heart and soul came along, I snapped at it. I was doing the graveyard shift at KGA in Spokane. Of course, the primary audience during those hours, especially for a station that plays country music, is mostly drunks, insomniacs, drunks, shift workers, and did I mention, drunks? Needless to say, I didn't answer a lot of in-coming overnight request line calls because they consumed up too much brain power trying to understand, reason, or just endure.

The quick hellos and, "could you play a song?" were fine. But I didn't have the time, patience or people skills to deal with the garbled, frequently argumentative or abusive ramblings of the Spokane area watering hole clientele who called our radio station after the bars closed. Nine out of ten I'd have to hang up on. The tenth one usually hung up on me. But one night there was a young female voice at the other end of the line, sober and sounding like she was calling from heaven.

The girl wanted me to play something by Barbara Mandrell. It was close to 2 a.m., I was back timing to hit the top of the hour ABC News break and not really at a spot to play a request, or figure out where I could. So sweet voice or not, I was about to give her the standard brush off. “Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for calling.”   But before I could, she followed up her request. “Ya know, I just love listening to you. You have a real sexy voice. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

Uhhhh..no. Not anytime recently. Actually, not ever.

But if she wanted to get a song played on the radio, she was going about it the right way. So we started talking. Her name was Teresa, she was 19, taking classes at Spokane Falls Community College, and loved country music. I heard what she was saying, but was more tuned into the voice. This Teresa chick had the sweetest, velvety, most feminine voice I think I’d ever heard. It was lilting, enchanting, pure and I could’ve listened to her talk all night, although that night it was only about 15 minutes. I never did get around to playing her song. I forgot.

But she called the next night, and the night after, and the night after that. Each time we talked longer, than a little longer, then a little longer still, stopping only when I had to say something on the radio. The fifth night she called at 11:05, which was right when I opened the mic for the first time. That night, she didn’t hang up until 4:50, when my shift was almost over. I hadn’t met her yet, only knew Teresa Bridgeman through our phone conversations and only for a few days, but I think I was in love.

We hit it off like we'd known each other for years. I felt a real connection; her soft, kind voice, and ease in which we conversed quickly reminded me how it’d been with of my first girlfriend, Kelly Murphy who, 6 years after the fact, had yet to completely vacate my heart. In fact, it'd been about 6 years since my last date. So that morning when I got home, and before going to sleep, instead of waiting for Teresa to call me at work I called her. She'd gladly parted with her number when I'd asked two nights before, so felt pretty sure she wouldn’t mind my call- even if it was just after 6 in the morning- and with new found boldness, I pushed ahead.

Teresa's voice was alive with smiles when she answered. “Hello again!” she greeted, practically beaming at me through the phone lines. She sounded great and happy to hear from me. Getting to the heart of the matter, I proposed we go to a movie that night and then maybe grab some dinner. I didn’t work overnight on Fridays- it was technically my one night off- and I wasn’t back on the air till 6 pm Saturday.  That meant I was free and the night was ours, and Teresa sounded as excited about it as I did.

We agreed to meet me downtown at the Fox Theater at 7. It'd be “Raiders of the Lost Ark” first, then IHOP after for dinner. Nothing too fancy or intimidating, but just right for a first date. I couldn’t wait, although I felt like I did the first time I went out with Kelly. She and I had already established a platonic friendship, but on the day of our first date I remember having the same quivering anticipation I couldn’t seem to shake now. I couldn’t eat, sleep, jog or pee it out of me, either. The feeling remained in my system and bird dogged me all day. But I loved it. I hadn’t felt so alive in a very long time. I had something to actually look forward.

Finally giving up all pretense of getting some rest, I spent the remaining hours before my date with Teresa rehearsing what to say, how to act and, of course, wondering if she’d like me or not. Then I started trying to imagine what she looked like. Though we knew each other, it was a blind date- we’d never met. She said she wasn’t very tall, which was good; neither was I. She also said she was blond; another plus. So was Kelly and I started envisioning an updated version, keeping in mind, six years had passed and this girl’s name was Teresa. I kept drilling it into my head: whatever you do, don’t call her Kelly!

Teresa said she'd be wearing a pink hoodie sweatshirt and jeans when we met up at the theater. That all sounded pretty good to me; Kelly had often dressed similarly. Again, though, I had to get that out of my mind-- Kelly was in the past. Teresa Bridgeman was in the present and I was overflowing with the expectation of meeting the girl with the alluring angelic voice.

It was a snowy night, but I could’ve cared less about the weather. I didn’t want to be late either, so raced downtown as fast as possible, for the less than ideal driving conditions, anyway. It took about a half hour but when I parked the car it was still only 6:40.  The show started at 7 allowing me a few extra seconds to take a deep breath and, checking the rear view mirror, double check I didn't look too horrible before merging into the slushy winter darkness.

Seeing I was put together as best I could, I got out and hoofed the three blocks to the theater. I was walking like trying to catch a late bus and kept telling myself to slow down; walk purposely but don’t be in a rush. I wanted to get there before Teresa did, but didn’t want to be out of breath, either; like I was in too big a hurry to meet her. I wanted to play it cool, or as cool as a “Nervous Nellie’ on a blind first blind could be. When I got to the Fox, I didn’t yet see a girl in a pink sweatshirt, so knew I’d beaten her there. Whew! It gave me a chance to relax, brush the snow off, get a lay of the land and hopefully spot her before she spotted me.

Easier said than done. The garish lighting under the marquee and around the theater entrance left no place to hide.  I settled in the margins to the left of the box office, under a playbill of a coming attraction, and tried to become as unassuming and inconspicuous as possible, although I’m sure I probably stuck out like a sore thumb, anyway; a sore thumb waiting for somebody. Nothing I could do about it, though. There wasn’t any better place to wait.

I checked my watch at 6:50 and looked up in time to see an angel; a cute blond in a pink looking shirt. She moved from the peripheral darkness of the sidewalk and into the bright neon lights of the theater's entry way. She was coming straight at me. My heart rate tripled in almost breathless eagerness. Is that Teresa? God, let it be so. The girl was gorgeous, darn near Kelly incarnate. I was about to scream ‘Thank you’ to the heavens, but then, with recognition registering on her pretty face, the girl I hoped was Teresa waved bee-lined and ran into the hug of a guy standing to my right, next to front doors. I remember seeing him there, but in white shirt and tie under his parka, I thought he was ticket taker.  

Disappointment momentarily settled over me. I hadn't been that close to somebody who reminded me so much of the girl that, on some level, I still wished to be with. It was kind of scary. But heck, Teresa could be even prettier. She might even like me, commencing the start of something potentially wonderful. Besides, with the tender voice of a goddess, I was certain Teresa just had to be a walking, living princess and the epitome of feminine beauty. Or not.

Seconds after the cute blond chick and her boyfriend went inside, a girl in a pink sweatshirt cautiously made her way towards me. She seemed to be mildly familiar with me because, unfortunately, I’d tipped her off what I was going to wear, too. And how would this person slowly approaching me know that, unless she was-- Teresa...?! Yikes.  I wanted to pretend I was someone else, but before I could she said, “Hi Rocket” and the gig was up. My heart sank, too. It was the same voice I heard on the phone, but it sure didn't match the face or at least, did not match what I hoped might be the face. Let’s just say, Teresa Bridgeman did not come completely as advertised. 

First, her hair wasn’t blond, it was red; “strawberry” blond, she later rationalized. Semantics aside, she was short but linebacker wide, too. And when she smiled, a couple of her front teeth were, uh, earth toned? And one was completely gone. While clarifying her hair color, she said the tooth fell out one night when brushing and would be repaired soon. Fair enough, although the information made me wonder about her general dental hygiene. Teeth don’t just generally fall out; not at 19. Standing face to face under the gaudy lights of the Fox foyer, though trying very hard not to fixate on her missing molar, other faces came to mind: a character from "Deliverance", for one.

To be fair, I'm no great prize, either, then or now, and I felt bad , on first reaction, that I’d judged Teresa ugly. It wasn’t right, but after building up my hopes and expectations of meeting Kelly Murphy’ long lost identical twin, had I been in a cartoon my mouth would've dropped open as my eyes popped out of my head, spilled onto the sidewalk, and ran away. The real me wanted to flee, too. However, I didn’t. I didn’t embarrass her or stand her up. Though I can’t deny part of me silently prayed that nobody would know she was with me, I escorted Teresa into the theater; I went through with our date, awkward as it was, faking a good time and finishing the evening without making too many missteps- and as quickly as possible.

However after the movie, we spent a glacially long two hours over hamburgers, coffee and strained conversation at IHOP. There I learned many things that had never come up over the phone, like her hopes of having about a dozen kids because she didn't ever want to be lonely. But no matter who she married, her Mother would always be part of the household, she continued, as if it was that was added bonus. Teresa talked so much I didn't really have the opportunity to tell her she should write me when she finds a guy willing to agree to that because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. 

But as she rambled on, she carried the discussion, which was fine by me; the less I said the sooner the evening would end. At least I had the good sense to pay attention and not look at the other girls, not overtly anyway. At the time, four or five 20-something chicks were having desert with their dates and I might have briefly caught myself wishing be one of the guys. However I’d wager my last five dollars none of them were wishing to be me.

The snow had stopped and it was after midnight when we left IHOP. It was still quite cold. However there was plenty of space between us as I walked her back to her car, parked a fair distance from where I’d parked mine. Quick as possible, because we were both freezing, I thanked her for a great time and bid her a good night. There was no kiss, though; we didn't even shake hands. I watched her drive off, wave, and then breathed the longest thank God this night is over sigh, and began the hike back to my own vehicle for the ride home.

But as I drove, though for once glad to be going home alone, I reflected on the evening and my life. Teresa was as nice as she could be, on the phone. But you only get one chance to make a good first impression, and unfortunately, good intentions and pleasant personality aside, Teresa hadn’t made a very good one. Not in my eyes.  Yet whose fault was that? She couldn't help it who she was and it was up to me to accept her unconditionally; kind of how she’d accepted me. No, what began to bother me anymore wasn’t Teresa’s outward appearance, but my own unattractive inward shortcomings. As I drove through the icy early pre-dawn, I saw the spotlight turned on my own flaws; my pettiness and immaturity. I realized my own ugliness had been on full display and I didn’t like it.

That was me at 26, though: a shallow, self- centered, often infantile male.  Fortunately, as a really late bloomer, I've come a long way on the road to maturity since then. Yet in hindsight, I don't see much about Rocket at 26 to like. I doubt anybody else back then would have then either, which might explain why I spent many a winter night (not to mention nights during the other three seasons) all alone. But that cold February night in 1982, unable to escape the boundaries of my own closed mind, I wanted what I wanted and what I wanted clearly wasn’t Teresa which, from my point of view anyway, doomed any possibility of a second date.

Fortunately she only knew me as “Rocket” and that’s not how I was listed in the phone book. I wasn’t paranoid about her becoming a pest or stalker- she hardly seemed the type- but the less she knew about my personal life, the less likely we’d awkwardly run into each other again. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and wanted to be spared having to. But I couldn't escape her when I was at work. Being on KGA's 50000 watt signal at night made it really hard to hide. So she called me there. Often, and though I was always p0lite I became more and more distant; even evasive. The conversation was stilted, at least from my end, and rather than wanting to talk all night as before, I always "had to go" within a few minute of picking up.

For all practical purposes, our ‘relationship’, such as it was, no longer existed. We’d been two ships passing in the night and nothing more. And if that was clear to me, I was certain it had to be clear to Teresa too. How else to interpret my complete about face and lack of interest since our first dreadful date? That I wasn’t interested anymore, right?  But about a week into this silly game, Teresa asked if we could get together again. Good grief.

However she said I’d promised her a tour of the radio station sometime and, though things had changed- bingo! she had figured things out-  hoped that was still a possibility. She said she was still a loyal listener and just wanted to see how it all worked. (I’d almost forgotten I’d said that, too; in the first craze of infatuation- until seeing her- I’d have probably told her anything). But if I agreed, Teresa said she'd never ask another favor. I was doing the Saturday night 6-midnight shift and it was already after 10:00. So it was the weekend and after business hours; nobody but staff was allowed on the premises at those times. But taking her at her word that it’d be just a nice way to end things, if she only stayed a few minutes, I told her she could come on up.

However when she arrived, she wasn’t alone. Teresa had brought a friend; actually her cousin, Cathy. This set off alarm bells in my head. One non-approved guest would get me in trouble; two would get me fired. But I couldn’t leave either chick out in the cold. It was well below freezing; I’d either have to quickly let them in, or renege on my invitation and turn both away. Teresa recognized the dilemma and quickly explained she brought the cousin because she didn’t want to be out by herself so late at night. Fair enough. So I let them in.

And on second glance, I’m I did because it appeared Cathy had inherited all the feminine assets that’d completely bypassed her younger cousin. She was lovely. And to my surprise and, frankly, complete bewilderment, as I showed the girls around the studios showing stuff and explain things, Cathy flirted the whole time. It was an odd situation to be in, although once I figured out that’s what was happening, I became instantly charming and flirted back. Right in front of Teresa. I know that probably wasn’t the right thing to do. But hardly an expert in the language of the jungle and easily flattered, I just went with my instincts and ate it up. Besides, Cathy didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her cousin, either.

But after they left (too soon, if you asked me then; I mean Cathy could’ve stayed a while longer. I wouldn’t have minded that), Teresa never called me again.  Of course neither did Cathy. It took me a few days to figure it out, too. But I got the feeling the radio station walk though had been a set up. Bloods thicker than water and I think the pretty cousin set me up to show the homely cousin exactly what she was dealing with- a jerk.

Ouch.

Of course I had another theory, too- Cathy’s solicitous behavior wasn’t an act, but in the naked light of the next day, as I’d done with Teresa, she’d found me wanting.

Ouch.

It’s all ancient history now, though, and I have no idea what the real backstory is. But whatever it was, it turned out to be another of those great teachable life lessons, for both of us. Teresa learned what not to look for in a guy.

And I learned to never agree to blindly meet a listener calling the request line again, either. No matter how sweet or lovely she sounded, if I was ever again tempted to imagine love waited at the other end all I had to do was think back to my encounter with Teresa Bridgeman, and just say 'no'.

I also learned that, sometimes, being single isn’t so bad after all.

No Sweat

After weeks of an unusually chilly spring, summer has finally set up shop over Northern California. With it has come the familiar 90-plus degree days and seasonal whining from the usual suspects, those that complain about the weather no matter what time of year.  Hot enough for ya?

I like the warm weather, though, even liked working in it, although that was a long time ago. Not sure if I'd feel the same today. But there was a job I didn't mind having no matter how hot it got outside. That was the summer I worked at The Ice House.

 

It was the summer of 1975, the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at Whitworth, and the Ice House was a skating arena that’d sprouted up where Bradshaw Road and Highway 50 near Rancho Cordova  The rink is long gone now, but in the summer of 1975, it was quite the hang-out place. Teenage and college age kids were the predominant demographic, in and out, from the time the doors opened until midnight. Being in that same age group myself, had I not been getting interested in someone back in Spokane- and yet still such a social dink- there’d have been ample opportunities to reach out and maybe make new friends.

 

Though my actual job description was kind of vague- my W-2 that year listed me as "Ice Rink Worker"- whatever the title, rink management kept me busy. My hours were 10 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon and the first order of business each day was the snack bar. Until 2:00 the rink was closed to the public but active just the same; set aside for private figure skating lessons and practice time. The skaters were mostly all rich kids, and I was tasked with keeping the little darlings full of hot dogs, fries, hamburgers and soda when they came off ice. 

 

I wasn't sure how to make that happen, until being familiarized with the heat lamp. The trick was to cook up a bunch of stuff prior to the arrival of the first wave and let them bask under the magic glow of the heat lamp. Then tend to the replacements being cooked on the grill or sizzling in the deep fryer. This juggling act all was supposed to done by one person- me- and quickly introduced me to the term, multi-tasking. Once the youthful clientele began funneling through, let’s just say I was never bored.  

Each day there was anywhere from 50-75 kids to tend to. The littlest ones came in at 11, the next surge followed at 11:30 and the older kids, the teenagers, came in at noon. The little kids were too young to be anything but messy and cute (and they knew it). The middle group was sort of obnoxious (though mostly just among themselves; they seemed to like me). But they also cleaned up after themselves and weren’t a lot of trouble. However the teens were the worst. They were loud, full of themselves and snotty. (Although some of the girls managed to pull off being both snotty and flirtatious).

 

But whether it was overstimulated tweens, demanding teens, or hyper tykes, they all came in eager to eat. And working alone as cook, cashier and clean up 'crew', by the time the last mouth had been fed, I felt like I'd made lunch for half the state. After a morning knee deep in the deep fryer and greasy grill, I felt like an oily over-worked octopus. It wasn’t until around 12:45 before the last of the skating prodigy had cleared out and I could breathe a sigh of relief.

 

They’d tried my patience again, but I’d won. They were all gone and I could hear quiet again. That’s when I took a break. I poured myself a Coke and slumped down into one of the little red hard-back plastic chairs and wondered if maybe there was an easier way to make $2.50 an hour. But once I had the snack bar cleaned and closed up, I got a second wind as the more palatable part of my work day began.

It started with cleaning, binding and sharpening the skates used during the public skate sessions. Binding is just a two dollar word for a fifty cent chore: tying the skates together by size and lining them up in their correct slots for rental. The sharpening was a little more interactive. I got to wear goggles, run the skate blades over the grinding wheel and watch the sparks of friction fly. I don’t know why, but I just thought that was cool. But after that the fun really started. I got to lace up my own blades and take the ice; not to skate but clean the Plexiglas surrounding it. 

 

Before starting, I'd make a run upstairs to the d.j.'s booth. The Doobie Brothers, Elton John or some other 70's bubble gum pop played over the loudspeakers during the public skates and I’d find something I liked and put it on. The place was nearly deserted in the hour after the private lessons ended and public sessions began, so I didn’t get a lot of complaints. It was kind of a lark though- it’d be about a hundred degrees outside, but I was inside a chilled and tune-filled arena with an entire ice rink to myself. There was nothing wrong with that picture. Of course, I was also working, performing a very tedious assignment. But it was pure joy being the only skater out on that big sheet of ice.

 

Polishing the glass was a long process and I only had time to do half the job before the first public session at 2:00. I’d start with the Plexiglas panels near center ice and work my way to the center stipe on the opposite side. I’d start there and cover the other half of the rink the next day. Then start over again the next day, etc, etc. It was neither skilled labor nor very stimulating. But some of the monotony was offset by taking a couple free laps around the rink pretending to be Bobby Orr.  I polished glass until the 2:00 session began, and then helped hand out skates. Somebody else had to man the snack bar, thank God.

 

When the first afternoon session ended at 4, the Zamboni made another appearance to resurface the ice before the 5:00 session began. That’s when things got fun for me because Frank, the driver, had begun letting me ride along with him. But the ultimate workplace high came towards the end of the summer when, after pestering him enough times- can I drive it just once, please?-  Frank finally let me take the controls. After showing me how everything worked, and what I could and couldn’t touch (and cautioning me over and over that it was nothing like driving a car), he let me sit in the driver’s seat and take the Zamboni for a spin.

 

Frank was right, though, about it not handling like my car. A Zamboni maneuvers about as well as a linebacker doing ballet. It's big and clunky, doesn't move quickly or gracefully and doesn't stop very easily either. It’s like driving a flat bed truck with a two ton refrigerator strapped to it. It’s got studded tires and held the ice pretty well, as long as you weren’t going over about 5 miles an hour. Fortunately, the speedometer only goes up to ten, so speeding isn't really an option.

Almost every driver follows the same predictable routine. As the machine does its thing, you’re taught to drive the same specific pattern: two laps around the edges, then straight down the middle, turn tight and repeat till the top layer of ice surface is shaved off, and replaced by a fresh sheet of water. Total time to resurface the ice and clean up: about 15 minutes.  Then, at the rink side opening where the Zamboni is driven on and off the ice, you’re supposed to stop and dump the shavings. From there, the machine gets parked in the service entry and you go back and shovel the excess snow and squeegee the left over puddles into a drain. But Frank never helped with this part of the job, whether I was just a passenger or doing the driving. All summer long, the manual part of the work always seemed to be my job.

I only got to drive the Zamboni a couple of times and never by myself. But I banged the walls only a hand full of times; didn’t crash through anything and didn’t run anybody over. Of all the things I did weekdays that summer between 9 and 4:30, driving the Zamboni was by far the coolest. Getting paid to hang out inside The Ice House all day that summer wasn’t a bad thing, either. 

It was about the coolest summer job I ever had.