First Day Jitters, Part 2

2:30.

 

That was the time of day showing on the Pepsi neon clock staring down at me in the KPND studio. I was still very much on the clock, too, very much on my own and very much wishing to be anywhere but there because I'd gone past the point of no return. The migraine express had already pulled into the station.

Anyone who's ever had a migraine knows this feeling, too. At first, it seems harmlessly off in the distance; like an approaching storm, miles away and easy to ignore. But it keeps creeping closer until the headache is suddenly overhead and raining a fierce pain inside your skull. And once the process starts, there’s not a damn thing you can do to slow it down or stop it. You just have to live through it. So that's what I was doing- trying like hell to just live through it.

There was a medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but it was empty except for somebody’s toothbrush and a box of Band-Aids. But having suffered through enough of these vice-grip headaches before, even if I'd found a bottle of aspirin I knew it wouldn't help. It was too late. A frosty Coke from the soda machine looked inviting and might have helped, too.  But my pockets were empty and by choosing to roller skate to work, had left both the car and spare change in its ash tray at home, rendering both items absolutely useless.

 

Damn! If I didn't get some caffeine or something to eat soon I was going to die. Over the drum beat of the migraine the inner-dialog in my head played a continuous refrain:  If you'd just eaten some breakfast, none of this would be happening!!  Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, it was one of those day late, dollar short arguments that simply didn't matter anymore. The headache had me firmly in its grip and escape would be on its terms and timetable, not mine.

So my big first day in Sandpoint was going down in flames. Increasingly distracted by my state of not-so-well-being, I'd turned a hoped for triumph into sure defeat. From a smooth morning to a nothing-going-right afternoon, everything was falling apart. I was a wreck- jittery, shaky and seeing stars as a non-stop freight train roared right between and behind my eyes. It was like suffering thought a really bad hangover, only without the good time that came before. However I didn’t want to be a nuisance right out of the gate and held out as long as I could before taking some action.

At 3:00, already an hour into an open-ended overtime, and with no sign of another soul walking in to bring this awful first day to a merciful close, I finally reached out to my new boss, John Goes. Sandpoint, we have a problem. John was on the air at KSPT but fortunately took my call.  He was very sympathetic, which was nice. But more than an apology I wanted to know what he was going to do about it. Before I could find out, though, he put me on hold to back announce a record and read the weather forecast. You’re kidding. Come on!

 

A minute later I was no longer a blinking light on the KSPT phone bank and John came on the line wondering, like me, why the 2- 7 p.m. guy (Mike Leighton) hadn’t shown up. How the hell would I know? But he urged me to hang tight and promised to get Mike or somebody there “pronto”.  However, pronto turned out to be a little longer than what the word implied. And with each passing moment, my head kept throbbing, deeper and harder. It was a slow, crushing, piledriver-like pounding, in sync with the pulsing of my heart. It wouldn’t let up.

 

I stayed in the on- air studio as much as I could and kept the overhead fluorescents off because the semi-darkness was easier on my eyes. And somehow, through seemingly endless 3-5 minute intervals, I continued to cue and start records; then sink back in the chair and pray for death.  It was agony.  So how's that first day workin' out for ya? But wait, there's more. Still to come was a full-blown migraine's added twin attractions: the always exciting queasiness and nausea. 

 

The sickening feeling in my stomach had been underway since getting off the phone with John, mild at first, but getting worse. Yet I fantasized it was only my imagination and would soon go away. However the sensation wasn't make believe, and soon it felt like my tummy was preparing to lurch from its holding place, flop to the floor and squirm like a dying fish at the end of a hook. And expect me to pick it up and tuck it back in. If there was a misery index, I'd hit the daily double-- a constricting torturous headache backed by a profound desire to puke. It doesn't get much better than that. 

 

Yet during intermittent moments of rare cognate thinking, I considered putting mind over matter and just push myself through the pain. Ya know, suck it up. Be brave. And though I'd like to fool you into thinking I sloughed the whole thing off and worked through it like a champion, I didn't. I was a shaking, miserable 132 pound mass of barely functioning self-pity. Poor me. But I'm not sure even Charles Atlas would've made it through that awful afternoon stoic and un-distracted. Big muscles are no cure for a big headache.  By 3:30 that day, he'd have been a whiny weenie just like me. So there. Neener, neener, neener.

Sitting in the control room, though, with the overheads mostly off and feeling sorry for myself was a terribly unproductive use of time because it merely underscored what I already knew- that I was alone in a strange new place and feeling miserable. Big deal. Who at one time, hasn't? So then I tried not to think at all. But I kept imagining the horror if John couldn’t roust up a relief person until God knows when. Was I going to have to pass out? Stay there all night until Pat Nations found me curled up on the floor, dead, tomorrow? Or maybe I could just take matters into my own hands now, find a sharp knife and lop off my head. It’d certainly make the pain stop. However, the only sharp objects within reach were a ball point pen and turntable stylus. Offing myself like that would take forever, like death by a thousand paper cuts. Damn! And since I didn't have all day and couldn't leave the building, I did the only thing I could do and continued working.

But that meant I had to concentrate, which made my head feel like it wanted to explode even more.  But I kept pulling and playing music, and talking three times an hour. I suppose I could've bagged the talking part but it was my first day on the job. I needed to prove I could do things right. I had to do them right! So I tried tricking my brain into thinking everything was going to work out. That I just had to hang in there. Help was on the way, right? But even the most rudimentary diversionary tactics were short lived, because forcing myself to remain lucid during those brain-piercing moments of radio activity was like forcing myself to enjoy un-anesthetized major surgery.

John Goes didn’t call back till five minutes of 4. He offered to come over when his KSPT air shift ended but that wouldn't be until 6. Sandpoint's a small town, but it'd still take another ten minutes or more of travel time. It didn't matter though. By then I was so sick, I wasn’t sure I could remain conscious through John's phone call, let alone wait two more hours and fifteen minutes to see him in the flesh. Then he suddenly had an epiphany-- Mike Leighton had asked for the day off. John forgot. So NOBODY was scheduled to work that Monday afternoon between 2 and 7 p m, the black hole of time between when my shift was supposed to end, and Jennifer White's evening shift would begin.  At least John assured me she’d be on time because she didn't have the day off. Yippee!

So, could I hold out till then? Umm, lets see…how can I put this? NO! 

Jeez Louise, John. You make the schedule. You grant days off.  How do you not know who's here and who’s not? Are you a moron?  Considering the frame of mind I was in, I might even have blurted those things out. But listening seemed so much easier than conversing,  which saved me from foolishly popping off. And now that he’d figured out the problem, John offered another quick apology and one more promise to fix it, ”pronto”. Click. "Okay, thanks”, I moaned after he'd already hung up.

Then I shut my eyes and shook my head, though not too hard as rattling its contents only produced more suffering agony. But I needed to cut John some slack on this one. Nobody showed up at 2 because - in John's world anyway- nobody had to.  He was operating under a business-as-usual, normal schedule day. Besides, I knew John was a good guy. He's human. He made a mistake. Things happen. Anyway, I didn't know the guy well enough yet to start giving him grief. But….

But this couldn’t be happening, not again. It was like a bad hangover, Apple FM all over again. I’d already lived through a bad ending there and had no stomach for a bad beginning in Sandpoint. The mere thought was soul sucking. But with help still not on the way, I found the energy to lift my head and helplessly curse at the ceiling.

“Dammit! I’m working for another Don Ryan!!!”

 

Stay tuned for Part 3.