Playing Post Office, Part 1

Once I had a secret love. Well, not really. But I once had a secret admirer.

It happened during the final few weeks of my stay at KSPT in Sandpoint. It'd been a cold, mostly solitary all work-no play winter for me in North Idaho and with Valentine's Day on the way, the forecast remained unchanged: chilly, both inside and out. But one afternoon a few days before February 14, something happened that, for the moment anyway, rekindled hope within the cockles of my starved-for-attention little heart: I received a letter from an unknown admirer.

However, I almost missed it altogether.

On the day it came, unhappy with my program director- who was even more unhappy with me- and in a hurry to avoid crossing paths with him, I just tossed the red envelope on my desk- with a stack of other unopened mail- and left the building. I went home without reading it; then forgot about it; and then lost it, probably dumped in the trash can by accident. Oh well. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.

But a few days later another piece of mail arrived, inside another red envelope, addressed the same way and written in the same hand. At least, I assumed it was the same hand. I couldn’t say for sure however, because I hadn’t really examined it the first time. The persistent writer, though, having deduced I'd somehow missed reading version # 1, repeated whatever they'd penned before and in version # 2, assured me not to be frightened or put off. "I'm a friend" she wrote. At least I guessed it was a she. It sure looked like chick’s penmanship.

 

But what if I was wrong? What if I got all worked up over this mystery person only to learn she was a he.  Ewww. No worries, though. The handwriting was perfect and flowing, just short of calligraphy. And no guy writes like that. The writer had taken her time with each letter and word, and upon opening it, the envelope released a sweet scent of perfume. No. No way was this from a guy.

And she did sound friendly, and buttered me up with accolades about my work on the air. So I guess it's true: the best way to a dj's heart is through his ego. Anyway, the writer felt I not only had a good voice, but kind of "sexy", too. Which was a very nice thing to say, nicer to read, and I appreciated the compliment. But there was also no denying the broadcast gods hadn't exactly blessed me with the pipes of a true radio deep throat. In fact it amazed me that, five years into my career, I was still getting paid real money to sit behind a mic, spin records and talk on the air.

 

It amazed me because I really didn't have the classic voice for radio. It was, to be frank, less than state of the art.  If there was a ranking system for such things, my voice probably would fall somewhere between “barely adequate” and "sucks", and carry all the sex-appeal of a pubescent duck with a sinus infection. So I was living a lark and my admirer was probably just blowing smoke. But whether she was or not, her words flattered me.

However, I knew first hand that 99 times out of a hundred, getting involved with a radio groupie- which was my initial perception of the letter writer- never ends well. I'd already been down that misguided road before with a KGA listener back in Spokane. (see blogpost 6.18.11; Life Before Match Dot Com). Somebody is disappointed, gets hurt or both. Or goes into hiding. And though her correspondences were kind of fun, I felt I needed to protect myself and decided to move on without responding. But she wouldn't let me.

Over the course of the next few weeks, more letters came. Of course, I was under no obligation to read any of them and could've tossed them all in the trash unopened, like the first one.  But as much as I knew I shouldn't, curiosity got the best of me and I eagerly tore each one open to see what she'd written this time. With each new missive, she heaped more praise on my morning show and revealed a little more about herself, too. And each time, it felt like I was slowly being reeled in. And soon I didn't care.

I learned she was 21, had brown hair, usually tied in a pony-tail, was slender, and not too tall.  But heck, even in a small town that could be a reasonable description of a lot of people. She also liked to swim, liked baseball and most other sports, too. But that wasn't much help either. So I had no idea who she was. Yet she seemed to know me and where I lived, too. The letters had stopped coming to the radio station and were now showing up in my mail box at home. But how did she know my address?  On one hand, this was a little disturbing. Was she stalking me, watching my every move? On the other hand it was flirtatiously exciting too. Whoever she was, the girl had spent a lot of time testing the water, teasing about herself and learning what she could about me.

 

Even without reading between the lines, I got the impression my new ‘friend’ was both fairly interested and possibly quite available; which, of course, left me wanting to know more.  But she never included a return address, never said what she did for a living, didn't leave a phone number or even accidentally mention her name. The girl was still a mystery and I was still clueless. There was simply nothing to identify her, except the handwriting which, by that time, I’d have recognized anywhere. Clearly, the only way I was ever going to meet this person- or even know more about her- was on her terms. So the game was on.

 

In the next letters, my admirer commented on my always long hair. She suggested it might be, perhaps, getting a little scraggly. She wrote: “You’d look so much cuter if it was cut. I mean, you look fine but with shorter hair, I don't know. I might not be able to stay in hiding much longer. Haha!"  Ha-ha, my foot. How in the world did she know what my hair looked like?! Wait a minute--was this person really my Mother masquerading as a 21 year-old honey? Just to get me to cut my locks? If so, I was going to disavow the family and change my name and never open another piece of mail again.

However, for the moment I decided Mom wasn't that devious and chose to call my secret friend’s bluff and visit a barber; which I wouldn't do voluntarily for Mom under any circumstance. Or  anyone else, for that matter. For my new mystery friend, though, I was willing to give it a go. As an act of good faith I'd take a chance, get my hair chopped and put the ball back in her court. So, the next morning I pulled into the parking lot at KSPT with a considerably shorter mane.

My work day started with the 5 a.m. shift and I arrived at the radio station at about a quarter till.  It was early March and still quite dark when I got there. I was alone and nearly invisible at that time of day, and nobody could've possibly seen what I looked like when I let myself in. Yet at a quarter to 6, when I passed through the lobby to refill my coffee mug, I noticed a letter- in a red envelope- on the floor by the front door. It'd been shoved underneath. It could have only come from one person.And in it my friend wrote, “Your haircut looks great! It means a lot that’d you’d do that for me. A lot of guys wouldn't. So thanks! You’ve just earned some extra points. Love, your secret admirer.”

Extra points? And "love", too? Wow. Right then, she had me. Maybe I was being an idiot, but she had me!  However the girl was so crafty and I was still so in the dark. And not because I started my work day at 4:45 a.m. Reveal yourself, girl!  The whole thing was a lot of fun, but oh so frustrating, too. The unanswered questions were killing me, including the latest one- how'd she know I'd cut my hair? I hadn't been outside in daylight and nobody in the office had seen me yet. And how did she arrive at the station in the dark, creep to the front door, and slide her letter underneath it without me seeing or hearing anything?!

 

To spy on me like that, she'd had to have been parked someplace close and using binoculars. Then sneak into the parking lot and, using the pre-dawn shadows as cover, tiptoe up the steps of the porch, leave the letter and run away. I'd glanced out the window once or twice to check the sky conditions, but except for cars racing by out on the highway, I hadn't seen one living thing or any unmoving or suspicious vehicles. So how’d she do all that and get away with it?? Apparently this was some sort of grown-up version of passing notes in class. Except I had no way to pass back.

 

Unless she made a mistake- which seemed highly unlikely - my nameless friend had all the power and leverage. It didn't matter what I thought or wanted her to do; SHE wasn't going to let anything out of the bag until she was good and ready. So who was this mystery girl? Was I ever going to meet her? Was true happiness for me in Sandpoint, at last, just one more postage stamp away?

 

We'll soon find out as answers are uncovered next time in the case of "The Zip Code Romance", right here in this blog. Same blog time, same blog channel...