Wishing Well and Well Wishing

I don't have an elongated or adventure-filled post for you today. Geez; about time that long- winded bastard gave it a rest. Yeah, I hear you and thank you for the kind words.

But really, I haven't had a lot of spare time this week to rifle through my cranial index cards and pull out a good story to share. And nothing terribly memorable happened today or recently to comment on, either. I guess that's because the dominant theme around here lately has been how busy I've been. Work has been a real grind for the last little while, and the last thing I've wanted to do at the end of a hectic frenetic day is stare at the computer screen for another hour and try coming up with more literary hot air to bestow on cyberspace. So you'll get nothing and like it.

And I blame Jack.

No, really. My colleague, Jack, left on an extended vacation last week- a well deserved (and expensive) 15 day Hawaiian cruise- leaving our 4-man department to carry on with only three. And it's not that this can't be done, but in my line of work (radio) the work simply never stops, no matter how many hands are on deck. It doesn't stop for vacations or illness; not for rain, sleet, snow or other natural phenomena. Of course it seldom slows down whether we’re all here busting our tales or not. Short-handed or full-staffed, stiff still has to get done and deadlines still have to be met. The work is always fluid, in flux and must go on because, 24/7, the radio never goes off.

While Jack's been out, the three of us in the department not on vacation have absorbed some of what he does. And we've also had the luxury of having a former team member drop in and assist a couple hours before he goes to the other job. He got hired away but still likes hanging out with us. Go figure. So the workload has been spread out fairly evenly. But because we're all doing more and using more hours just to keep up, writing has been the last thing on my mind.

However, while I was in the shower this morning preparing for another long day, I had a revelation. Remember George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life"? When he told Clarence the Angel he wished he'd never been born? Well, as I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, this flash of brilliance hit me: what a waste of a good wish! If you're granted a wish and you've gotta wish for something, wish for a Mercedes or a date with the hot chick. Make it count! George Bailey may have been a good guy, and did have a wonderful life, but when it came to wish making he was a chump.

However, back here in the non-Frank Capra world, and on a practical level, being down a man this week has made me wish I told Jack more how much I appreciate him. He brings a lot to the table and is a good guy. But on a much larger scale his absence makes me realize how much we all matter- not just as worker-bees but as people.  And how I wish I could remember that more. We matter. Jack matters. You matter. Even I matter. Everybody's important, and not just to fill a role or take up space. God put me here for a reason, and it doesn’t really matter whether I’ve figured out just what that is yet. He certainly knows. And if my presence here at this place and time matters that much to Him, it damn well better matter to me. Right, George Bailey? And what if you or I had never been born? What would happen then? Well, since none of us are that indispensable, at least on the job site, my work would get done, assigned to some other sap…..er, I mean, soul. But my soul would be missed. I hope. Maybe? By a few other souls?

Did you ever imagine that there's a piece of cloth out in the universe that's been set aside for our purpose only. And, maybe, if we're not around to put our design on it an empty corner on life's quilt is left behind that never gets filled. And the world is a lesser place. Of course, I can’t prove any of that.  It sounds good though. But all I really wished to do here was dash off a couple quick paragraphs about nothing, to blow off some steam on a day when I was feeling overworked, stressed out and petulant. There was no declared rhyme or reason to any of the above.

Yet maybe I should get cranky more often. Though drenched in hyperbole, that life’s quilt part is pretty good. Nevertheless my simple conclusion is this: at the end of the day and in the much grander scheme of things, not only is Jack precious and irreplaceable but so am I. And so are you. Maybe not always in our own sight. But always in the Creator's. So, Jack, though it's been a little crazy here, I wish you safe travels, my friend. Hope the cruise to Hawaii has been the trip of a lifetime and that you get home tanned and rested.

And soon. Before I throw something though the window

Whitney, Me and Clive

Quick: name another National gathering, besides Thanksgiving, where the main course features both the bird and the breast. Answer: half time on Super Bowl Sunday.

But long before the intermission between the 2nd and 3rd quarters became a Burlesque show, long before the game itself stopped being enough, and long before lesser-lights like MIA flipped everyone off and Janet Jackson's titillated the nation with her faux wardrobe malfunction, super star Whitney Houston did the nearly unthinkable: gracing the event with class and dignity. People still talk about her absolutely stirring version of "The Star Spangled Banner", a 1991 pre-game rendering so rousing it was quickly put out as a radio single, actually cracking the Billboard Top 20.

Before all that though, the first time I ever heard Whitney Houston sing was in the summer of 1984. I'd just started working at KNCO in Grass Valley and on the playlist that first week was a Teddy Pendergrass single called "Hold Me", a 4 minute duet with somebody named Whitney Houston. Though credited on the label, her name was only an afterthought, listed underneath Teddy's, and in parentheses. But the first time I played it I remember thinking, Man, bag Teddy Pendergrass; give me more of that Whitney chick. What a voice. And what a sad waste of talent.

That's what I thought when the news broke of Whitney Houston’s death. However, considering her life had been spinning out of control for the last 15 years, it wasn't really much of shock at all. It’s amazing it hadn’t happened sooner. But what I also remembered about Whitney Houston was how she got me in trouble with Arista Records President Clive Davis. Well, Whitney herself didn't get me in trouble. Actually the fault was completely mine. But the ability to add future her music to KNCO's playlist in a timely manner- or lack of that ability thanks to the deaf ears living at her label- was the source of my woes. Let me explain.

After the duet with Teddy Pendergrass, Houston became a rising solo act and Arista Records released several more wildly popular singles, beginning with "Saving All My Love for You". During the next six months, "How Will I Know" and "The Greatest Love of All", quickly zoomed to the top of the charts as well, and not long after, yours truly was promoted to KNCO Music Director, a position I both enjoyed and took seriously.

 

Unfortunately, KNCO was a small station and sometimes on the short end as far as getting good record label service. Oh, we had adequate in-roads with Warner Brothers, Columbia, RCA, Atlantic and Universal.  But because we didn’t ‘report” to Billboard and Radio & Records (or, R&R)- the two behemoth industry publications that record companies and radio stations used for news and airplay information- Arista ignored us. Though we received both magazines and used them to make playlist decisions, KNCO was considered too small to be one of their reporting stations. What's a reporting station, you ask?  Nothing really except stations would do back flips to be one, especially one for R&R. R&R was the pop-chart Bible.

Here’s how it worked: the reporting station designated an in-house contact person- usually the Music Director- to call or fax once a week and "report" current songs they were playing that week. The higher the rotation and bigger the station, the more weight went into the algorithms used to tabulate a record’s chart action. And if you were one of lucky stations R&R deemed important enough to collect this data from, you were golden. Not only did a Music Director gain instant credibility and radio insider status, but it guaranteed his or her station gold standard record service from all the major labels. Forever.

So we all wanted to report to R&R.  But alas, if the radio world was the ocean then KNCO was a guppy trying to swim with the whales. And not get eaten. And even if we managed to briefly catch Billboard and R&R's attention, they'd just throw us back. Too small. However, we weren't completely overlooked; KNCO was a reporting station for The Gavin Report. Though not as significant as either of the Big Two, being a Gavin reporter got us pretty decent service from most of the other major record labels. Except Arista Records. They kept pretending we didn't exist, even though they'd received many letters of inquiry and had taken at least two of my phone calls.

The best they ever could seem to do was send a 'care package', a box of recently released singles. And that was fine; it was good for starters. But we needed on-going weekly current product to keep up with competing signals coming in from Sacramento. So the lack of consistent service was problematic because KNCO’s music heavy on adult contemporary and Arista was the label of record for much of the Adult Contemporary format. Air Supply. Carly Simon. Barry Manilow.  Kenny G. Dionne Warwick. The Eurythmics. Hall and Oates. Alan Parsons. All and were signed to Arista. Nobody listens to that stuff now but back then, those were the core artists making up more than half the weekly AC chart-lists. And at the center of that core was Whitney Houston, an act so hot she could burp and debut Top 10 with a bullet. Good for her; not so good for KNCO. 

If KNCO was going to play it- or anything else on the Arista label- I'd have to drive down to Sacramento and buy the 45 at Tower Records. Which was super annoying. Not only was it a waste of time and gas, it meant we were always lagging a week or two, or sometimes three, behind everybody else. It was a lame arrangement and I needed a better solution and one day I thought I found it.

While speaking with my contact at RCA Records, I mentioned my Arista frustration. He suggested I write Clive Davis personally and let him know about it. I had no idea who Clive Davis was, not then anyway. Of course now everybody knows him. President of the label; industry heavyweight; power broker. A record mogul. If anyone could free up the service bottleneck for me at Arista, my RCA friend said it'd be Mr. Clive Davis. So I sat down and wrote him a nice long two page letter, telling him exactly what the problem was and what I hoped he and his company could do to rectify the situation. Then I handed it off to Carolyn, our sweet and efficient front office secretary, who typed it on company letterhead and sent out over my signature.

Of course, I wrote the letter after a frustrating day that included an air shift, a couple hours of production and another trip to Tower Records and back. So the letter might have sounded slightly less than friendly and business-like. Okay, to be perfectly honest, though I didn't use one word of profanity the tone of the letter hemorrhaged attitude like a severed artery bleeds. As I wrote, the mocking cynic in me sort of leached to the surface and, I suppose, kind of went off on the guy. But it sure felt good. And later that week, I got a call from somebody in Arista's LA office. I don't remember the man's name, either, but it was clear he wasn’t very happy with me. Or else he was just a prick.

He started this way: “Is this the asshole music director for K-N-fucking C-O?” After his opening salvo, he called me some more names before demanding to know where I ever got the balls, as the Podunk music director at a Podunk radio station in a Podunk part of California, to think I could get away with sending such a nasty letter to a company president?! But before I could respond he wanted to offer some helpful, if not profanity-laced advice, should I ever decide to pull out my pen and write another letter to Clive Davis, or anyone else at Arista Records: 

"I'll make sure you fucking never work anywhere else in the fucking business, because I know a lot of fucking people and if your fucking name ever shows up someplace over the title, Music Director at any other radio station anywhere in this country, I'll make fucking sure the people in charge of that fucking radio station know all about you and what you said to Mr. Davis and anything else I can think of, even if I have to fucking make stuff up. Do you fucking understand?!"

Though impressed by the number of f-bombs the dude could squeeze into one sentence, I did understand. I also knew he was full of crap. First, my career wasn't important enough for him or anyone else to be keeping tabs on. And second there were those minor little inconveniences known as labor laws which protect people like me from even an implied restraint of employment, from people like him. And who was he anyway, besides a grade A horses’ ass? 

Heck, if Clive Davis himself wanted to call up and bark at me, that I'd take seriously. But being bawled out by a foul tempered Assistant to the Assistant West Coast Division Junior Vice President (or whatever his title was) was laughable. However, if ruining my afternoon and making me feel stupid was the main purpose of his call, then he'd succeeded. But coming from as big a company as Arista Records, I thought the intimidation tactics and threats seemed unbecoming and beneath them.  If not bad p.r.

They needed radio as much as, or more, than radio needed them. Back then radio was where you heard a song you liked for the first time. And radio was the only outlet that guaranteed so much free mass exposure for the record label's product. I told him so, too- once allowed to speak- and told him to back off. Which he finally did. He was even half way civil as we wrapped things up. But before disconnecting, the guy reiterated that Arista Records did not fucking want to hear from me again. Count on it, a-hole.

 

Of course, I knew there were better ways to get make a point or get things done. I knew my cranky letter was a boneheaded move, done in the heat of aggravation which not only hadn’t endeared me to the intended recipient, it stirred up some bad feelings. And I got busted for it. However after I told her what happened, Carolyn, who before KNCO had been secretary to one of the head honchos at Stanford University, offered some wise council. These were words to the wise which, to my Mother's dismay, would not make an enlightened and reasoned gentleman. However, they would prevent me from becoming a serial dimwit. At least, it'd make me think first before running off at the pen.

”You know, my boss at Stanford used to come across people and issues that irritated him too. So he'd go into his office and write out a not so cordial letter- worse than the one you wrote- and then tear it up. Once the venom was out, he'd then write something more measured and professional, and that was draft he turned in for me to type. So, if I could make a suggestion, the next time you want to unload on somebody, give me your second draft, first, okay?” Sheepishly, I had to agree. Carolyn's idea was spot-on and I've always been grateful to her for caring enough to speak up. And since then, when writing anyway, I've always tried to be guided by those principals, although I doubt Clive Davis actually ever saw my letter. But some overworked mid-level underling at the head office in New York probably did.

 

Added to a growing pile of other unimportant issues the label higher up’s didn't want to deal with, the New York guy likely forwarded/delegated/dumped my letter onto the poor shmuck in LA--Here, take care of this guy- who then promptly took it out on me.  And the rest is history. Except, less than a week later a two-box care package arrived at the station, addressed to me. Both were crammed full of Arista's latest releases- including Whitney Houston's-and stuff planned for release over the next several months. I was set-up for quite awhile. And after that, KNCO never lacked for product from Arista Records again. Go figure.

That was early in 1987.  It's now early in 2012, Clive Davis is still the President of Arista and still a big deal.  Hall and Oates, Manilow, Carly Simon and all the other AC greats of that time, while still heard, are now only heard on oldies stations. If I was still a Music Director, all I’d have to do to add new record is have a company I-tunes account. I could download it and have the song on the air in five minutes. And Whitney Houston is now dead; drowned in her own bathtub with a pharmacy in her system.

But, from my perspective, two constants remain: you live and learn, and sometimes the squeaky wheel really DOES get the oil.

 

Where Have All the Grown-Ups Gone?

 

As a rule, I don't use the blog to wade in on political stuff.  The blogosphere is full of folks, much smarter and more qualified than me to hash out the important and, not so important, issues of the day. But this is one of those times when the real world and an institution I still have great affection for have come into conflict and I feel compelled to run a little interference for our local Grass Valley radio station, KNCO.

I took my headphones off for the last time there in 1999. But before that I spent maybe the 15 most creative years of my professional life within its cozy confines. Being there had been a little bit kismet, a little bit right place-right time, and an awful lot of fun. And it really is an local institution, a place well-woven into the fabric of the community. On a practical level,  KNCO and life in western Nevada County kind of go hand in hand, like a long standing marriage. One's interests are the interests of the other. 

KNCO is also one of over 600 radio stations nationwide that airs The Rush Limbaugh Show daily. The relationship between Rush's show, the radio station the home town advertisers has been mutually beneficial, too. Since KNCO began airing the show in 1989, the local inventory avails between  9 a.m. and noon have seldom gone un-sold. And the ones that are don't stay that way long. In fact, many advertisers pay top dollar to have their ads placed specifically during that time period; even though, rumor has it, this Rush Limbaugh guy is a controversial opinionated blowhard.

No way. Get out of here!  Really? Yeah, really.

And you may have heard 'ol Rush really stepped in it again. Hard to fathom, isn't it? Never one to shy away from stirring the pot, the loud-mouthed talk show host couldn't resist weighing in on Georgetown law student Sandra Fluke's birth control testimony on Capitol Hill, summarizing her support of  President Obama's policy requiring health care to cover the cost of contraception in the only way Rush knows how- in your face and contentious:

"What does it say about the college coed Sandra Fluke, who goes before a congressional committee and essentially says that she must be paid to have sex? What does that make her? It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute. She wants to be paid to have sex."

Geez Louise, Rush, don't hold back. How do you really feel? Give him credit, though. In one breath he managed to insult half the people in the country. And though I may lean a little to the right of center, there is no way I can defend Rush Limbaugh characterizing Ms. Fluke, or any woman as a prostitute and a whore. In fact, had he said those things about my wife, my sister, my mother or any other woman I care about, I’m pretty sure I, too, would be very inclined to slug the man in his rather ample midsection. Them's fightin' words! 

However, the story anymore isn't so much about what Rush said, but the response to it- particularly from those who'd rather cross the street than share the sidewalk with a Republican. Sometimes it seems as if these same enlightened souls who preach 'tolerance' are the least tolerant among us, at least of those they disagree with. Particularly those who speak, or worse, dare think with a conservative slant. But this is nothing new. Even back when I was at KNCO these folks seemed to shrill the loudest.

As a former staffer, though, I feel bad about the firestorm of criticism that's engulfed the station since Rush's inappropriate comments. The reactions have often been as insulting and low, or lower, than the original offense. I still have warm feelings for the place and still have friends there, among them, the man in the middle of this mess, KNCO Station Manager, Tom Fitzsimmons. Tom's been the one who's had to field all the angry calls and hateful emails. The debate has been so intense he's been unable at times to freely move about town without being forced to fend off another, usually unpleasant, “listener”. 

Even before all this, Tom had already lost most of his hair. But the way things are going now he may be a Patrick Stewart clone before the rhubarb finally blows over. Of course, Tom's been getting it from both sides of the argument. But it’s mostly been the anti-Rush folks who've been the most vitriolic. Come on, people. Can't we disagree with each other without being so freaking disagreeable?

But not only are the flush-Rush crew bashing him for what he said (which Limbaugh himself admitted was wrong and apologized for),  they want him silenced. Censored. They want KNCO to take him off the air and, if not, are threatening local sponsors who run advertising during Rush's three hours with boycotts. And if none of that happens, then just like spoiled kids that pitch a fit when they don't get their own way, they promise to never listen to KNCO again. Well, here's a suggestion: then DON'T!

That's what the on-off switch is for. If you don't like what you hear on the radio, then use the dial to find something else that you do. It's your right. As the consumer, you're in control and have the power to decide what you will and won't listen to. However, among our other unalienable rights, the right not to be offended by what some radio talker says isn't one of them. But the right of free speech- even really stupid speech - is. So while I don't agree with, and can't defend Rush Limbaugh's gross mis-characterization of Ms. Fluke, like Voltaire once said I will defend to the death his right to say it. Well, maybe not to the death. But I might risk a sprained finger or nicked nail on the keyboard as I type. Really, though, maybe everybody should just step back, take a chill pill and take a deep breath. Since most Americans have the attention span of a 3 year old on a sugar high, this fake-roversy will probably blow over before even the current news cycle ends.

And if it doesn't and lower ratings or dwindling advertising revenue begin to out weight the benefits of keeping Rush Limbaugh on the air, then Tom and KNCO will stop airing his show. Simple as that.  And for those hoping that happens, rest assured the radio station gets your point- you don't like Rush Limbaugh.  But here's a news flash: a lot of other people, and more of them, do. And even those that don't like him listen if only to know what they need to be pissed off about. However it'll be the marketplace that decides whether Rush stays or goes; not mob rule fueled by knee-jerk emotion. As always, common business sense and intuitive reasoning will win the day.

Yes, the man may indeed be a big fat jerk. He may even have dandruff and bad breath for all we know. But he's really good at what he does- fending off the sticks and stones of opponents and drawing a huge audience that brings in lots of money for his affiliates. And in radio, that's the name of the game. Heck, I don't much care for Rush Limbaugh either. Before he came along, I was minding my own business and merrily doing my  9 a.m. to noon radio show on KNCO. But once Rush came on board, I lost my time slot. I didn't like it much then. In hindsight, I'm not so crazy about it now.

So yes, the man's a loud mouth flamethrower, a horse's rear end and a conservative lightning rod. But he's not Beelzebub, either. He's an entertainer. As are Bill Maher and David Letterman, entertainers who routinely trash women (well, conservative women) and in language as offensive and vile as what Rush said once. Yet one of the get-rid-of-Rush proponents, in a recent letter-to-the editor published in the local paper offered this pithy, if simple minded point-of-view: "Cancel the Limbaugh show permanently. Crass commercialism cannot outweigh such unacceptable conduct." Well, sir, have you ever come down off your sanctimonious high horse long enough to complain to HBO about Bill Maher or to CBS about David Letterman?  They make a lot of money and sometimes use demeaning sexist humor to make their points, too. 

Well...... we're waiting. Have you cancelled HBO? Stopped watching 'Late Night'?

I doubt it.

You see, letter writing whiner, nobody likes a hypocrite and the double standard really dilutes your credibility. Which is why KNCO probably isn't going to remove Rush from the air. But they might take you a lot more seriously if, when guys like Maher and Letterman drag somebody like Sarah Palin's name through the mud, you'd lather up the same lynch mob mindset as you do over a Limbaugh misspeak. I'm no Sarah Palin fan and I don't know everything. But I do know that calling her the 'c' and 'b' words on national TV is unfunny and wrong, on any level.

And without this so-called crass commercialism you speak of, KNCO wouldn't be able to pay its bills, pay its people, be there during local emergencies (like snow days and wildfires), wouldn't be there to offer up countless hours of free airtime to promote local charities and events, or provide coverage of Nevada Union and Bear River High School football and basketball games which, everybody agrees, they love. It's all brought to you by crass commercialism.

But again, if you don't want any of that, then stop listening. Except for listener supported networks, local radio is a free service that you can take or leave at your pleasure. Nobody's twisting your arm. But let’s try and keep things in perspective- KNCO exists to serve the community, but will cease to exist if it doesn't make a profit. And Rush Limbaugh is a means to that end. Period. So please, if his three hours aren't your cup of tea, then do my friend, Tom, and KNCO a favor, and don't listen between 9 and noon. And lighten up. There, I feel much better.

Oh. Before I end my rant and, overlooked by most, though Rush Limbaugh's analogy was flawed his point wasn't. Taxpayers shouldn't have to foot the bill for a coed's contraception. Though she didn't deserve to have her character attacked on over 600 radio stations, it shouldn't be forgotten that Sandra Fluke is a 30 year old graduate student working towards her law degree, and a Democratic Party activist. Neither which are bad things. But she's not some naive wide-eyed college kid fresh out of high school. And she's no Joan of Arc. Ms. Fluke knew exactly what she was doing when she went to Capitol Hill. 

But being 30 and in law school, would I be mistaken to assume she's also bright enough to figure out how to prevent a pregnancy? For example, at Walmart or Target, she could buy the inexpensive oral contraceptive Tri-Sprintec for just $4 for a 28-day supply. Total cost, assuming continuous use for three full years (including summer break): about $150.  Or she could just tell her boyfriend to use a Trojan. Or perhaps the simplest solution might be for Sandra to stop whining and take responsibility for her own life and actions. 

Ya know, kinda like what grown-ups should do.

A Friend Indeed

One late 80's August afternoon I received a call from an old friend.

When we worked together at KNCO, John Cullen had been in sales. I was in programming. In radio, those two departments generally have different agendas and often aren't exactly on the same page. Kind of like a tabby and a terrier having to share the same food bowl, ccasioanlly there's conflict. Nevertheless, John was one of the first friends I made after moving to Grass Valley. A year into our friendship, though, John and KNCO had parted company. And it'd been twice that long since we'd last spoken. So hearing from him out of the blue sort of caught me by surprise. But as we caught up on each other's lives it was like we hadn't missed a beat, carrying on as if we'd just seen each other yesterday.

 

However, John did have a reason for calling, other than shooting the shit and eventually, 15 minutes into the conversation, he finally got around to it.

 

”Hey, I need a place to stay and was wondering if I crash at your place tonight.”

 

Pregnant pause.

 

It was Friday, but it wasn’t like I had any big plans; I never had big plans in those days. I did have to pull an early Saturday air shift meaning a 5 a.m. wake-up time. Plus, living alone and a long way from town, I didn’t generally have house guests. Unless it was a chick- and by then the prospects of that ever happening had completely dried up- why would I want anyone to stay overnight with me?  But he said it was only for the night and i tmight be kind of fun. Why not? If John was all right with me going to bed by 11 or so, then being my house guest was all right with me. So it was settled. Almost.

"Oh, there's just one more thing. I don't have a car so can you give me a lift?”

 

“Sure, I'm about to leave for the day anyway. Where are you?”

 

After a rather lengthy pause, John finally responded. “Jail.”

Now the pokey wasn't the first place I'd guess he'd be calling from. But knowing John, it wouldn't have been the last either. He was a bit of a scoundrel.

 

”Oh and I don't have any money for bail either. Can you float me a loan?”

 

The question produced another uncomfortable pause. It's not that I minded bailing him out. I just needed a moment to think about letting a felon sleep under my roof.

But John was a friend and needed my help. When I was new in town and new on the job, he’d taken me under his wing. He was always someone I could count on. And after all the hours he'd spent listening to me when I was homesick and heartsick, I felt I probably owed him. “I'll be right down. Don't go anywhere” I joked and John chuckled. But I'm not completely convinced he thought it was funny. A half hour later and with my checkbook 300 dollars lighter, John and I walked out of the Nevada County Jail. But it wasn’t until we were in the car, with the doors closed and driving away before he confessed his crime.

”DUI. And they've impounded my car.”

 

Like most good salespeople, John’s social skills were above par; whether coaxing a client into another week of spots or charming a lady into a drink after work hours. That first part served him well. The second, as a married man, not so much. It created a festering rift at home the entire time we worked together and sometime in the intervening two years since, his wife finally had enough. She left him and filed for divorce. John was back in town now, just to see his kids. “She knew I was coming, but took them to her parents this weekend and didn't tell me. When I showed up at the house last night, all I found was her note. A freaking note.”  He didn’t sound angry though. He sounded really sad. "So I went out and got sloshed, got pulled over, and became a guest of the County.”

As John's remorse hung in the air and I felt bad for him. We still had a far distance to drive, though, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep talking it out. When he didn’t say anything else, for what seemed like an eternity, I decided to change the subject and asked how he was making a living. ”Well, I'm in Stockton now, doing RV sales, making top commission. I've got a new girlfriend, we’re talking marriage and, except for last night I think I’m doing all right.” The particulars were different, but listening to how he described it it didn’t sound like his life was much different from how it’d been at KNCO.

 

There wasn't much food in the house so I stopped to buy some groceries. John wanted a steak but didn't have much money on him so offered to cook if I'd buy. I was hungry and would've settled for peanut butter or mac and cheese. But if John wanted to make a real dinner for us, that was okay by me. So we had rib-eyes a-la Cullen and he even cleaned up after. We watched some tube and talked a little, but by 10:30 I had to go to bed, promising to be quiet when I left. But John wanted to come and hang out with me at the radio station. "Like old times", he said. Crap. I didn't want him or anyone else hovering around for six hours. Not while I was working. But he insisted. So when I left for work next morning at 5:15, I didn't leave alone.

 

 He did make himself useful, though. After borrowing 5 bucks John walked down the street to a mini mart and brought back a box of donuts for breakfast. So he wasn't a complete nuisance. The rest of the time he read the morning paper, watched TV in the news room and left me alone. But at 11:30 he began to get a little antsy. “I need to get out of here. I don't want to be seen by anyone or have anyone seeing me.” The shift change was coming up at noon, but Steve Ramsey, the guy on after me, would be coming in at any minute. John hadn't even met him, but didn’t want to and didn't want to hang around the station anymore, either. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

 

That seemed like a good idea. While I wasn’t aware of any rules prohibiting allowing bailed-from-jail ex-employees in the office on a weekend, it didn’t mean there wasn’t one. So I flipped John my keys and suggested he wait in the car. When I found him there at 12:05, John was sound asleep and the inside of my car reeked of cigarettes. A long time smoker, John had refrained at the house, but after over 12 hours without one couldn't fight the urge anymore to light up. At least he'd put it out before dozing off, though the butt was still smoldering in the ashtray.

 

I tried to be quiet when I got in, but he woke up and slowly stretched “Good morning”, he greeted, sleepily. When I reminded him it was after noon, he handed the keys back and laughed. ”Us jailbirds have no concept of time”. I didn't know if he was really joking or speaking from more than one experience. ”But hey, I have one more favor to ask.”  Another one? Well, he was still technically my guest, so...okay.

 

”There's a bus leaving for Reno at 1:30. Can I borrow 80 bucks for the fare?  Don't worry. See this?" John unfolded a scrap of paper with $425 written on it. "I'm keeping a tab on what I owe you. For bailing me out, dinner, the bus fare, the donuts and the inconvenience of putting me up for a night I figured that amount should cover it. That sound okay?” Sure, but I wondered why Reno?

 

“I’ve got a big RV buyer meeting me over there and he and I are going to sign some papers on a new vehicle. I'll pay you from the commission.” John had always been a straight shooter with me, had never been untruthful, and there was no reason to doubt him now. Of course I'd help him get to Reno and, of course, whenever he could reimburse me would be great. So we had a quick lunch at McDonald's (I paid) and at 1:30 I saw him get on an eastbound Greyhound to Reno. And I never saw him again.

 

Or the 425 dollars.

 

I have no idea what John did in Reno or if he ever even got there. I don't know if John really worked in Stockton, really had a girlfriend, or ever got arrested again. I guess I really didn't know anything about the guy at all. The only thing I know for sure is I never got my money back. But I swear, same circumstances again, same guy even- even knowing he'd mooch and welsh on me- I'd probably do the same thing. I just wouldn’t be able to say no.

Ignoring what Shakespeare wrote and my mama taught- neither a borrower or lender be- I’d resort to what I know best, being a soft touch, a roll over, an easy mark. The living embodiment of a sucker born every minute.