Holiday? WDOA!
At the AM Radio Christmas party...
I first went on the air July 4, 1986 on legendary New Jersey freeform station WFMU. For many years I was an unpaid volunteer there, learning how to do entertaining radio on the cheap. My first paid radio gig was at the same place, as glorified receptionist and all-around-office help. Then there was a detour into the “real world” as I sought a job that could actually pay my bills. I spent years in the telemarketing department of a paper company not unlike Dunder-Mifflin in “The Office.” Years later I returned to WFMU and served as Operations Director. In conjunction with our Engineer, I built studios, fixed gear and was on call 24/7/365 to run out to the transmitter site in West Orange whenever something went wrong, which was often.
When that gig ended I took a freelance Audio Engineer job in the New York Bureau of NPR. I schlepped all over the tri-state area with a Marantz cassette recorder (later, a Sony DAT recorder), microphones and all the other gear needed to do split-track interviews, gather natural sound and actualities and anything else needed. The skills I’d acquired cutting tape and mixing from multiple reel-to-reel decks at WFMU soon landed me in the NPR NY studios, putting together complicated pieces for national-level shows like “All Things Considered,”“Morning Edition” and “Weekend Edition.” While I loved the job, it represented the same problem as the WFMU gigs: its freelance, sporadic nature proved to be incapable of bringing in enough scratch to support me. I went looking for another job in radio and eventually applied to be Operations Manager at a commercial AM Oldies station (WDOA, for our purposes) in Teaneck, New Jersey. The pay was more than sufficient to cover my rent and other expenses but I went through hell to get the job. Two elaborate interviews, a month of waiting, all sorts of discussions about my background, my experience, what my responsibilities would be, etc. I was eventually hired to look after the equipment, work with the engineer to keep things in operating order and do some production work with the air staff – things in which I was interested. But my job quickly turned into something else entirely. I became the de-facto receptionist and Man Friday. I answered the phone, opened the mail and worked directly for the Sales Department creating pamphlets and flyers touting the benefits of advertising with WDOA. I got nowhere near any equipment, did absolutely no production and quickly realized I was royally screwed unless I could make it to the New Jersey unemployment threshold, which was ninety days on the job. But first came the WDOA Office Christmas party…
Because I was broke and couldn’t even afford to put gas in my car, I accepted a ride to the party with one of the on-air jocks – Darren. We climb into his mid-80’s Mustang Convertible and quickly get to the fancy restaurant in River Edge where the party is being held. I walk in and am pleasantly surprised to see it’s actually a sit-down dinner for the entire staff. Classy.
We kill some time at the bar where Al – another of the aging jocks – is doing magic tricks. I quickly down two gin and tonics and we’re called to our private room for the meal. I hit the bathroom first. When I get to our room the only available seat is to the left of the station owner’s wife, the one I dubbed “The Dragon Lady” for her imperious attitude. Dear God. She seems like a nice enough woman but she involves herself with everything in the office, to the detriment of all. She constantly changes her mind as to what she wants. In the middle of one project she’s labeled “Urgent!” she hits you with another that has to be started RIGHT NOW. Her son, the Emergency Room Physician who stepped in to run WDOA while his father, the owner, recuperates from various medical issues, is constantly asking her to “Stay out of it and let these people do their jobs.” Her untreated mental disorder has other ideas. There isn’t one thing I’ve begun that isn’t changed umpteen times based on her whims and mood.
Everyone else is seated, fifteen or so of them, on both sides of two long tables set in a “V”. Just to entertain myself as I sidle to my seat, I do the whole Yosemite Sam “Excuse me, pardon me…” routine. Then I’m pinned in. To my immediate right is SHE. To her right is HE, her husband – the radio veteran, a man who had a Mexican border-blaster station. Someone who I’ve been longing to engage in conversation about his long career.
The Dragon Lady is wearing an outfit that makes her look like a Baked Alaska. I lie and tell her it’s lovely and she thanks me profusely in her overly-dramatic way: “Thank you. Thank you. You’re very nice. Thank you so much. Thank you. That was nice of you to say. Thank you.” She thanks me so many fucking times I just want to yell “No - THANK YOU! THANK YOU A THOUSAND TIMES!!!”
She leans over, whispers to me, gossiping about the morning man: “Why doesn’t Al have his fiancé with him? What’s wrong with her? He’s such a nice man! She wants to go off to Las Vegas. What’s wrong with her?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Poor Al.” I taste the pasta. Excellent. Sun-dried tomato farfalle in a wonderful vodka sauce. I dig in while trying shoot a question past Dragon Lady to her husband:
“Is it true you put Wolfman Jack on the air?” The husband begins to answer but Dragon Lady interrupts him. “And Al is so talented, don’t you think?”
“Ummm… uh-uh.” I swig my red wine. Then I sip some Pellegrino. Not two feet away Al is performing magic tricks. He works children’s parties. He does sleight of hand. Up-close magic. I love it because one of the first things I remember wanting to be was a magician. I got as far as buying TV Magic Cards.
Al’s a damn good magician. He’s got an excellent line of patter. I like him. He’s a diabetic and has been known to pass out in the parking garage. He gets disoriented when his blood sugar drops. He has a great radio voice, a really classic set of pipes. But you have to watch him and make sure he eats. Or he collapses.
I watch him fan out a deck of cards. The Dragon Lady taps my shoulder again: “And what about poor Ellen? You think they took her mother off life support?” Ellen’s skipped the Christmas Party. Her elderly mother’s in a coma.
“I don’t know.” I move on to the salad. A classic Caesar, every ingredient fresh and flavorful. I chew quickly and try to get another question in to the old man.
“Do you have any airchecks from the nineteen-fifties?”
“Sure! We have all that at home...” SHE answers, then asks “And what about Doria? Isn’t she just the best? Look at her! Look how nice she looks!” I look over at the Sales Director. Jesus Christ on a bike. She looks like a deflated punchball. Her skin is the color of bandages and she’s wearing a sequined top, shooting off light in a million directions. Worse, she’s been acting friendly toward me all night. Very insincere, very unsettling. Doria is an ass-kisser of a caliber I’ve yet to experience (and I’ve known world-caliber brown-nosers). She works with surgical precision, smiling no longer than necessary, laughing when advisable, praising when desirable. Every act carefully calculated to make the right people like her. She’s totally incapable of being in the moment or being real. She’s a powdered carcass. Doria’s husband sits alongside, laughing like a hyena. He shovels pasta in his piehole while Doria gets up to make her big presentation.
“And for the two of you, because you are the BEST people in the world to work for and WDOA is the best station to work for, we all got together and got you THIS!”
I didn’t “get together” - she joined me up. She came to me just yesterday, stuck that her face too near mine, whispered “We got them something - you know, a gift. For tomorrow. It’s got an old-timey microphone on top.”
“Huh?” I whispered back, thinking What the HELL are you talking about?!
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later. I got them a gift from all of us. Everyone’s putting in ten dollars.” Everyone? Me too?
“I won’t have it until payday.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get it from you then.” Crap. What if I don’t like what she got them? What if it’s some stupid piece of garbage? Am I obligated to pay?
Doria produces a misshapen, poorly wrapped box, plops it down in front of the two of them. “Oooh!” coos the Dragon Lady… “Look at this, dear! What do you think it is?” Her husband shakes his head, annoyed.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you open it up?”
She turns to me, repeats the question: “What do YOU think it is?”
“A human head?” She frowns. “The head of your enemy?” She laughs.
Doria continues. “This is from all of us – because you are the best station owners ever.” She helps Dragon Lady pull the wrapping from the box. Their painted talons tear and shred, open the top, toss tissue paper aside, finally revealing – TA-DA! – a trophy with an “old-timey” microphone on top. Doria hoists it for all to see. Oohs and Aaahs all around. I look at it and think What the deuce? I butter some bread.
Doria can’t help herself. She grabs the trophy, puts on her bifocals. “Let me read the inscription… TO THE BEST STATION OWNERS EVER. FROM ALL OF US AT WDOA.” Everyone claps. Dragon Lady and her husband beam. “Look at that, honey!” she says. Doria hands the husband the trophy. He examines it. In case he can’t figure out what that is on top, Doria points it out for him. “It’s an old-timey microphone!” She is beyond content.
The trophy is passed around for all to see. It’s a nice job, for a cheap plastic trophy. Such a tacky gift. A trophy from all of us that none of us knew anything about. It doesn’t look worth more than sixty bucks. Doria’s collecting ten dollars from twenty-two people. What’s she going to do with the extra $120?
“How old do you think Al is?” The trophy moment has passed. Dragon Lady is playing a new game I call How old?
“I don’t know…” I dig into my newly-arrived salmon. This is the BEST salmon I’ve ever tasted. “…forty-two, forty-three?”
“Really? Forty-two? And Dan? How old is he?”
I look over at our afternoon guy. He’s got bulging eyes. I hadn’t been on the job a week when he led me into the studio, very seriously. “See this?” he said, pointing to a red button on the console. “If anything ever happens to anyone on the air, push this.”
“What does it do?”
“It switches the computer on.” The computer is loaded with programming: songs, commercials, IDs, PSAs, announcements, etc. It’s assembled days in advance and usally broadcasts 7 PM until 6 AM.
“More people should know about this button...” Dan says. It isn’t until weeks later I find out about his bum ticker. “Enlarged heart.”
I guess Dan’s age: “Fifty? Forty-nine? I don’t know.” I fill my fork with salmon, raise it to my mouth. Dragon Lady grips my forearm. “And Bill? What’s his age?” What the...? Will she really make me guess the age of everyone at the table? Bill’s our Program Director, earning sixty-five grand a year. For God--knows-what. “Thirty-nine, forty?” I lift my fork again.
“And Roger? How old does he look to you?”
“Forty-one, two?” I still can’t get the fork in my mouth.
“And Brianna?”
“Forty.” I stop hemming and hawing. Maybe I can chew some fish between questions.
“And Ben?”
“Fifty-three.” Chew.
“And Doria?”
“Thirty-two.” Chew, chew.
“Darren?
Darren Drucker, on the air between Al and Dan, is roaring drunk on free drinks. A cop, were he to meet Darren on the way home tonight, might write in his official report, “Visibly drunk.” The cop might also note Darren’s slurred speech, the eyelids at half-mast, the drunkard’s deliberateness. Darren’s my ride home. Right now his head is bobbing like an ear of corn on the stalk.
“You okay, Darren?” I call to him, across the table. He squints his eyes at me, frowns.
“Yesh. Of coursh.”
Others notice, too. I’m embarrassed for him. Except it’s the Office Christmas party and we’re all getting drunk, right? The Dragon Lady’s son said to me earlier “Don’t worry about getting home if you don’t feel like it. We’ll put you up at a hotel. Or get you home somehow.” It was a touching gesture. I saw myself ordering a nice Lincoln Town Car for the ride back to work.
Al’s doing magic tricks again, over dessert. He does one card gag too many, loses the order of the spiel, the sequence of the cards. The whole thing is thrown off and crashes to a halt. Everyone razzes him. “Maybe you should practice more at home.” the station owner offers. Everyone laughs. Al is visibly concentrating now, re-shuffling the cards, trying to salvage the trick. He keeps up the patter but it’s all just mechanics now. We’ve seen the man behind the curtain. There is silence. He tries to cover with a joke, “I asked Fred if he was getting bald. He said ‘Not as much as I’d like to’.” The joke settles like a wet fart. I drink my coffee.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” asks the doctor of Darren. “I’m FINE!” he insists. “You sure? I can call you a car. It’s okay.” Darren’s annoyed.
“I said I’m fine. I’m fine!” He doesn’t look fine. Everyone in the room knows he’s thoroughly stewed. Darren’s bundled up, ready to go. The doctor makes one last try. “We can put you in a hotel. It’s no problem.” I picture myself in some nice Holiday Inn room, free cable, room service.
“Let’s leave.” Darren says. I turn to the doctor, shrug. The look of concern on his face is surprising. Somehow, I’m following Darren out, saying “Goodnight!” as I go. We’re walking out to his car and Darren blows off steam. “I thought I’d NEVER get out of there!” He asks me for a cigarette. I tell him I don’t smoke. Apropos of nothing he says, “I bet you’ve done drugs.” He’s trying to be hip with me. I’m still not sure why I don’t just go back inside and take the doctor up on his offer. For some reason I’m more worried about embarrassing Darren than possibly getting killed on the roadway. Schmuck! I’m going to die on some rain-slicked road just to save someone else’s face. I’m mumbling to myself while Darren tries to figure out how to get the wipers off INTERMIITTENT. “Fuck!” he says, flicking one switch after another. “Fuck. Where IS it?!” I sit there noticing the lack of a supplemental restraint on the passenger side. This is no Volvo. To pass the time, I talk about cars.
“What year is this thing?”
“Let’s see – bought it ten years ago and it was two years old.”
“An ‘87?”
“Yeah.”
“Four liter engine?”
“Yup.”
“Pretty fast?”
“Oh yeah.”
“You still put the top down?”
“All summer long.”
“Any airbags in here?”
“I don’t know.”
He finally finds the wiper switch and tries to peel out of the parking lot. The light rain has brought the grease up from the asphalt. The car slides to the left, heading for a small lawn statue. “Whoa!” Darren laughs. I grab the edges of my seat. “Now how the fuck do I get on the parkway?” I begin feeding him directions. Left here, right there, third light, here’s the sign. Soon we’re on the parkway, snaking south. The road is unlit. The headlights can just make out sheets of water on the roadway. A word pops into my head. Hydroplaning. I can’t get the word out of my mind.
“Some fucking party, huh?” Darren asks. He almost mounts the curb. “Whoa!” He laughs.
“The food was excellent.”
“What did you have?”
“The salmon.”
“I had the sirloin strip. It was very good.” I can’t wait to be home. I close my eyes and try to picture my bed. Darren nearly kills us four more times on the way back. He keeps losing the road, shouting “Whoa!” as he does. The car slides around like its ass is buttered. Fifteen more minutes and we’re back in the WDOA parking garage.
“I bet you’ll never drive with me again.” Darren jokes as he drops me off.
“Hah hah. Be careful on the way home, huh?”
A month later I was fired. I’d made it to ninety-two days of employment.