Authors: Lisa Wainland
He showed his badge to his favorite security guard, Joel, winking at him to ensure his accomplice status. Joel gave Jonny his familiar nod, “How are you today, Mr. Rock?”
“Just fine, Joel,” Jonny said, words trailing as his body kept moving forward toward the staircase that led to the studio.
He swiftly maneuvered through the endless rows of sales cubicles, zig zagging with great skill, hoping to avoid eye contact.
It was not to be.
“Jonny boy.”
Jonny turned to see Nick Coleman approaching him. Nick was one of the sleazier sales people. Short with a big Napoleon complex, Nick was your buddy...if you could do something for him. Nick loved the idea that he was friends with the big personalities at the station. Friendships he created himself.
“Hey, Nick.” Jonny waved quickly and kept moving. He wanted to make a fast exit.
“Jonny, I got a great proposition for you.” Nick fell in step with Jonny. “I have this client who’s opening a surf shop in Fort Lauderdale right on A1A with a perfect view of the beach. You’d love it.”
Jonny stopped and looked Nick square in the eyes. At the age of thirty-nine, Nick still fancied himself twenty-two. He wore his hair a bit too long and had a small gold hoop earring in one ear. He looked ridiculous to everyone but himself. “Dude, I’m on the air now, I gotta go.”
Nick shrugged his shoulders. “Then what are you doing down here?”
Jonny thought fast. “I came down to get a soda.”
Nick looked at Jonny’s empty hands. “I don’t see a soda.”
“They didn’t have what I wanted. Nick, I’m leaving.”
“Right. I’ll walk with you.”
Jonny started walking. Salespeople were not allowed in the studios. If he could get there fast enough, he could get rid of Nick.
“Anyway, Jonny, this guy’s gonna have this huge beach bash...free beer,
Playhouse
girls in bikinis,” he nudged Jonny, “a real big kick-off party and he wants you there for the festivities. Are you in?”
Jonny didn’t really have much choice. If a client specifically asked for him, he pretty much had to say yes. That rule came from upper management. But he liked pretending that he did have a choice, that he did have some control.
“I’ll think about it Nick.”
“You do that. They’ll pay you, plus I’m sure I can get them to give you some gift certificates for the store as a little bonus. And, hey,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “what could be better than a couple hours with some
Playhouse
girls?”
“Right.” He gritted his teeth.
“Maybe we’ll get that midday jock Dana Drew to put on one of those little string bikinis...now that would draw a crowd. You know if she wasn’t such a stuck up bitch I’d go after her myself.”
“Nick, you’re married,” Jonny said cringing at the thought. Dana was his friend and besides, Nick had kids, an affair for him was different.
“Yeah...and?” For Nick, every conquest made him an inch taller. When he looked in the mirror, he was seven feet tall.
They reached the studio door.
“Nick, I gotta go...”
“Alright buddy, think about it and let me know. I’ll confirm with this surf shop guy that you’re gonna be there so he’ll sign the contract. Big bucks for me, man. Can you say ca-ching?”
Yeah,
Jonny thought,
and I’ll see how much of that? My pittance fixed per hour rate. Big motivation, Nick, big motivation.
Jonny pushed through the studio door ending the conversation. The heavy, soundproof door shut, cutting Nick off mid-sentence. At last, he was safe.
Jonny looked around the room. Everything was as he had left it: the music log resting so officially above the console on a clear Plexiglas stand, his fighter pilot style sunglasses strewn on the counter and a set of keys perched around the microphone, keys from Jonny’s old Nissan that he drove in high school oh so many years ago. It was Jonny’s clever set up, if anyone came in, they’d assume he was in the building. After all, no one would leave all his stuff out like that. Especially not his keys.
Jonny didn’t feel guilty. Technology made it so radio no longer needed people. Of course radio still needed great personalities like him, he reassured himself, but that was really all they need from him. A new computer system housed an enormous music library and all of the commercials. The computer ran the whole show, playing song after song, commercial after commercial. Jonny’s only job was to talk during the assigned breaks, something he didn’t need to be there for. This was the miracle voice tracking that enabled his many affairs. Jonny could pre-record the breaks and insert them at the appropriate time. The computer would run the song into his break into the commercial flawlessly.
Jonny walked behind the console and checked the computer screen. He made it back just in time, another break was coming up in a few minutes. He had recorded all the breaks for his show just in case Heather really detained him, but since he was back to finish his shift, he’d rather do the break live. It was more exciting than watching the computer scroll for the rest of the afternoon.
Creep
, by Radiohead, was playing. He potted up the volume and smirked at the irony. Some might call this his theme song. He lowered himself onto a stool. The tortured words blasted through the speakers.
The lyrics touched a nerve. “What
am
I doing here?” he thought to himself. Jonny remembered the old days. When he started as an overnight jock on an upstart radio station in Macon, Georgia, he was such a novice. No one there paid him any mind. He was just the kid who worked the graveyard shift, two to six am.
Working when the only people listening were drunk or drugged out was a drag, but no one cared if you messed up. It was good training ground. Back then you had to have skills.
It was 1992...Jonathan Roeker sat at the console. It was almost time for a break and he was fired up. His right hand hovered over the button on the board to turn on the mic, waiting for the song to end. He stood up and got ready to speak, trying to calm his nerves as the song faded out.
He hit the red button watching it light up below his fingers and quickly raised the fader.
“Hey Georgia, it’s Jonny Rock,” he said, letting his new moniker slide off his tongue. “I’ve got great music heading your way.” He glanced at the VU meters on the board that showed the sound level. The needles were pinging. His voice was overmodulated. Crap! He quickly slid the fader down a touch. “And don’t forget to listen every morning to Bill and Dan in the morning. Lots more music on the way.” He hit another button to fire the commercial which was recorded on a glorified eight track tape called a cart. A typed label listed the name of the client and the last four words of the spot so he knew when to hit the button to fire the next commercial. Sometimes the guys in the production department forgot to add that important piece of information. Then he had to guess the end of the commercial. He was always off. Never failed. And dead air was something the Program Director didn’t like. Not at all.
The last commercial ended and he hit the button for the next song to play. He had three minutes and thirty-two seconds until the next song.
The lights in the studio flashed signaling the phone.
“Hey...Jonny Rock here, what’s goin’ on?”
“Well hey, Jonny Rock, let me tell you.” Jonny immediately recognized the slow southern drawl of his boss, Clark Ford. He’d forgotten, in addition to the drunks and druggies, sometimes Clark listened too. “You don’t need to tell everyone you’ve got great music on the way at the beginning and end of every break.”
“Okay
,” Jonny said, embarrassed.
“And saying every morning and Bill and Dan in the morning is a bit redundant, dontcha think?”
Jonny thought ‘dontcha think’ wasn’t all that great language either, but he was contrite. “Got it. Won’t let it happen again.”
“Good. Keep an eye on those levels too. Don’t wanna blow out some guys stereo. Later.”
Clark hung up, not waiting for a response.
Jonny sighed at the memory. Things were so different. Now all Jonny had to do was talk. He no longer had to worry about running a tight board. The computer did it all, giving him time to read the newspaper, do sit-ups on the floor behind the console or have another affair.
The song was coming to an end and Jonny got ready to go live. He put on his headphones, stood up and took his familiar stance, spreading his feet so they lined up with his shoulders. He rocked back and forth on his heels, getting into the music. The rock pulsated in his ears, throughout his body.
“Radiohead. That one’s gonna be a classic. Love that song.” His voice was smooth. “It’s Tuesday afternoon and you’re hangin’ with me, Jonny Rock, and I love you.”
And I love you
was his catch phrase, a clever gimmick that forced his loyal listeners to predictably start every call ‘Hey Jonny, it’s Kim and I love you, too!’ It was ego stroking at its finest. “I’ve got lots more rock coming up for you, but first,” Jonny reached for the liner card in front of him, “let me tell you where the lovely Dana Drew will be tomorrow night.” He paused and briefly glanced over the bullet points on the card. He was doing this cold, he hadn’t read ahead. “Join Dana tomorrow night at Scully’s Bar and Grill. She’ll be broadcasting live for their Thursday night happy hour that lasts not one hour, but three hours! Dana’ll have lots of prizes to giveaway, plus your chance to register to win a trip for two to the Bahamas with your favorite rock station’s own, Dana Drew! Wow! Dana’s a busy chick these days! You don’t want to miss it, Dana Drew live at Scully’s in downtown Miami from seven to ten. Be there.” He pushed the button on the board that fired back up the computer and the commercials began to play. With that Dana strutted into the studio.
“Hey, Jonny.” Dana Drew was a radio pro. Tall and slender with wavy long black hair, olive skin and killer green eyes, Dana was the token female on an all-male staff, but she had balls.
“Dana.” Jonny jokingly bowed his head.
“Thanks for the respect, too bad you don’t show me any on the air.” Dana had heard his lousy break.
“Hey, it wasn’t so bad.”
“Well, if you read the card ahead of time, maybe you wouldn’t have made such rough transitions,” she replied, half teasing, half scolding.
“Noted, noted. What are you doing here so early?” Dana went on the air after Jonny, from six to ten, it was now three fifteen.
“I wanted to do some research for my show tonight. Some people call it show prep,” she said sarcastically.
“Oh, they do, do they.” He smiled.
Jonny and Dana started their usual rhythm of playful banter laced with her frustration. Dana knew she was better than Jonny, worked harder than Jonny, but would never be the drive time jock on a rock station because she was a woman and this was still a male dominated business.
Jonny just enjoyed ruffling her feathers.
“Yes they do. In fact,” she raised her index finger triumphantly, “four out of five disc
jockeys think being prepared is important. Go figure. Maybe you need a refresher course in Radio 101.”
“Did you just come in here to harass me or do you really have a purpose for this visit?”
“I have a purpose,” she said, addressing more than just his question, “I want to talk to you about getting better appearances. You’ve been scheduling me at all these late night events at seedy bars. How about some afternoon gigs at places with sober patrons?”
“C’mon Dana, all the bars want you. You’re the sexy Dana Drew, you help bring all the men in.”
“I know, that’s the problem, some of them really creep me out.”
Jonny shrugged. “Call it job hazard.”
The studio door swung open and Heather flew in, her face flushed, red hair trailing in the air.
“Jonny,” Heather said breathlessly walking around the console to him. “Oh, hi Dana.”
“Hi,” she replied curtly, taking in the young intern.
“Jonny, here are those papers you asked for,” Heather said making sure to brush his arm as she spoke.
“Thanks...Heather, is it?” he questioned with a wink.
“Yeah, Heather.” She played along, loving their shared secret, but the moment was over fast.
“Okay, thanks,” he dismissed, turning back to the board.
Heather, wishing for more, but not wanting to push it, turned dejectedly and breezed past Dana out of the studio.
“You’re screwing her!”
“Dana Drew, watch your mouth!”
“I have eyes Jonny. I see how she looks at you. Admit it.”
“Dana, I’m married,” Jonny said matter-of-factly, pointing to his simple gold wedding band.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“I resent that.”
“So do I.”
They stood in silence, two cowboys at high noon, weapons drawn.
“Whatever Dana,” Jonny retreated. “I’ll take your request into consideration. Why don’t you go do your show prep.”
“Whatever you say Mr. Assistant Program Director,” Dana said leaving the studio. “Whatever you say.”