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The pimply overnight guy has to wait
for me. I’m through the door at six
oh three, which means he had to play
the station call. Damn. Hope he did it.
FCC rules demand it, and a station
can get fined if it doesn’t identify
itself close to top of the hour. Oh,
well. Not my problem now, I guess.
The dude comes skulking down the hall,
muttering mostly under his breath. Sure.
Promote the half-ass guy and keep me
doing nights. He slams on out the door.
Half-ass? Me? And just what
does that make him? A company
man? I head on into the booth,
just as the last spot of the break finishes.
Perfect timing, man. Half-ass?
I don’t think so. I punch up the next
song on the playlist, zero seconds
to spare. Yeah, I should have been
here earlier. Most morning guys
get in at least an hour before their
show begins, to dig up some witty
repartee and be solidly prepared.
Maybe tomorrow, right? Anyway,
I can do this gig with my eyes closed.
Witty is my middle name. And I know
the playlist inside out. Lenny Kravitz
finishes up. “Hey, Reno, happy
Thanksgiving. If you’re up this
