fretting over the phone bill, or asking myself what I was going to do with the rest of my life. It
was raining a lot, and the chill winds of March were blowing, and I was simply trying to keep
warm and dry.
Once in a while I wondered how I was going to get out of there, but mostly I wondered how I
was going to get to stay there. Twenty-five dollars a week was a lot of money to come up with
out of thin air. I intended to look for work, of course. But this was right here, right now. This
was about tonight and tomorrow and the day after that. I was mending a broken neck, had no
car, no money very little food, and no place to live. Then again, it was spring, moving into
summer. That was on the plus side.
Every day I rummaged through the trash cans in hopes of finding a newspaper, half an apple
that somebody didn’t finish, a lunch bag with a sandwich that Junior wouldn’t eat. The
newspaper was for extra padding under the tent. It kept the warmth in, the seepage out, and
was softer and more level than the lumpy ground. Most important, though, it was a source of
information about jobs. Every time I got my hands on a paper, I scoured the classifieds,
looking for work. With my neck injury, I couldn’t do anything very physical, and most of the
jobs immediately available for men were physical. Day laborer. Helper on this crew, or that.
But two months into the search, I hit pay dirt.
RADIO ANNOUNCER/WEEKEND FILL-IN,must have previous experience.Call etc. etc.My heart jumped. How many guys could there be in Medford, Oregon, with experience in
broadcasting who weren’t already working? I raced to the telephone booth, flipped the thank-
God-they-were-there yellow pages to broadcast stations, dropped in one of my precious
quarters, and called the number. The program director, who I knew would be doing the hiring,
was not in. Can he get back to you? a lady’s voice was asking.
“Sure,” I said casually mentioning—in my best radio voice— that I was calling in reference to
the help-wanted ad. “I’ll be here until four o’clock.” I gave her the pay phone number and
hung up, then sat on the ground next to the booth for three hours, waiting for the call back
that never came.
The next morning I found a paperback romance novel in the trash, snatched it up, and
headed back to the phone booth. I wanted to be prepared to wait out the day if need be.
Sitting down at nine o’clock and cracking open my book, I told myself that if no call came
before noon, I’d invest another quarter and call the station after lunch. The phone rang at
9:35.
“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday,” the PD said. “I got tied up. So, I’m told you saw
the ad for a weekend jock. You got experience?”
Again, I went deep into my lower register. “Well, I’ve done some work on-the-air here and
there,” I said nonchalantly then added, “over the last twenty years.” While this exchange was
taking place, I prayed that a big RV didn’t rumble into the park as I was standing there
talking. I didn’t want to have to explain why a huge vehicle was driving through my living
room.
“Why don’t you come in?” the program director offered. “You got an air check?”
An air check is a tape recording, edited to exclude the music, of a disc-jockey’s on-air work.
I’d definitely peaked his interest.
“No, I left all my stuff in Portland,” I fibbed. “But I can do a ‘live read’ on any copy you give
me, and I think you’ll get an idea of what I can do.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Drop in around three. I go on at four, so don’t be too late.”