Temporary Insanity
When I was a young girl I used to listen to Connie Szerszen, the disc jockey from my favorite radio station. She was the first woman I ever heard on the air and I was totally fascinated. Connie had this sweet, funny personality and got to play rock and roll music! I wanted to be just like her. I used to write letters to her requesting more Donny Osmond songs. She played them just for me. I used to write Connie fan letters and she would even write me back. We developed this big sister/little sister relationship. Years passed and we lost touch. Then one day, I heard Connie on another radio station. I called her up on the studio line, and I was so touched that she still remembered me. Connie told me about a job opening at her radio station for an entry-level position. I got the job. My hero Connie was the one responsible for my big break. The dream became reality.
I clearly remember my first day in radio. There was this incredible passion and energy that I had never experienced in my life. The music was pounding, people were passing out concert tickets and t-shirts, celebrities were going into the studio. I felt like this was where I belong. I was home. About a year later, my entry-level job led me to become a programming/promotions assistant. And then one day, it happened. I became a disc jockey! I can still remember the first time I spoke into a microphone. It was on Mother’s Day. Even though I made some rookie mistakes, and sounded a little goofy, I still felt my entire world light up. I would never be the same again.
Great memories pass through my mind as I think about the listeners. Just like Connie and me, I became their friend. I remember giggling with Teresa. She used to have a secret crush on her boss. There was Tony who kept requesting the same song over and over. But mostly, he just wanted to talk. And I could never forget Sally. She wanted to be an actress. Alone in a dark studio, I used to ask myself: am I here to bring a little joy into their lives, or is it the other way around? I loved my job. And then one day it was gone. I woke up. The dream was over.
There is no delicate way to say how I lost my job. I had this horrible feeling in my gut the day I interviewed Donna for an intern position. I ignored that feeling and hired her. I became her mentor and taught her how to record a demo tape. I watched as she became a pro in the studio. We became friends. And then it was her turn to teach me something: a harsh lesson in betrayal. How do you explain someone sleeping her way in to your dream job?
Now, I’m a temp. I used to hungrily clutch a microphone in my hand and reach into the hearts of Chicago. Now I grab a P.A. and announce the client is holding on line three. At one time I used to interview celebrities. Now I’m asking people to have a seat while I pour their coffee. The experience of what happened left me paralyzed. I was too fearful to even think about going back into radio again. I lived my fantasy at an early age. When it was gone, I felt like a huge piece of me died. I realized that there is something to be said for experience and maturity. When you achieve a dream too young, too soon, you must prepare for that inevitable fall from the top. It took a long time, but I eventually pulled myself together. I realized that being a temp is not so bad. During downtime I can make calls to friends, read the National Enquirer to find out the latest fiasco for Michael Jackson and I can even fantasize about the UPS guy or George Clooney. So why did my heart drop every time I caught an earful of the radio playing in the next cubicle?
Many years after losing my gig, I got the chance to be back in radio. My temp agency landed me an assignment working at my “dream station.” This was THE station. The reason I went into broadcasting. I walked through the doors literally shaking with anticipation. I’m finally back. I just KNEW it! Well … not exactly. When I mentioned to them that I used to be a jock on another station, I got the “look.” It was that look that simply said “yeah, sure, whatever.” I had seen that look before. That look meant “you were a jock? You’re nothing but the temp.” Later that week I faced my worst nightmare. In the hallway I overheard this voice. “Oh, no, please God, don’t let that be his voice.” I turned around and was face to face with my old boss. The one who fired me, the one with whom he and my “friend” betrayed me. This time, however, I was not facing him as some talented, creative jock. I was facing him as a temporary secretary. He just stared at me. He stared at the pile of mail that I was obviously distributing to the staff. When he asked me what on earth I was doing, I thought about lying. A dozen stories were going through my mind. Do I tell him I own the radio station and just want to feel like one of the “little people?” No. Do I tell him I’m the new morning jock at the station? No. I looked him straight in the eye and said “I’m the temp.” He gave me this cold, glaring sneer. A sneer that simply said “loser.” It was one of the worst moments of my life.
Here I am now, many years and a few more gray hairs later. I’m still a temp, but the dreamer has not died. Even after all I have learned, there are still questions. Do I have what it takes to make it in radio anymore? Do I really need the “label” of disc jockey, or can I be happy as “the temp?” I’ve had many great jobs in the past, so why was radio still so important to me? As a 37 year old woman, it comes time to answer those questions. Radio is my passion, but it’s not the only definition of me. If I am labeled as a disc jockey, writer, lover, friend, daughter, or yes, temp, it doesn’t matter. A title does not define the essence of my soul. I recently discovered that I can walk down the hall of my office and enjoy hearing the radio. The pain is gone. I now smile when I hear a funny announcer or a favorite song. As a matter of fact, I’m usually the one why says “Great music. Turn it up!”
