I'm listening to La Rocca's "OK Okay" right now and feel like talking about how I got this volunteer job. I feel like getting all this stuff out of the way before I just start posting the reviews and other stories of my adventures at KRCB. This kind of feels like an experience I should be writing about because it's certainly one of the most experimental self-made decisions I've made as an adult college student. Beside an ear open to enjoy a wide variety of music (which I think is helping me in my position, here, because Natalie seems to share my specific-yet-wide taste for what's good and fresh [and I don't like to brag, I'm basically just listening for stuff that anyone would enjoy and discarding stuff I know anyone would hate--it's not rocket science]) um... Beside an ear open to enjoy a wide variety of music, I'm far removed from this field of work.
The first time I went to the radio station I got there on my bike from school about forty-five minutes before my "interview." I'm sitting on a crumbled stone wall a little ways down the driveway, looking like a stalker across from some county education center, and it's hotter than hell outside but I'm too nervous to go inside this early. I'm wishing I'd went to the Starbucks back at the intersection where I'd turned off the main road and waited there. I make a mental note to plan better next time... If there is a next time. (Hint: there was)
Finally I go inside. Early, still, by about fifteen minutes. I open the door into the reception room (or The Central Hub, as I call it) and the door opens in the way that I can't see what's to my left and I'm looking at a hallway until I step into the Hub. That way whoever's sitting at the desk over there can see the guest before the guest sees them. It's an older guy with white hair and a white beard and slim glasses wearing a pin-up striped shirt. He's wearing a headset and reading a magazine. A computer monitor faces him. There are brochures on the raised shelf of the desk next to a sign-in sheet. Behind him is a big widescreen TV playing an episode of Clifford, The Big Red Dog. Something you'd see on PBS at this 2 o'clock hour of the afternoon.
"Hello," he says. He has a slow Atticus Finch voice. We'll end up talking more and more with each visit. Now we know each other's names. He's Don and I'm Chris. He's a father of two twenty-something daughters. He seems to have retired to this position after a life of radio and other various endeavors. He knows everyone.
I told him about how Mark--and I made sure he knew who Mark was, sort of like pinching myself to see if I was dreaming, because if Mark didn't actually volunteer here like he said he did then I would know I was getting myself in trouble here. I didn't say this to Don, but I felt like I was doing something way too risky, that I was setting myself up for disaster by getting involved with this. Mostly I felt like I didn't deserve this. As awkward as I felt that first day waiting fifteen minutes for Natalie to get there, I kept recognizing the bizarre fact that I wasn't taking the bus home from school like normally planned, I was sitting and waiting to meet Natalie from the e-mails, who hosts a real-life radio show called "Left of the Dial" who apparently really liked the sound of me from our few e-mail exchanges. This felt like a dream that I was on the verge of waking up from, but holding onto with all my might--I was trembling on the inside, but managed to stay cool on the outside. I might've read one of the articles just so I wouldn't think about what I was doing. Fifteen minutes felt like an hour.
Mark Prell--Don did know him--is a customer I met at A'romas, the coffeeshop I work at. One night I'm waiting in line for the bathroom on my break on a Saturday, the live band playing jazz on the platform across the cafe, and Mark comes up for the same reason. We're standing side by side against the wall in the hallway and facing the board of posters and business cards people have posted. Stuff for sale, rooms for rent, chess lessons, massage coupons, all that stuff. And whatever conversation we had led to this moment:
So then I meet her for the first time. She's a tall slim forty-something post-hippy music lover. She's awesome. I'm just now getting comfortable enough around her to joke and whatnot and not just stand there with my arms crossed saying "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh." Apparently she loves me. I'm like an obedient little slave, essentially, who she gives all the CD's to listen to so she can work on other stuff. I'm sure she's actually very busy, though. I'm not really a slave. That's just the best way to put it. It's not a paid job. I always end up procrastinating until the last minute and stressing myself out and not sleeping Sunday nights. But I keep going back. I'm investing in something big here. Natalie loves me because I'm putting in a lot of effort. She wants to get me a desk and an e-mail and an opportunity. This is crazy.
Now Don and I can talk about anything. I've made friends with Wendy--she's given me a ride to the bus stop to catch the 3:06 twice. She's like Natalie's older, yet zanier, sister. If this were a family, she would be my aunt. I also got to spend one waiting period with another receptionist--her name has escaped me now--and we had a good talk about what I could do with a Bachelor's in English. I almost feel embarrassed to tell people in a radio station that I'm majoring in English. I feel like radio/television and literature have been enemies since the dawn of time. What's some Shakespeare-reading Kerouac doing here? His kind doesn't belong. I don't know why I feel like that. Besides, that second receptionist with the crooked eye--don't think that wasn't hard not to glance at--also majored in English. She was an editor for a while. I kind of think I want to be an editor someday. Now she's here at KRCB. Am I playing her life in reverse?
Okay. The album is over. I got to get back to work.
The first time I went to the radio station I got there on my bike from school about forty-five minutes before my "interview." I'm sitting on a crumbled stone wall a little ways down the driveway, looking like a stalker across from some county education center, and it's hotter than hell outside but I'm too nervous to go inside this early. I'm wishing I'd went to the Starbucks back at the intersection where I'd turned off the main road and waited there. I make a mental note to plan better next time... If there is a next time. (Hint: there was)
Finally I go inside. Early, still, by about fifteen minutes. I open the door into the reception room (or The Central Hub, as I call it) and the door opens in the way that I can't see what's to my left and I'm looking at a hallway until I step into the Hub. That way whoever's sitting at the desk over there can see the guest before the guest sees them. It's an older guy with white hair and a white beard and slim glasses wearing a pin-up striped shirt. He's wearing a headset and reading a magazine. A computer monitor faces him. There are brochures on the raised shelf of the desk next to a sign-in sheet. Behind him is a big widescreen TV playing an episode of Clifford, The Big Red Dog. Something you'd see on PBS at this 2 o'clock hour of the afternoon.
"Hello," he says. He has a slow Atticus Finch voice. We'll end up talking more and more with each visit. Now we know each other's names. He's Don and I'm Chris. He's a father of two twenty-something daughters. He seems to have retired to this position after a life of radio and other various endeavors. He knows everyone.
"I'm here to see Natalie. She--uh--for an interview."I sit in one of the two chairs next to a table of brochures and a wooden basket of rolled-up posters and political or financial magazines. I pick out one of the political magazines that's basically all text and no pictures--so unlike the Times I was expecting--and it's all really boring, but for some reason I feel compelled to pretend to read it and feign interest because Don is an intellectual nonprofit radio station employee (even if he's the receptionist). I wait fifteen uncomfortable minutes answering a few random questions like, "Are you going to school?" and "Where you from?" and "Where do you work?"
"Oh. Okay." He looks at the clock on the wall. He looks at a schedule. "She gets here around two forty-five, usually. Her show starts at three."
"Yeah," I say. I nod. I take a small step forward, my hands still stuck under the straps of my backpack. "She said that. She said that we'd meet at two fifteen."
Don looks at the clock again. He says, "Oh. Okay. Two fifteen."
"I'm a little early," I say, nodding.
"Yeah. Fifteen minutes."
"I was waiting outside. It was getting hot," I tell him. I'm still standing by the door. I see people walk by the end of the hallway up the ramp and I hear voices and noises throughout the building. This is a real radio station. This was also a real television station. I had no idea what I was doing here. I was actually terrified.
"Oh. I bet. Okay. You can sit there, if you like. There are magazines."
"Oh. yeah. Sure."
I told him about how Mark--and I made sure he knew who Mark was, sort of like pinching myself to see if I was dreaming, because if Mark didn't actually volunteer here like he said he did then I would know I was getting myself in trouble here. I didn't say this to Don, but I felt like I was doing something way too risky, that I was setting myself up for disaster by getting involved with this. Mostly I felt like I didn't deserve this. As awkward as I felt that first day waiting fifteen minutes for Natalie to get there, I kept recognizing the bizarre fact that I wasn't taking the bus home from school like normally planned, I was sitting and waiting to meet Natalie from the e-mails, who hosts a real-life radio show called "Left of the Dial" who apparently really liked the sound of me from our few e-mail exchanges. This felt like a dream that I was on the verge of waking up from, but holding onto with all my might--I was trembling on the inside, but managed to stay cool on the outside. I might've read one of the articles just so I wouldn't think about what I was doing. Fifteen minutes felt like an hour.
Mark Prell--Don did know him--is a customer I met at A'romas, the coffeeshop I work at. One night I'm waiting in line for the bathroom on my break on a Saturday, the live band playing jazz on the platform across the cafe, and Mark comes up for the same reason. We're standing side by side against the wall in the hallway and facing the board of posters and business cards people have posted. Stuff for sale, rooms for rent, chess lessons, massage coupons, all that stuff. And whatever conversation we had led to this moment:
"I work for them," he said, pointing at a poster on the bottom left of the pinboard.And, memory failing me, that led to this question:
"Oh?"
It's a poster advertising a concert benefit or something hosted by KRCB.
"I mean I volunteer."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"So you like music?"Eventually,
I'm thinking: Well, yeah, doesn't everybody?
"Yeah," I say with a shrug.
"What kind of music do you like?"
I hate this question.
I shrug. "A lot. I listen to a lot of different stuff."
"What's your favorite band?"
I hate this question too. The answer depends on my mood and it's either Brand New or Modest Mouse. This time I say, "Modest Mouse."
"Yeah?"
I nod. "Yeah."
"I like them. That's cool."
And Mark, I should tell you, is my height. He has a goatee, he's forty, he's got short black hair, he's gay, he might still have a crush on me, and he's just a little bit awkward in a mid-life crisis kind of way, but I think he's a good guy. He works at Home Depot (I once got to overhear a passive-aggressive argument he had with his boss over the "no hands" speakerphone). He's been through some anonymous clubs, too. Oh, and he has a radar scanner in his truck.
"Because the woman I help--Natalie--she's been looking for help with her show."
"Oh yeah?"
"It's called Left of the Dial. It's probably stuff you'd like. The indie stuff."
"Yeah. That's definitely what I listen to the most."
"She's been looking for help for a while."
"That sounds awesome."
"You should give me your e-mail. You have an e-mail?"I do. He takes it. We e-mail. Then Natalie e-mails (starting, of course, under her radio moniker Rosa Corn--like this was some espionage movie) me and we arrange a meeting and postpone it once and finally I figure out the bus schedule and face my fears and take a risk. The real reason I put it off the first time is because I chickened out. Then I took a breath and grabbed a little extra bus fare and went for it. This is my own personal epic journey. I could feel it.
"Yeah."
"Okay, yeah. I'll tell her about you. We'll get you guys e-mailing each other."
"Yeah. Wow. Okay. Let me go write it down for you."
So then I meet her for the first time. She's a tall slim forty-something post-hippy music lover. She's awesome. I'm just now getting comfortable enough around her to joke and whatnot and not just stand there with my arms crossed saying "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh." Apparently she loves me. I'm like an obedient little slave, essentially, who she gives all the CD's to listen to so she can work on other stuff. I'm sure she's actually very busy, though. I'm not really a slave. That's just the best way to put it. It's not a paid job. I always end up procrastinating until the last minute and stressing myself out and not sleeping Sunday nights. But I keep going back. I'm investing in something big here. Natalie loves me because I'm putting in a lot of effort. She wants to get me a desk and an e-mail and an opportunity. This is crazy.
Now Don and I can talk about anything. I've made friends with Wendy--she's given me a ride to the bus stop to catch the 3:06 twice. She's like Natalie's older, yet zanier, sister. If this were a family, she would be my aunt. I also got to spend one waiting period with another receptionist--her name has escaped me now--and we had a good talk about what I could do with a Bachelor's in English. I almost feel embarrassed to tell people in a radio station that I'm majoring in English. I feel like radio/television and literature have been enemies since the dawn of time. What's some Shakespeare-reading Kerouac doing here? His kind doesn't belong. I don't know why I feel like that. Besides, that second receptionist with the crooked eye--don't think that wasn't hard not to glance at--also majored in English. She was an editor for a while. I kind of think I want to be an editor someday. Now she's here at KRCB. Am I playing her life in reverse?
Okay. The album is over. I got to get back to work.
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