Jeffrey Alan Payne - Doczine

mother was at the door, hugged me and ushered me in to welcoming hugs andhandshakes from people I remotely recognized from my childhood. Believe me, I wasn’tso completely immersed in youthful pretense that I didn’t appreciate the sweetness ofthe situation; it was overwhelmingly kind and caring. I just wasn’t prepared, after atwelve hour life-changing drive, to be suddenly swept into an episode of “This Is YourLife”.My mother was announcing designations like, “She used to babysit you, when you werein diapers.” I would suddenly become uncomfortable with the fact that the woman infront of me had once rubbed lotion and sprinkled powder on my privates.The questions went on for a couple of hours: “How was the drive?” “What was yourweather like?” Finally around two in the morning everyone left. I felt relieved, butencouraged and heartwarmed that this fine group of people cared about me that much.I spent the next couple of days visiting with my mother and the seemingly unendinggaggle of relatives who resided in the area.My young female cousins were delighted that a member of their close kin would betalking on the radio; I got the impression that a phone network campaign had occurred.That fact became evident, as a steady stream of young female contemporaries flocked inour door, along with my cousins on a nearly frenetic time schedule.They would drop in unexpectedly, then nestle themselves in for chattering conversation,residing in whatever room I happened to be in. Gingerly, their darting glances wouldobserve me as I ate a bowl of cereal or blew my nose. I realized that the meter wasrunning on my patience, and I had to make other arrangements quickly.I immediately found a small apartment above a garage, owned by a retired navy officerwho spent most of his days walking around drunk and urinating on himself, along withwhatever surface he happened to be standing on. His arms and torso were adornedwith tattoos, but they had all been inked forty or fifty years earlier. The images nowappeared as indiscernible blotches of faded multi-colored hues, primarily blue. Helooked like Popeye in the tragic aftermath of his career. Olive Oyl has left him for Brutus,and he no longer cares enough to bother eating spinach. He now just walks aroundtelling everyone who will listen, “I used to be able to wind up my fist and fly through abrick wall on just one can of that stuff.”Two days after I settled in to the apartment, I reported for my first shift. I had spoken toboth the monkey grinning porn star and the simian grooming-challenged guy on thephone that week. I was informed that my training was to be performed by the station’sevening personality. It seemed odd to me that the program director and music directorof the station seemed so distant from my training process. No doubt they were both inbed by the time I arrived for my first shift.My new apartment was just a few blocks from the station, so I jumped into my shagcarpeted van and proceeded to Main Street. I was abruptly surprised that I suddenlybecame stopped by an impassible traffic jam in downtown Kingsport. There were youngpeople stopping their cars and talking, while the remainder of our line of traffic sat idle. Ionly knew one way to get to the radio station, and I was in danger of being late for my21