Jeffrey Alan Payne - Doczine

5 - Cut from Similar ClothI parked in front of the building on Main Street, so that I could see my car through thefront glass door of the radio station. Warm gracious southern culture or not, I wasn’tsure what nighttime activity might be like on this deserted warehouse populated street.Coming from Detroit, crime was a consistent consideration, just another fact of life.What was particularly concerning, was the two mile lineup of reckless and bored youthoccupying cars on Broad Street just three blocks away. I could picture a carload of goodole boys saying, “I’m bored with driving up and down this street. Let’s go steal orvandalize something, before we head back on that hundred mile drive.”As I approached the door, I was aware of the fact that it was remarkably quiet downtownfor 9:00pm on a weekend night. The city was so silent that it almost seemed to emit aninaudible hum into the air. There was an acrid ubiquitous scent of exhaust plumesbillowing from plastic and chemical plants filling the air. There was also a paper mill onlya few blocks away that emanated a sour fruit-like smell. I pushed the buzzer and waited.Moments later, a figure approached from the darkness and unlocked the door. He wasjust under six feet, average build, hair on the blond side of brown and cut just short of hisshoulders, and he had some non-descript facial hair. It was that look that conveys either“I’m currently growing a beard” or “I was too lazy to shave for the last four and a halfdays”. Actually he looked pretty much like me; someone could easily have gotten theimpression that this was the standard regulatory look for guys in their twenties working inradio.“How you doing? I’m Jim Mooney,” he said with a handshake, “They call me Jimbo onthe air. Ron started that, calling me Jimbo. He thought it sounded cool.”“Rick Loonie,” I could see his look of surprise, “Yeah, I know. Loonie and Mooney,there’s your morning team right there.”“Except no one would take you seriously with a goofy name like that,” he grinned, “Comeon back. My song’s about to end.”We went back to the studio, and he quickly sat down, put his headphones on, openedthe microphone and prattled off a perfect sound bite of information about the song andartist he had just played. From that topic he segued into a tease about his upcomingthree songs, after the commercial break. The entire thirty to forty-five seconds that hetalked was delivered in a seamless stream of thought and articulated in an understatedbaritone voice. This guy was really good.I started to feel nervousness. Why if I sucked? I could just imagine fumbling through myfirst stop set, desperately trying to put together sentences that made some cohesivesense. Meanwhile, I’m aware of my new colleague watching me from behind, his mouthopen in aghast horror and embarrassment for both me and the radio station he workedfor.When the music started, he started explaining the control board and the equipment, howto perform the FCC required meter readings, and the process of recording a weather29