Discover the identity of the Porn Rock Couple. And find out who was at least partially responsible for all that thumping and dancing that emanated from your radio way back when. The year is 1977 and I'm on the air and on my way to Houston, Texas, and on my way to fame and fortune. With humility and a full blush, I give you another random chapter from my follow up memoir to
Please enjoy, link, like, comment and pass the love. Just don't ask... I may deny the whole thing!
Love At Work
BJ
Neblett
©
2004, 2014
Her name was Julie and she possessed
the legs of a goddess.
Poised behind a receptionist’s desk,
her legs crossed and to one side, a glossy pink high heel dangled provocatively
from a well manicured toe. I have been known to be enamored by beautiful eyes;
charmed by a captivating smile, and a push over for a pretty face. For my
attention to be drawn so sharply to a shapely pair of legs speaks volumes of
the young woman’s charms. And charms Julie possessed in spades.
It was the fall of ’77. Elvis was
dead and disco was rising. Nicole was engaged, Mom and Dad were divorcing and
my sis and brother-in-law had moved their family to Syracuse. The station where
I worked had been sold. And soon it would turn cold and snowy. My old nemesis
change was once again having his way with me. I didn’t care. I’d long since
discovered the cure for change: alcohol and apathy. Change was going to happen,
especially to me. It was as sure as the dawn; inevitable as tomorrow. Staring
change in the eye and spitting in his face, my best friend Bill and I packed up
my restored ’56 De Soto and headed for warmer, if not greener pastures. We
settled for Texas.
I had received a firm offer from a
medium sized broadcasting company to join their radio staff in Houston. Bill
accepted a position with Texas Instruments. His aunt and uncle live there which
would give us a leg up in the area, plus a temporary home. It seemed everything
was set. Except that I’d forgotten about change’s derisive side kick, irony.
The trip down was uneventful. We
stopped in Joplin for a visit with my uncle and cousins. The both of us coming
off of relationships, Bill and I also wanted to blow off some steam and do some
partying. Joplin in the ‘70’s was a town wide open, if you knew where to look,
and I had 20-20 vision. Three days later, we sobered up enough to pour
ourselves into the old De Soto and head west on the Will Rogers Turnpike. A
left onto I-45 and it was endless fields of bluebonnets and the heart of the
Lone Star State.
We weren’t, however, the only ones
on the road to Texas in 1977. The second oil crunch and its resulting recession
sent literally tens of thousands of newly unemployed flocking to Texas, and
Houston in particular in search of a fresh start. The locals were not happy.
Blissfully ignorant of the situation, we rolled down I-45 on a warm morning in
October. Somewhere north of our destination Bill switched on the car’s radio.
“Let’s see if we can pick up some Houston stations,” he said, fiddling with the
tuning dial.
A few minutes of static and then
Willie Nelson’s unmistakable warble filled the car. “Looks like the only thing
we can pick up is country,” I suggested. “That’s ok, maybe it’s a Houston
station and we can catch some news.”
It was indeed a Houston station,
Houston’s number one station. And it provided us with more than just the news.
During a commercial break, the DJ, in full country accent and attitude, spoke
of an ongoing contest. “And don’t forget the grand prize,” he proudly
announced, “two all expense paid, one way tickets back to wherever you came
from!”
Bill and I sat there stunned. Did we
hear right? We looked at each other. Bill’s words echoed my own thoughts, “This
is gonna be a fun place to live!”
Bill’s aunt and uncle were typical
overfriendly, loud and brusque, albeit down to earth Texans. They welcomed us
warmly into their home and did everything they could to help us make the knotty
transition to southern living Texas style. Soon I was ready to meet the city
and my new job head on.
My new employer was located in the
top two floors of a very high
downtown high-rise. It towered over the surrounding buildings in an area known
for its cloud piercing glass towers. Riding up in the elevator that Monday
morning wearing a tie, slacks and my gray suede jacket I suddenly felt over
dressed. Noting my fellow passengers, I realized business casual in this town
meant starched jeans, boots and collared shirt. Ties and jackets were optional
almost everywhere, and suits were reserved for the boardroom. Stripping off my
tie, I nervously stepped out of the elevator and into a posh, modern reception
area decorated in Texas chic: browns, tans, grays and leather; cowboy prints
and armadillos. It was down home meets tacky.
“May I help you?”
I could feel her gaze examining me.
As I looked up, the owner of the fabulous legs rose from her desk. “Yes,” I
answered, finding the rest of her as delicious as her legs. “I have an
appointment with the station manager.”
She gave me a smile of approval,
flashing blindingly white teeth through full pink painted lips. “Oh, yes, you must
be Billy.” There was just a hint of cute Texas twang in her soft voice. She
stepped forward holding out a slender hand, each delicate finger proudly
sporting a painstakingly manicured nail in bright pink; each one a stranger to
a typewriter keyboard.
Her handshake was strong and
positive, warm and comfortable. She stood a full three inches taller than me in
her pink heels. The simple short sleeved blue dress, cinched at the waist with
a wide pink belt revealed smooth cream colored skin adorned with a gold chain
and a #1 pendant. Just then the phone buzzed. Gracefully slipping back behind
the desk, she lifted the receiver. Flipping aside long naturally yellow hair
revealed gold Texas shaped studs piercing her delicate ears. As she spoke, her
slightly turned nose twitched and wiggled like a bunny’s. It was incredibly
sexy.
“I’m sorry, where were we?” she
asked, returning the phone to its cradle. Piercing Mediterranean blue eyes,
guarded by pencil thin arched brows, smiled at me from behind wispy bangs. I
caught myself staring, and for good reason. This woman was beautiful; stunning.
She had the looks of a movie star, the air of money and the grace and poise of
a sophisticate. Texans had a saying for such women: high maintenance. I
wondered what she was doing behind a receptionist desk. I was to find out later
that in Texas nearly everyone wears two hats; even if it’s only in their own
mind.
“That’s ok. I’m Billy Neblett, or
Billy James, on the air anyway. I’m joining the air staff.”
She laughed, letting the formality
and her business tone drop. I liked the natural drawl. “Honey, right now you are the air staff. We’ve been running on
auto-pilot for a few months now. The new format is on hold.” Auto pilot…? New
format…? These words are red flags to any experienced radio person. I tried to
collect my thoughts. Catching my reaction she grimaced. “Uh oh, you didn’t know
that, did you?”
“Actually, I don’t know much about
the station. A headhunter for the company waved an indecent amount of money at
me and here I am.”
At that she sighed, nodded knowingly
and crossed to a filing cabinet. “Well, don’t let it throw you. Mike… Mr.
Jasen, the station manager will explain it all. He’s really a very nice man
with way too much on his hands. I’m sure you’ll like it here. We’ll do all we
can to make you feel at home.”
I was sure she was serious.
Handing me a pack of employment
documents, she deftly punched a few buttons on the complicated looking phone
panel. “By the way, my name is Julie. Make yourself comfy. I’ll let Mr. Jasen
know you are here.”
Mike Jasen was a large, pleasant,
amicable man, six foot two and fifty years old. Like me, he had been recently
and reluctantly lured to Houston. His handshake was firm, his grey eyes honest;
his laugh easy and sincere. Sporting an odd mix of Brooks Brother’s suit, Tony
Lama boots and a western string tie, he tried his best to fit into his new
position and surroundings. For an uncomfortable moment it struck me the new
format may be country. If there was one thing Houston and I had in common it
was the fact that neither of us needed a new country station.
“My wife says if I buy a cowboy hat
she’ll divorce me and move back to San Diego,” Mike joked, relaxing behind the
oversized desk. I liked him immediately.
Unlike most managers, Mike’s
background was radio, not business or sales. It made him invaluable to a
station that had been left to languish in apathy for too long. He kept himself
open and available to air and support staff. His first unpleasant duty had been
to fire nearly everyone and institute transitional, innocuous automated
programming. This station was rebuilding itself and I would be in on the ground
floor.
To my surprise and dismay I learned
our entire staff consisted of Mike and myself; Julie, an engineer, one salesman
and one overworked intern. I was made acting music director and put in charge
of fleshing out the station’s new format and identity. Julie knew everything of
the station’s operations and Mike wisely kept her around after the purge. I
found her to be as intelligent and professional as she was beautiful. She
provided valuable insight and information during the stations formative weeks
and months. Julie introduced me to Houston and helped Bill and I find an
apartment.
Working late into the night, Julie
and I often hit local bars to unwind. We became friends and saw a lot of each
other away from work. Over Amaretto Sours at Cooter’s night club I discovered
the real Julie Jo Acker. “I’m from Dumas, a dusty speck on the north Texas
plains, half way between Amarillo and Oklahoma. Daddy’s a cattle rancher.”
“And what’s a small town girl doing
in the big bad city?”
“Football…” She giggled and snatched
the cherry from my drink. “Football is the root of everything. In Texas,
football is religion. Every boy plays; every girl cheers.” The drinks were
starting to take a hold of both of us. “I didn’t play football… I’m…”
“A very pretty lady…”
She giggled again and twitched her
nose. “That too… My brother was the town’s high school football hero and
all-state at Texas A&M. I was a cheerleader and went to Baylor.”
Not only had Julie graduated from
Baylor, but that same year she placed runner up in the Miss. Texas pageant. She
escaped small town boredom by taking a job in Houston. Our relationship was close
but plutonic. Julie remained somewhat aloof and a bit of a mystery. For the
time it was an arrangement with which we were both comfortable and we savored
each other’s company.
With a target date of January first
for the premier of the new format, things got crazy as December approached.
Julie and I hit upon the then unusual scheme of programming twenty-four hour
seasonal music for a couple of weeks before Christmas. Running the idea by Mike
he off handedly quipped, “Hell, no one’s listening to us with the crap we’re
airing. Why not start Thanksgiving?”
“Are you serious?” Julie asked,
reflecting my feelings.
He was serious.
“Thanksgiving is Thursday, Mike.
It’s Tuesday afternoon,” I reminded him.
“Ok, so what’s the problem?”
“You know better than that. You know
what all is involved.” There was more than a trace of annoyance in my voice.
“Well, we do have the library,”
Julie naively suggested, quickly adding, “but that is a lot of programming; a
lot of work.”
“It’s your call, Billy.” Mike played
his position perfectly. “You’re the music director.”
“Music director, and program director, and board operator, all acting of course… I’m surprised you
don’t have me cleaning the restrooms.”
“Don’t be silly, building
maintenance takes care of that.” Mike grinned. “I know, but you’ve got the
intern and Julie to help. We’re what, about a month away from the new format?”
“Exactly six weeks,” Julie answered.
“Right… what this station needs is
some publicity, front page stuff to get the people thinking and talking about
us.” His grin broadened. “First… the new format will greet Houston one minute
after mid-night New Year’s Day. I want a countdown, Auld Lang Syne, and BAM!”
I liked the idea. By morning commute
back to work January second every radio would be tuned to us. We’d be water
cooler conversation all across Houston. “Ok, sounds good,” I agreed.
“Second,” Mike continued, “6 AM on
Thursday, Thanksgiving we go twenty-four hour, commercial free Christmas music.
The few sponsors we have left can give themselves a plug while wishing
listeners happy holidays. On the 26th we change music again for a
week, followed by the hits of 1977 all day New Year’s Eve. That ought to get us
some attention.”
Yeah, I thought, but what kind?
Mike looked at the two of us. “What
are your plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Nothing, really,” I replied,
suspicious of the question.
“I’m not going home until
Christmas,” Julie added.
Mike slapped the desk. “Perfect… you
two pull this off and I’ll buy you Thanksgiving dinner at the Four Seasons.”
“Make it the Houstonian and you’ve
got a deal,” Julie smugly countered.
“Ok, deal! And Billy, Julie, make it
good. The station needs the attention.”
Julie spent Tuesday afternoon
pulling all of the station’s Christmas music, while I busied myself writing up
drop-ins and jingles. We corralled everyone we could, the salesman, sponsors, a
couple of custodians, even some giddy bank employees from downstairs to get as
many different voices as possible, and ran them through the production studio.
That evening we worked past mid-night editing promos and holiday wishes, and
re-dubbing old station jingles. That out of the way, our plan was to do a
marathon the day before Thanksgiving and get as much music recorded and into
the system as humanly possible.
By nine thirty Wednesday night Julie
and I sat on the floor of production studio one surrounded by mountains of
records and tapes. Mike stuck his head in and looked around, “Anybody home?”
I peeked over a stack of 45’s.
“We’re here, I think. Right now I’m so exhausted I’m not real sure of
anything.”
“You guys need a break,” Mike said,
setting an oversized pizza box on the counter. “Here, I brought food, from
Mario’s. Oh, by the way, tomorrow night, the Houstonian, 6:45, you two… I’ll be
dining with the family.”
“Just be sure your gold card is
there,” Julie called out, but Mike was gone.
I fetched us something to drink from
my office. Walking back, Julie pulled me into the main on air studio. “I
thought this would be nicer,” she said.
The studio was large and modern,
newly redecorated with plush carpeting and sound proofing. One entire wall
consisted of floor to ceiling windows, giving the room a breathtaking view of
the city skyline and the Astrodome. Julie dimmed the lights, found an old
blanket with the station’s call letters on it, and fashioned us a make shift
picnic on the floor by the window. We dined on pepperoni and extra cheese pizza
and wine coolers, with Houston at our feet.
Biting into a pizza bone, Julie shot
me a curious look. “Why haven’t you made a move on me yet?” she asked matter of
fact.
I was dumfounded. Thinking, I
realized it was a good question. “That’s a good question. I don’t know.”
“Daddy says Yankees are slow,” she
teased, “but my gracious. It’s not like you haven’t had the chances.”
She was right. Since meeting we’d
spent nearly every day working side by side. We became friends. We went out
together several times on unofficial dates. Julie lay on her side on the
blanket with one leg propped up, her head resting in a slender palm supported
by her elbow. From behind, the lights of the city cast a flaxen glow on her
hair which was loose and fallen.
Suddenly she sat upright. “I guess Daddy
was right!” She smiled and pulled her Baylor sweatshirt up over her head and
off. Tossing it aside, she quickly unhooked and wiggled out of her pink bra.
Freed from their restraints, her breasts stood out large and firm, her nipples
erect. Watching, I became instantly turned on.
Julie noticed.
“Oh, you like that, huh?” Giving her
body an enticing shake, Julie stood and unzipped her jeans. Turning her back to
me, she seductively eased out of the tight fitting denims. She stood in front
of the large window clad only in skimpy pink panties.
I needed no further encouragement.
We lay curled together on the
blanket, the sun’s rays warming our naked bodies. Julie stirred luxuriantly and
let out a long, low sigh. “I feel wonderful,” she purred. “I haven’t slept like
that in ages.” She giggled girlishly, moving her face close to mine. “That’s
probably because I haven’t screwed like that in ages.” Her hand ran across my
body and we kissed.
“Why do I have the feeling I’ve
opened a can of worms here?”
“More like Pandora’s Box, lover… I
was exhausted last night. Just wait till I’m at full strength.” The thought was
at once intriguing and scary. “Mmm… the sun feels so nice. What time is it?”
she asked, her head resting on my chest.
I glanced up at the large wall clock.
“Just seven…”
“Damn!” we both said in unison,
looking at each other and then the control console.
Julie jumped up first. “You stay
where you are, sweetie. I’m not done with you yet. I’ll be right back.”
As I watched, Julie padded naked
across the studio to the control board. She skillfully flipped a couple of
switches and made several adjustments to the on air controls. “Humm, naked
radio… now there’s a format we need to explore.”
Julie looked up from her work. “I
like the way you think.”
A legal ID followed by a jingle
about being the first to wish Houston listeners a Merry Christmas poured from
the studio air speakers. It was instantly followed by the opening crescendo of
Phil Spector’s production masterpiece. Darlene Love began to plead, Christmas,
Baby Please Come Home. The station was now twenty-four hour holiday music.
“Very nice,” I called out as Julie
danced her way back to me. “Perfect segue, and only an hour late.”
She knelt down, swinging a shapely
leg over me, straddling my body. “Thank you,” she said, wiggling on top of me,
“so, where is my reward?”
As my hands touched her and our
bodies came together, the room grew dim. We both turned to the window. The
sight froze me in place.
Just outside the building, suspended
in mid-air floated the Good Year Blimp. It hovered silently, level with our
floor. Three faces were pressed against the windows of the pilot’s gondola.
“Oh…” Julie chimed. Still straddling me, she flashed the peeping aviators a big
smile and waved. I was certain I saw at least on happy figure return her
friendly gesture. Several embarrassing moments later, the mammoth air ship
moved stealthily away and the studio was once again bathed in sunlight.
I tried to speak. For the first time
in my life was struck mute. Julie laughed out loud. “What’s wrong, lover, never
see a blimp before?”
Slowly regaining my composure, I
motioned towards the window. “But… the… they…”
“Oh, don’t worry. They do that all
the time, floating around, peeking into office windows.” She leaned down,
kissing me wildly.
Instantly the blimp was forgotten.
I awoke exhausted, spent, drained
and with an incessant ringing in my head. A naked body began to stir next to
me. It was Julie. She rolled over in the bed half on top of me, her soft hand
moving across my stomach. “Oh, what are you trying to do… kill me?” I managed
through a parched mouth.
She brushed a fold of golden locks
from her sleepy eyes. “Relax, sweetie, it’s just the phone.” Reaching over she
kissed my lips, “Besides, can you think of a better way to go?” Retrieving the
hand set, Julie rolled back over, the long coiled cord stretching across my
chest.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes and
looking around I finally realized we were in Julie’s bedroom. The flowered pink
comforter; the pale pink walls; the rose pink curtains; the dark pink rug, and
the bright pink princess phone were a dead giveaway.
We had finally dressed and left the
radio station some time after noon on Thanksgiving. Managing a couple of hours
sleep, I showered, shaved and dressed in my black suit, black bow tie, white
dinner jacket and a splash of Aqua di Silva. Like most things at the
Houstonian, Thanksgiving was a formal affair. But while I was still feeling the
effects of marathon sex, Julie looked amazing. Her hair was perfectly pinned
and she was fresh and striking in a shimmering full length pink gown that
hugged every curve of her incredible body. Making our dinner call with time to
spare, we turned more than a few heads in the main dining room. Or maybe it was
Julie’s deep plunging neck line. After an endless feast of food and drink, we
strolled around Transco Tower’s alluring park and fountain.
It didn’t take much convincing for
me to spend the night.
“Ok… yeah… he’s here…” From what I
could make out Julie was having a hard time with whoever was on the phone. She
turned, handing me the receiver, “Here, see if you can do something with him.”
“Who…?”
“Mike, I think, he’s laughing so
hard I can hardly make out what he’s saying.”
I propped myself up and took the
phone. Julie slipped into a hot pink robe and left the room. She was right.
Mike Jasen’s hardy laugh came through clear and loud. All I could get out of
him was something about the newspaper. As I hung up, Julie returned. Now she
too was laughing hysterically. Snatching up tissues to wipe the tear streaked mascara
she sat on the edge of the bed, dropping a copy of the Houston Chronicle in my
lap. It was open to Friday’s dining section. A sharp clear picture of a
handsome, well attired couple having dinner graced the bottom of the page. The
caption read:
Houston newcomer, radio
Program Director Billy James and companion
Julie Jo Acker, Station
Executive Assistant, celebrated their promotions
while enjoying the
Thanksgiving fare last evening at the Houstonian Club.
I looked at Julie. She was still
racked with fits of laughter. Sitting up in the bed I re-read the caption and
gave the picture of the two of us a closer look. Ok, so Mike had set us up.
What was the big deal? Julie continued to laugh and dab at her eyes. What was
so funny? I didn’t get it.
“I don’t get it,” I said, giving
Julie a perplexed look. Through her laughter she managed to hand me a copy of
the Houston City Paper. There, in the corner of the page in the entertainment
section, was a small, grainy photo of two naked bodies, the female straddling
the male on what was obviously the floor of an air studio. The station’s call
letters and logo were clearly emblazoned across the blanket the amorous couple
shared. The headline above boldly proclaimed: Porn-Rock New Format?
Julie almost rolled off the bed in
hysterics. I felt the bed, and the room, and my career crashing in on top of
me. Seeing my reaction, Julie managed to compose herself somewhat. “What’s
wrong, lover,” she asked, smiling and swallowing more laughter, “never see a
blimp before?”
“What’s the matter? Look…!” I held
up the paper.
“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head,
still grinning, “it’s a shame it’s so grainy, isn’t it?”
I nervously examined the photo. She
was right. While the station’s call letters could easily be made out, the
figures were unidentifiable. Wild strands of blonde hair covered Julie’s pretty
profile. Her hand and arm obscured my upturn face.
Thank God.
Julie was downright proud of her
sudden, albeit anonymous fame. It was all I could do to keep her from calling a
press conference to announce she was the Porn
Rock Girl. Mike and I agreed a more subtle approach was best. Let the city
wonder and speculate. Julie bought up a dozen copies of the edition for family
back in Dumas. I made a mental note to do my best to avoid meeting any of her
kin.
We decided to lay low for the
weekend, least anyone start putting two and two together. Hanging out at
Julie’s apartment was a mixed blessing, given her appetite for sex. She was
insatiable. On Saturday night, to alleviate some cabin fever, and give my sore
body a rest, we joined Mike and his wife for dinner at a small family run
Mexican restaurant on Houston’s near north side. With flawless Spanish, Julie
ordered us a satisfying spread of pozole, tamales, black beans and rice, pico de
gallo and mole poblano. In faltering Spanish, I gave the bemused bartender a
quick lesson on mixing Cactus Flower Margaritas. Over desert of camote and
frozen ice cream, Mike confessed. After securing dinner reservations through
one of our sponsors, he alerted the Chronicle. The paper dispatched a staff
photographer to the exclusive inn.
The blimp, however, was an ironic
coincidence. It was on its way to cover the city’s Thanksgiving Day
festivities. It just happened to be carrying a free lance photographer. Any way
you sliced it, the station was getting the attention Mike wanted. We were the
talk of the town.
December blew by, taken up with
getting the new format ready. Julie and I stole away to Galveston Island for a
couple of days then she was off to Dumas and family for the holidays. Houston
became a ghost town. It was amazing how many people from the rest of the
country migrated here. And they all went home for the holidays. Even my friend
Bill deserted me to be with his mom on Christmas. Somebody had to babysit the
station. That somebody was me.
I sat in the darken air studio
Christmas Eve, sipping rum spiced eggnog and looking out on the city. It was
8:40 PM and 81 degrees outside. I wondered what the Astrodome would look like
covered with snow. I really didn’t mind too much being there. Being single with
nothing else to do and no place to go, I was accustomed to working weekends and
holidays, giving the married guys time with their families. It was just part of
the job.
“Now how did I know I’d find you
here?”
I recognized the soft, well trained
voice of Misty, the station’s intern. She smiled and stepped into the room.
From behind her back she produced a giant chocolate muffin with a single lit
candle. Holding up a finger, I caught her just in time. “If you sing Happy Birthday
you’re fired.”
“Fired from what? I work eighteen
hours a day, seven days a week, and don’t get paid… including holidays I might
add.”
Misty was barely 18 years old and
had been interning since her junior year in high school. Upon graduation, she
postponed plans for college to spend every waking minute here at the station.
She lived, breathed, ate and slept radio. All she wanted was to be a DJ. She
reminded me a lot of myself. She presented me with the thoughtful, makeshift
birthday cake. I paused for a moment then blew out the candle. Her kiss to my
cheek seemed curiously more than friendly. “Merry Birthday, Boss,” she said
taking a stool next to me at the console, “Merry Birthday and Happy Christmas.”
We sat in silence for a while,
watching the Houston night. The deep mellow voice of Bill Pinkney flowed from
the studio air speakers as the Drifters began to dream of a White Christmas.
Misty smiled, reached over and bumped up the volume a notch then relaxed back
in the stool, her eyes closed.
“You know what I wish?” I asked as
the music changed.
“Shhh…” Misty touched my arm gently,
“you won’t get your wish if you tell.”
I looked over. She sat with her feet
drawn up, her arms wrapped around her knees, head back and eyes closed, quietly
singing along with Karen Carpenter. Tiny Christmas ornaments dangled from her
pierced ears. Misty was a beautiful girl with dirty blonde hair and questioning
hazel eyes that sparkled when she smiled. She also possessed a strong, steady
melodic voice and a natural talent for radio. A mischievous grin crossed her
face. “So, this is where you and Julie did it.”
I could feel my cheeks reddening.
“What?”
“C’mon, everyone knows it was you
two. It’s the best known secret in Houston, probably all of Texas by now.”
“Yeah… but…”
Straightening in her stool, Misty
turned to me still grinning. “Easy, Boss,” she said, making an overt motion of
checking me out. “I can’t say I blame her.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the
compliment,” I replied fully a blush. “But I’ll choose to believe my fantasy
that no one knows.” I gave her my best suspicious look. “And you young lady, what
am I going to do with you? How can I be sure you won’t tell?” Misty’s
expression changed. She wasn’t sure if I was serious. “Well, I’ll think of
something.” I pointed to a stack of papers on the end of the console. “Hand me
that air shift schedule, please.”
“Air shift… we don’t even have any
DJ’s!” She looked at me puzzled and reached for the schedule neatly laid out on
stationary proclaiming the station’s new logo and call letters. Her eyes grew
wide and her face lit up like the New Year’s Eve ball. “Yahoo! Oh my God… oh my
God!” She jumped out of the stool. “Yes… yes, yes, yes!” Stopping long enough
to catch her breath, she looked at me. “You’re not kidding, right? Tell me this
isn’t a joke, please!”
“It’s no joke. The new format starts
the first and the station can’t function without DJ’s.”
“Yes… but daytime… 10 AM to 2 PM…
full time?”
“It’ll be just you and me Kid for a
while.”
“Oh my God…” One moment Misty looked
as if she would explode; the next like she might cry. She hugged me tightly.
“Thank you, Boss, oh, thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. That’s why you
got the job. That is if you want it,” I teased.
She kissed me again and hugged me
even tighter. And she started to cry. “Thank you, Boss.”
I held her, kissing her forehead.
“Merry Christmas, Kid, now go on and get out of here. I’ll see you bright and
early on the twenty sixth. We still have a lot of work to do before the first.”
Still clutching the schedule, Misty
wiped a tear with her sleeve. “Can I…?”
“Go on, take it; frame it. You
earned it.”
She squealed again like a little
girl and rushed out of the studio.
Watching Misty’s reaction that night
was the best birthday or Christmas present I could have received. The years to
come would prove my faith and belief in the shy girl who wanted to be a DJ were
well founded.
I finished off the eggnog and poured
myself a tall glass of straight rum.
The new format made its debut right
on schedule. By January second every school lunch room and business office buzzed
with talk of Houston’s new disco station. With a blitz advertising campaign,
club tie inns, and word of mouth we had the city humming a disco beat. We were
written up in newspapers and Billboard magazine. Soon we were the #3 station in
the market, assuring my position with corporate.
Once over the hump, the station’s
popularity thrust me into the forefront in Houston’s frantic dance club scene.
What little free time I had was divided between my strained relationship with
Julie and work as a guest DJ. Julie, too, found herself being pulled in
different directions. As the station settled into some semblance of routine,
she became restless. A couple of months slipped by and Julie accepted a
lucrative position with a local law firm, saying good bye to radio forever.
Conflicting schedules sounded a death knell to our relationship and it wasn’t
long before we regrettably lost touch.
I took consolation exploring the
other side of Houston’s night life, its gentlemen clubs.
