With contagious joy, Jolly Good Fellow unites musicians

An unlikely group gathers

It’s a hodgepodge of people huddled together as an audience.  For new music performers, it’s feeling a mound of nerves. For some, it's more like mandatory fun, at first. Some of us have pretend smiles. Some of us just don't sing. 

However, the night quickly turns to far more as strangers become new friends and family-like bonds form over an evening of student musician performances and caroling. 

Organized by an emailed map, about 20 of us gather for holiday treats of assorted colors at a young neighbor musician's home.  

I see a cheerful student inviting me into his home. And, another sweet former student of mine, now home-schooled, is downright Elf-happy-to-hear-Santa-is-coming giddy to see me.

And, piling in one by one are people of all ages and international backgrounds. Youngsters and new musicians arrive, some ready to perform, and some, not so much. 

The leading music man starts the party- -our music teacher, and his cheer, begins to melt away the nerves.

The party starts with small talk

The party starts with small talk. I actually hate parties. For me, a shy person, it’s just too much pressure to be “on” for too long. To be honest, time with people I don't know really well, exhausts and deflates me. 

But, this man is my son's music teacher, and I can't wait to watch my son perform.  Caroling is planned for later, so I come to the party ready for mandatory mingling and possibly some caroling too. But, probably not.

To my relief, I find refuge in another introverted guest. We huddle in our worlds and hide away from our bravest trolls about the milling quarters. 

I am a carefully stepping zombie with a holiday smile

There are a few people I really want to get to know know, but I’m awkward at reaching out. 

I try to stumble through teacher stories, and I spend some time encouraging my new introverted friend before her June and Johnny Cash performance.  She says she’s terrified. 

I share about my first piano recital being last April. I talk about how I focused on another piano student as I played. He was 82. I focused on his smile. I knew if he could do it, I could too. 

I talk about how I compared it to talking on live TV or ducking while dodging bullets in a general reporting assignment many years ago. I mean to say it isn’t easy. I am not sure how well the stories translate, but I try. 

We are all summoned to become audiences

Time tolls and we are summoned to become audiences. We are warmed up with our jolly good fellow teacher- -a man who has inspired so many from old to young.

Looking back, to be honest, the evening is like a joyous celebration of who this man is to all of us. He is our music teacher. And, I find quickly that he teaches students of all ages and performing abilities. 

And, I also later see that he has a way of bringing out the musical best in all of us- -whether we can recognize it right away in ourselves or not.

Up first are the bravest music soldiers

My new introverted friend makes those brave steps to the stage. She plays the guitar and sings this quiet angelic song. If she's shaking inside, you can't tell. She sang with such honest sincerity and raw feeling that I felt what she felt.

Then, we had a little Johnny Cash performance from another new music student. He was pretty soulful for a local cowboy hat cladded real estate agent. 

Then, one of my brave amazing own school students sang and played the guitar too. He was fabulous.

And then, my son played. Up to seconds before the performance- -his first musical performance after two years of guitar lessons, he was like a cat shrinking away from cold water. But, our jolly good knight stood up beside him and sang along. He held his music and cheered him on note by note.

I recorded the musical production. I was so proud that I forgot to take a photograph. I was grateful that our jolly knight’s bride had thought to take photos of all of the evening’s stars.

One of my favorite moments was being introduced to the song "I Remember It Well" from Gigi. I had never heard it before. I laughed the entire time. I loved the satire and the characters. 

Then, came caroling

We all gathered to drizzle carols over the neighborhood. I wasn't exactly sure how this was going to work out. 

Would people shut the doors in our faces? Would they simply not open their doors? After all we were just showing up at their doors uninvited. Was this just an old tradition? 

And, also, I am thinking deep down, "I don’t sing!!"  (See Elf scene. Jovie doesn't sing aloud). 

In fact, since pretty much being kicked out or sorted out of the church choir about 10 years ago, I go out of my way NOT to sing.

It was like trick-or-treating in reverse because the children didn’t need a gift at the doors, but the delighted faces of the adults, dogs and children actually opening their doors for us, were treats of their own.

Then, there was this sort of low-pressure easy time of storytelling and conversations that came along the red and green lit walking way. 

Children ran around the houses gleefully singing, neighbors bonded over Christmas decorations, and miraculously, small talk led to stories and humming led to actual singing.

And, by the end of the evening, even people who were normally too cool (me), were singing with their eyes closed and not holding back. I felt like Hugh Grant in the movie About a Boy when he suddenly finds himself just letting go.

Hugh Grant Sings Killing Me Softly with "his eyes closed" at 5:28

And, as the night drew to a close and the last house was visited, we all gathered together and ended up staying longer than we had planned.

And, when we left the house, we left the house like family - - bringing mounds of food home in our arms and not leaving without a hug.

And our Jolly Good fellow had done his thing- -uniting us all in music and joy and reminding us all of our own unique talents- -whether imperfect or closer to perfect- -wrapped up in a celebration of life, lights, and of the lights that are within us all. 

Bob Schneider unites carolers with contagious joy.

Bob Schneider, Digital Wild, Wink Burcham- -a young musician's first concert.

We arrived way too early for the Nutty Brown concert. So, we hung out with parking lot attendants, bugs and employees hanging four, no five, no four “No Re-entry” signs.

We stood. We sat. We drew circles in the dirt. My son wrote his name in cursive lined with rocks, sticks and shrubs. This was my son's first concert. 

We look back and we are first in line. We MADE the line. We talked with the first new couple to join us. The friendly man offered my son an orange Tic Tac. The man's wife and I talked about concerts we’ve attended before. She said she was friends with Hayes Carll’s wife. 

We walked in and I immediately found the first grassy area before the concrete splashpad with “stand only” room. We got to watch bands set up for themselves, no roadies here, and wild music notes and voices warm up.

We were also first in line for food. The teen-face employee was confused. She couldn't add quick enough, and there were no pictures on the cash register. So she had to ask again what I ordered. The burger is $5. The chicken is $6 and the drinks are $2. I added it up for her, and I helped her with the change out of $20. We got to our seats to find that the order was wrong, but whatever. I was just glad I’m wasn't the fifth person in her line.

The first band Wink Burcham was a country kind of band. They had a nice style. They connected with the audience by talking without much hype and announced they would be around to “visit” after the show.

The next band was The Digital Wild. This was a band composed of a Dolores-Cranberries-kind-of lead singer voice, a man with falsetto tones, a drummer, and a Mac computer. This was Africa. This was club music. And, this was everything in between.

And, the JOY in the lead singer’s eyes- -wow. Chantell Moody did this little Martha Graham dance. 

Sometimes it was like she was all alone at the stage, and sometimes, it was like there was no stage. 

She smiled brightly at the children dancing with her. And when she sang, “Raise your hands up!" her smile was contagious.

The music fan neighbor and I were so enthralled in this woman’s joy that we had to research her. Various styles of music all came together as if they were never apart. 

Moody was the first to recognize the vets in the audience, wished us a happy Fourth and said Bob was on his way in.

Bob entered with Fourth of July joy. He said, “It’s the Fourth. We won!”

With the multi-talented Ollie away for the holiday, the band made some changes. Bob played a little more piano and back with the band, was Jon Sanchez, and man did he jam the stage. Wow, he’s talented. 

I noticed certain songs like Let the Light In were not played. And songs when Ollie’s trumpet usually was the icing, these songs were highlighted in guitar lace. 

And, in songs like Cheaper, when Ollie's usually the “Heave ho” vocal bomb alongside Bruce, it felt like something was missing. I missed the pop and lock dancing goggle-mania creative stardust he brings on the stage. 

Bob was the best I’ve ever seen him. He had this smile on his face. He took some time to talk about some of his newer songs. 

My new favorite Bob song is something like “It’s Easy to do with you…” And, it’s this ballad with crazy cool sweet words. And, last night, he told the story.

He said he’s married. And it’s “the last time.” And he said, “Fifth time’s a charm.” He said he realized after his daughter's birth, he’d written too many songs about whores. He wrote a song inspired by his new daughter.

Realizing he might be getting too sentimental, he laughed and said, ‘It’s about baby horses” with a smirk.

Audiences didn’t know if he was being serious or not. They laughed and cheered  “ahhhh.”

He said “No. That’s not what it’s about.”

I always thought the song was about finding a new love that felt like it was a thousand years old- -like all along it was just supposed to be, easy. And, it turns out it’s even deeper.

Bob played his usual popular hits, mixing it up with fast songs, and wild creative-what-did-he-say-lyrics. 

I found myself laughing at times at the comedy he weaved into his stories. And, then, I was appreciating a lyric like it’s a song that just said what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t find the words. 

Bob played a bunch of his cheerful songs. I was a little disappointed that he didn’t play a ton from his newest album, but he did sing King Kong, which was brave because it’s a quiet song and by that time in the show, not everyone in the audience wanted quiet and thoughtful.

He did surprise me by playing Dirty Feeling. He introduced it in a fun and humorous way. He said with a kid smile. “This is for the ladies . . . or maybe the men out there. . . .”

Dirty Feeling is a love song with these banged up lyrics. The words are, “Well, a year can come around. Drag you right along the ground. Like it’s all just one dark night. With no way into the light. Well, I know, exactly what that’s like…” With the dong dong dong bells, it just works. It captures the sentiment of brave hope.

A sweet moment of surprise came when Conrad handed three drumsticks to the kiddos in the audience before the show.  I watched my son examine the splitting sticks. He had a big grin on his face. The children danced around as if he had given them cotton candy. 

The circle of four audience members connected with the band smiled and told my son, “That’s a big deal. He’s an amazing drummer. He’s one of the best”

Michael was 9. And, he had been playing the guitar for a year. He was actually pretty good. His teacher said he needed to be exposed to live music. So, I thought his first concert should be something special. So, I took him to see Bob.

Throughout the evening, it got a little later than his bed time. But, fireworks and music seemed to keep us both pretty happy. 

My son's funny because he’s not easily impressed. He doesn’t say something is good if it is not. He won’t even try to be polite. 

It took Michael a bit to see and understand all that made this stage special. 

Then, a little stardust fell from the stage. Bob made eye contact with my young musician and started making funny faces. Bob went into more of his funny characters. 

And, the band was in Bob’s Oz again and music magic like cheese wiz was stringing creative confetti everywhere. It’s like we were all riding on a plane- -Bob’s plane.

Then, finally, my son smiled. He laughed. He gave this crooked look and rolled his eyes. 

The last song played and somehow from out of nowhere, Bob had one more guitar pick. He tossed it to my son. And it fell just short of the barrier fence. 

Some of the adults reached for it. My son didn't wait for me to help. He screamed loudly, “That’s MINE!” 

Michael's guitar teacher actually gave him a Bob pick. But, it wasn’t until this moment at this concert that he realized how cool the pick was.

He took the pick and looked up at me and smiled. 

The band played two encore songs and left. The standing- only space quickly evaporated.

I looked up and Conrad was on the drums clearing the stage. And, I was wanting to tell Bob thank you, but realized, this was the same thing. 

I waved, I told Conrad “Thank you.” And, he remembered the kid he gave the drumstick to and nodded.

We got home. I tucked my son into bed. He couldn't stop smiling.

And, a week later, he had his best guitar music lesson ever. 

And, his teacher said with a huge grin and unforgettable joy, “He’s turned a corner. My son inspired him!!!”

That Texas City Shooting

It keeps coming up. And, I noticed when I mention it casually to friends or in passing, people raise their eyebrows. So, I figured maybe it was a bigger deal than I originally thought, and maybe I should write about it- -you know get it down on paper so that maybe I could forget about it…a little…more.

It has been a while, but the outcome is still etched in my head and the images, I think, kind-of scarred me for some time. But, I didn't see that feeling at the time. Acting on adrenaline, I just kept going.

You see, in Journalism school you hear that sometimes investigators refer to bodies as "fancy" furniture and you would also hear the mother's response, "my baby's not fancy furniture." But, it's a coping mechanism.


And, journalists may talk about the "hamburger meat" flung all over the ground after a serious car accident. And after awhile, the tragic events become another news story assignment: you get the facts and you write the story.

The blockage came with me though, and, I think it might have been one of the reasons I stepped aside from journalism full time.  Heck, I was 23 and, it was a bit too much to process at the time. It's like time softens the heart and well, looking back, I realized that leaving was my own survival mechanism.

You see I got into journalism to change the world. But, when I realized the job was changing me, I decided to take a step back.

Scarred in my head is the image of the man's Converse shoes hanging out of the sheet covering his body. It was like he was sleeping, yet there was no room for his face or air. He was laying on the bar sidewalk just five feet from his exit. His head was at a diagonal from the door and his feet facing me. In just a few seconds, his story was over.

***

When we heard the news on the police scanner, Dwight, the tiny Texas City town photographer and Gallagher lookalike and I didn't think it was going to be a story. We literally packed up and jogged over to the bar thinking it was a false alarm.

Then, we realized it was going to be a much bigger story. The bar was surrounded by yellow ribbon, staring spectators, and people hanging out on their front porches. The bar, located on a busy city corner street, backed up to an old neighborhood.

Rumor spurred that the man had hostages in the bar and had been in there a while. We hear 2-3 people are in there with him and he is communicating with the police on the phone.

Several police cars have surrounded the building and it's clear negotiations are in motion.  I am there standing next to a few other reporters that seem jolly to arrive at the scene. They arrive with a smile and post themselves to the yellow line like it's their starting mark.

I stand with them at the yellow rope observing- -reporting pad in hand. I think I glow green.

Then, "POP! POP! POP!"

I remember turning left and ducking. My knees went to water. I remember running low and racing toward a house and hiding behind a bush looking over just as soon as my head stopped spinning.

Dwight was near me.  I looked down and then back up again and the man running out of the bar shooting was on the ground. He was quiet.

Allegedly the guy came out pretty drugged up and started shooting at officers deliriously and at everyone in the vicinity. In the end, the guy was dead and three officers were injured- -one in the arm. At a later interview, the officer hit in the arm said he was happy to be healing and relieved. The other officers were cheering him on and comforting themselves with a band of camaraderie.

I remember going back to the paper and writing until almost nine that evening- -a few hours past the time of the shooting. It was much more than an eight hour day. You see we are expected to stay longer if the news happens. The news is your clock. It is your sun. When I left at nine pm, the editor wondered why I didn't stay even longer. And, later, without my permission, he reworked my story, added his name as a contributor and it was picked up by the AP wire http://newspaperarchive.com/us/texas/texas-city/texas-city-sun/2001/08-11.

****

The next day I was congratulated.

I didn't think about it being my moment to shine as a journalist. In fact, I was numb.  And, I was asked to cover it again.  I circled the house of the dead guy, knocking on the door to reach the family after the TV news crew "threw me a bone" of information.  The dusty blonde haired TV reporter looked at me, determines I'm not a threat and says to her videographer, "Just give it to her." No one answers the door to my relief.

And, that story like the 24/7 coverage of 9/11 pretty much melted my ambition. You see, even as a journalist --even though it was my job (for $8 an hour even with a Journalism degree) to cover the news, I was still human.  The news was happening, it was what made my job a job, but, I needed a break from it too.

Later that day,  I went back to the Texas City bar.  I took on a brave face and walked right in before the bar was even open for business. I couldn't help but to notice the smudge of red wave stains on the sidewalk along the way. Numb.

To my right in the empty bar was an employee in the kitchen molding hamburger meat for the evening's prep. And, to the left of me, in the office was an accountant. I asked about the story from yesterday (about 12 hours before my arrival). And I got, "No comments" as my response.

I took a breath and left.  I piled safely back into my Nissan Sentra relieved.

And, a few months later, I left the journalism field full time too. After two years of optimistic yearbook staff writing, four years of study while working full time in the Journalism field, I was done. I said I was leaving to make more time for my "family", but I was newly married and I didn't have children yet.  And, we were both work-a-holics at the time, so that wasn't exactly the truth.

In reality, I was excited about the $12,000 raise as an admissions analyst at the University of Houston- -I'd be making 26 grand a year. It was an 8 am - 5 pm predictable day and, no bullets.

It ended up being completely boring- -even suffocatingly so. I think the highlight of the year for me was when I got to write a profile story about a woman retiring after 30 years of service  (http://archive.thedailycougar.com/vol68/32/news/news3.html) and the power point presentation I created for her with 10 hours of overtime pay.

But, I used the time to recreate myself as a positive-writing journalism teacher. And, as a journalism teacher with a masters in Education, I used my stories to teach young journalists about what they could do, what they could expect and what they could become.

I taught them they didn't have to be out for blood, they didn't have to be all about the news at whatever cost. And, instead of shootings and board meetings, we covered teacher profile pieces, stories promoting the schools and we made the daily 4,000-member audiences laugh.

I think it made for a much better story after all.

Memories flood as musician conquers stage fright

I miss grandma.

I miss curling up in her lap and knowing everything would be okay.

I miss watching her pin her hair back away from her face.

I miss her wrinkled hands.

I miss her Muumuu dresses, shopping trips and our trips away for the summer months.

I miss trips to Luby’s every Sunday after church.

I miss how she’d let me drive her blue Cadillac on road trips at the age of 15. I was a nervous new driver, but she always believed in me.

I miss how we’d sing loudly together in the car on road trips. We didn't have to hit all of the right notes.  Our guards were down. 

I miss the way she’d sit on the edge of the church pew so she could rest her feet on the last piece of carpet. I miss how she’d sing beside me. Sometimes she’d just tap her legs with her hand on her knee.

This week,  she would have been 89 years young. And, I missed her while I played at my first piano recital.


She got me playing 25 years ago. And, life's challenges took over two years later and I stopped making music. When I went into college, the piano was sold, and I lost that connection with the keys.

Sitting near the piano at church one day, suddenly, 7 months ago, I felt the tug to play again. Well, it was more like a flaming cattle prod. 

I blame my grandmother. I blame her memory. You know how people you love still hang around even after they’ve left somehow? Well, 15 years later, she’s still here (I point to my heart).

So, literally a day later, I cleared out my tiny savings account to buy a used piano from the 80s. It’s a walnut colored Baldwin. It was delivered and kind-of tuned. $845.

I quickly discovered finding and buying the piano was the easy part.

I sat across the room and kept my distance. I was intimidated and, I wondered if this idea was just, well, stupid.

The piano was the elephant in the room. I wasn’t sure if I could still play or if I was worthy of this new friendship.

Approaching the Bench

I brought out the cartoon-character-tween beginner piano books. During every move from college years and in between, I’ve kept these books.

I dusted off the 1957 Baptist hymnal we used to sing from. It smelled stale. The pages were winter white.

Like dusty diaries, they were tiny sacred clips of my past - -little remnants of memory tokens hiding in my heart.

I grab hold of the bench, opened the books and begin to stumble through the motions.

Drippings of memories, lessons, slivers of the songs came back in waves, and others were strange reminders of sore muscles. I remembered just how hard it was to learn to play.

And, I could hear my grandmother humming in the room behind while she washed the dishes.

It’s a Tango dance with a lot of tripping

Playing again had moments of triumph and moments of falling face forward into the mud.

I set up lessons at the local trendy music place. I walked into my first lesson, and laying out my tween books said, “This is all I remember.” It was a vomit of memories and nerves twisted into feelings I can’t quite decipher. 

And, inside, there’s this war because playing for someone I don't know is actually terrifying. I hadn't yet built that bond of trust and yet, I was supposed to play.

I had only played for my grandmother, my piano teacher 25 years ago, and any of my grandmother’s maids that would wonder through the kitchen from time to time. I felt like I was in 7th grade all over again and playing the piano was like writing in my diary- -it was a very private adventure.

She let me drive.

The 33 year-old-teacher had just graduated from composition school. He was very talented. He was clearly an artist and annoyingly hot - -this didn't help me to focus.

He was the first to tell me the grave news:
1. I have a lot to learn (he said I didn't even hold my hands correctly) and 2. I have a lot to re-learn. He kind-of scratched his shoulder-length blonde hair and wondered what to do with my ambition.

While, he was stoked that I was practicing an hour a day, he didn't know which way to guide me. And, lessons gets snagged inside webs of egos and tender memories and never completely take flight.

The Blue Cadillac

And, I constantly reference my teacher from the 7^th grade, and I talk about my grandmother too- -well, in the two to three sentences we get in inside the 25 minute music session. I keep saying I am used to playing for old mean women teachers. He has no idea what to do with that information.

My head is flustered. My heart is on the piano and my spirit is lost in the world between the now and 25 years ago.

It takes a month, and I realize the the teacher-student relationship is a fragile one, and this one is just not working. And the piano teacher cancels practice once due to illness or a trip, he’s late to another and he often just doesn’t know what to do with me. He says he is used to beginners and I’m in the in-between.

He assigns me Bartok “vegetable” exercises and allows me to play my beloved Sting. I think I inspire him, but at the same time, he distracts me, and he is interrupting this very personal process for me.

Somehow, I still need my grandmother’s memory to be a part of this journey. And, I notice he’s adding clouds to the portrait I’m trying to paint.

I dump the hot teacher

Choosing music over ego, I cancel instruction, and fish for a new teacher. Within a week, I find one in my neighborhood. 

She’s everything I needed and so much more. Mary's sweet, funny, mean enough to push me when I whine, and she inspires me.

And, I can be completely vulnerable around her.  She’s 76 and a retired Elementary teacher. She knows how to block lessons into segments. She knows how to tell me when I stink and when she does, my ego can handle it.

If I could, I’d spend hours with her after our practice time together. I find her warmly engaging and very kind. Just her spirit speaks to my weary mom-of-three soul.

Her house is so quiet too. Just visiting the calming place to practice resets my spirit. And, she also does this thing where she doesn’t push me or overwhelm me. Even if she slowly talked me into the piano recital for weeks, she let it be my idea to be a part of it. 

The recital

After weeks of practice, Mary's students lined up to play: six children and two adults: one 37 and one 80.

I watched as the first seventh grade student performer played with quiet reserve. He, the great grandchild of a musical genius, made it look easy. In confidence and stature, he was the tallest person in the room.

Normally, as a full-time 7^th grade English teacher, I’d be leading these students, but this time, they were teaching me.

One student performed dressed in Harry Potter character confidence.  Cape in tow, she blasted through her performance with a maroon and yellow swagger. She wasn't perfect, but, like a super hero, she just kept going.   

When the time came, my knees went to water like when I covered that Texas City bar shooting and the bullets were flying (In case you didn’t know, when bullets fly, your knees buckle. You get instantly weak). Playing the piano live for the first time in front of a room full of strangers, felt like that moment.

And, when I did the PBS membership drive on live TV, my knees felt like that too. I was looking right into the camera thinking thousands are watching me. I can't mess up. I can't stop. I've got to just keep going. But, that's hard to do when your head suddenly turns numb.

Midway through my first song, I stopped breathing and then laughed and kept going.  I didn't look around to see all of the eyes on me, though I could feel them pounding on me like a winter jacket in an Austin July.

Find your focal point

And, where I sat at the piano, I could see the other adult pianist. His eyes reassured me I'd survive this. In my head, I reached for my lately-favorite Bob Schneider lyrics "I wish your mom was ugly...” And, I smiled and found my focal point. 

In the middle of my two performance songs, a baby cried cracking the silence. I broke stage recital character and I looked directly at the anxious mom and said, “It's okay. Let him cry. I am used to more noise and it helps.”

I took a breath and then went right back into the second song.

The second song just came together. Everything just clicked.  And, it was over.  I heard the clapping, forgot about my appointed time to bow and leaped into the arms of the comfy couch cushion seat and sighed loudly.

I could inspire people

After the performance, a woman in her 50s came up to me and said she'd wanted to learn how to play for a long time. She asked me for my story. The parents of the 7th grade students listened insisting to hear the story too.

And another parent almost my age commented kindly as he was leaving. I didn’t show it, but it meant the world to me to hear positive comments.

On Being Brave

It was brave to buy the piano. It was brave to pick up the phone for lessons. It was brave to practice. It was brave to agree to let Mary put my name on the program. It was brave to just show up.

Every student, at every age, had that challenge. And, in the end, the challenge united us as we took pictures like a graduating class following our performances. 

As my piano teacher says to be ‘patient with yourself,’ and ‘don’t look back at the recital video and pick your performance apart. Let the moment be.’

I chose to say yes to the recital because, well, it was time to face those fears- -even if 25 years later.

Though, it wasn't easy. Moments before that recital, I still wanted to hide in my grandmother’s lap again. I didn't think I could face the stage. But, I knew it was my turn to drive.

I felt like she was somehow there in my first recital moment too. And, she was there in all of the times in between.

She prodded me to play again, pushed me to find the best teacher and mandated that I take lessons seriously.

And, when my Gumby legs let me down, I saw friendly eyes in front of me and felt the laughter of a song. 

And then, of course, after the recital, I suddenly wanted to go to Luby’s to celebrate.

"What-a-future!"


 Here’s the tale of an average work day at a big-deal sports network. Some of the details are changed to protect the humor.

“What a Future!”

Today is Saturday. It’s time to go to work. I work at an unusual place. It’s not the typical part-time college job. In fact, here, 40 hours is “part-time.” You just work 40 hours and you get benefits, but it’s still considered “part-time.”  It’s not my dream job, but it has moments of possibility, I think. Well, I thought it was THE job when I started. But, I think everyone else did too.

As a member of the Program Resource Center, I am instructed to work together with a team of five to ten other librarians. We gather videos to prepare them for air. Today is different though. Bobby, a woman in her fifties, is training three new video librarians to replace the others that have been promoted or fired. It will take six weeks to train the new recruits.

Three recruits waddle like ducks behind their instructor. So far, two of the three recruits are fine. It’s become an assembly-line learning class. The third duck, however, is lagging behind. He has been separated from the others. He will get hands-on attention away from the crowd. Rumor has it our supervisor doesn’t want the big chief to know the third duck seems to have a learning disability.

Our job, as part of the existing team, is to buckle down and carry the extra load. On Saturdays a "select" few will be responsible for pulling shows for three major sports networks (about 3-5 million viewers). When most of us first applied for the entry-level $9-an-hour position, we were told we’d be responsible for getting “two networks on air.” We are told that this is a deed that is unheard of in most television networks. It is also our ticket into the world of motion picture making. (About two years later, I end up leaving this gig to work at a major newspaper for one penny more).

With this experience, we can transfer to any cable network facility and be a star. With the cable network initials on our resume, we will be untouchable. For many of us, that was enough to accept the job. We wanted a piece of the pie.

------A Piece of the Pie-----

The road to glory starts with pulling the programming for various regions of the country. There are twelve “networks” as we refer to them. One is Middle East or World. World feeds to places like Australia and Singapore. The other networks are South, Detroit, Arizona, Northwest, Pittsburgh, Midwest, Rocky Mountain, Sunshine, Southwest, Network and Auxillary. Basically it’s like twelve television stations in one building. At the top of every hour the countdown to air echoes throughout every network and hallway.  With the technical gadgets going it’s a little like counting down the new year or expecting a shuttle to launch toward some unknown galaxy all of the time.

Walking into work this Saturday morning I was scheduled to work South, Rocky Mountain and Midwest. I explain walking into South to the master controller, that “If I am not here, it’s just because I am pulling shows for three networks instead of two.” He smiled and nodded, almost animal-like, and grunting like an ape. I’m bitter because it’s an extra two hours of work for the same pay.

I check to make sure all of the shows are in the network and then check Midwest and Rocky Mountain.

Alison, the master controller in Midwest, welcomes me happily. She asks me how I’ve been and proceeds to tell me about her man dilemmas and what it is like to still be living at home at the age of 23. She complains about her parents trying to marry her off to a doctor. She invites me to come to the movies with her and a friend.

I finish up Rocky Mountain, checking to make sure the appropriate shows are filled for the day. Hampton is all too happy to have me keep him company. We talk about school, about infomercials and how tired he is. He complains when I turn the lights up. He howls like a vampire in the sudden light. He also whimpers when I leave the room.

The master controllers were told that if they needed to leave the room for any reason, they are supposed to call a supervisor to sit in to watch their programming for them.

Sometimes walking down the hallway, I can see them hanging on doorways with their arms stretched out to brace their hands on the sides of the sliding glass walls. They shout their words to companions across the hall.

Sometimes they speak to each other over the microphones in their rooms. Sometimes I can hear them singing to each other. They sing commercial songs, tap their feet and jump around to release all of their energy it takes for them to sit eight hours straight. They have the coveted jobs. They make $28,000 a year. They may work 12-14 hour days, but they are loaded.

-----Pulling shows and Holy jeans-----

After filling in the shows and updating the commercial spots, two hours have passed and it's time to start pulling the programs for Sunday.

I first have to put the commercials from Friday away. I take all of the three carts and pile them inside the commercial library.

Carlos walked into the room and asks, “What if staring at someone was sexual harassment? Then none of us would look at each other. Everything is harassment these days."

Jack, a teen-face comedic newer librarian, takes a sheet of paper and puts it over his face and like an Indian and dances around the room. Lurched over, he talks to us through the white paper muffling the sound of his voice.

Carlos, a Hispanic middle-sized man, always scared he will lose his job as a librarian, laughs and leaves the room.

I continue to put up my commercial spots. Carrie, a head librarian, is full of confidence.  She finishes putting up the Southwest spots. From where I am standing, I can see her climbing the moving shelves; she has braced herself up to the very top.

Climbing up the shelves is a definite problem with the supervisors. I remember my first day. I was taught to ONLY climb the shelves when a super wasn’t around.

I climbed very carefully. I asked to be warned if there was a chance at being caught.

Woodward, Carrie’s husband, shouts out, “Tip toe!” I guess I didn’t get the code. The PRC supervisor, third in the chain of  PRC command, walked by and then called me to speak with him.

This super’s name is Jose. He’s middle-aged, but he looks about 19 and he talks with a girl kind-of voice. He’s insecure- -dangerously so. He's always worried about how things look. He is the kind of guy that can have your back...then watch his own very carefully too.

Jose, whose voice mimics Barney, pulls me aside. He is certain to let me know we are not peers.  He says, “I just wanted to let you know around here, we don’t climb the shelves.”

His favorite word is “Basically…”

I give him my best dumb look. 

To smooth things over, I compliment the hole in his jeans. He did not take the compliment very well though. The funny thing is, I was being genuine. He called me into his office later to talk to me about my problem with authority.

------ Coolio Ghost Visit------

But today is Saturday and no authorities, no "supers" are present.

Carlos asks, “Who’s going to get breakfast?” It’s Saturday so there’s no breakfast truck or "Roach Coach" outside as most would refer to it. I squirm and say, “I'm not hungry.” 

Carrie, who just had a baby girl, says she doesn’t "need it." 

Carlos stares, waiting for someone to give in and then pouts. He leaves quickly to get his own breakfast.

Half an hour later he returns. He finds all three of us still putting away spots. He calls us, “Slow.”

I finish putting away all of the commercial spots and roll one of the carts to the beta tape library. To get there, I have to push the cart down the hall and through the copy and log administrator’s offices, past the master control supervisor’s room, past the International headquarters, past human resources and then around the hall again. When I get there Carrie has some sort of teenage Saturday morning sitcom on the tube, our “illegal” cable tube. She is working on her show list.

Carlos joins us and Jack files in a little later. Carrie comes in and out like she owns the place.

About half an hour later, the new security guard meanders to the back with the rest of us scrubs.  He sneaks up on Carlos and I. We both jump at his sudden appearance. It’s usually a ghost town in our neck of the woods. 

He asks us what we’re up to and then takes a look around the screening room- -as if he’s looking for loot. His coiled hair reminds me of Coolio, yet Coolio, though I’ve never met him, seems friendlier. The guy is always coming into the room about the same time on Saturday mornings when he’s supposed to be manning the front desk- -about a half a mile away from here.  He always asks me the same question. He asks me when I’m getting off of work.

Sometimes I muffle up my words and act stupid. Other times I say coldly, “Six."  He always makes me feel guilty. It’s as if he’s just looking for trouble.

When he first started working here he wasn’t even this refined. He spoke with more of a ghetto-slang. It was hard for people to understand when he was paging us. A lot of people took advantage of him. 

They would call him at the front desk and ask him to page people. Mostly on the weekends, they’d ask for “Al Coholic” and other distasteful names. 

And, it was especially funny because it took him a long time to learn. It took a week before the other security officers began telling him he’d have to sometimes write the names down on a sheet of paper before announcing them out loud on the intercom.

After mumbling a few words, he leaves the screening room as ghostly as he came. I scribble a note to Carlos, "He scares me.” Carlos says simply, “Me too.”

We suddenly hear Netty’s voice. He’s the big wig that runs this place. He is king. Carlos jumps a hundred feet. He’s usually not around on the weekends.  Or, at least he’s not back with the scrubs. Seems he’s showing off the new master control area currently under construction (i.e. our baseball field when no one is looking).

Carlos runs over to turn off the TV. He then leaves the room to take a peek down the hallway. He whispers, “It’s Netty.”

I question his paranoia.

------"But we're not OAPS"----

He explains, “The cable is illegal back here. If they find out, they will take it away.”

On a typical 8 am to 7 pm schedule, to be honest, when you have 3 hours of actual work to do and the rest of the time to “look busy,” the illegal cable really is the only source of sanity.

I explain to Carlos that all of the On Air Programmers have cable TV in their rooms.

He says “We’re not O A P s!” He waits a while then peeks down the hallway again.  He then turns the TV to the Spanish station and begins to bop to Spanish music. He narrates and sings under his breath while he jots down notes for his networks. He asks me if I understand the song and then explains the dances and asks me if I dance.

I tell him I am shy about dancing. He says, “Most Americans are shy about dancing.”

The day is broken up around lunchtime. One librarian is listed for “lunch duty.” This means he/she has to stay until the rest of the crew comes back. Today it is my turn.

The rest of the day is simply pulling shows and updating the tapes. It’s about an hour’s worth of work.  I screen a couple of fishing shows. You know, small boat, middle of the water, catch a fish and throw it back.  Jack turns up the television. We watch the better half of White Men Can’t Jump. 

Between commercials Jack screens a Rugby game. He explains the details of the game to me. He says the trick is to pass the ball between another player’s legs. He says that this is the whole point of the game. He and I watch the players topple over each other, grabbing one another as if they were part of a wrestling team.

He laughs out loud, sticks his thumb in his mouth and giggles. He then pauses the beta player and swivels the chair around to catch the next movie segment.

Carrie comes back to take a break. She watches the movie with us commenting on the commercials and she said she was watching a bit of Baywatch. She says it’s nothing more than soft porn.

The show starts again. Jack laughs out loud- -leaning back in his seat, covering his mouth to muffle the laughter.

The security guard pops in again. I leave for a moment and return to see he has taken my seat. He can tell that I am annoyed. You see we get the leftover chairs back there. And, if your seat isn’t falling apart, it means you fought for it. 

I explain, “Back here we always fight over the seats. Some lean way back and some just aren’t tall enough to reach the screening booth.” He gets up.

I finish screening the shows. It actually takes more than one hour. I am distracted by the movie. 

Carlos comes in from his lunch break and sees that I am still screening the same show. He calls me “slow” again. 

He says, in his Spanish accent,  “What-a-future!!!”

“I could have screened those shows in seven minutes!”

Carlos leaves to find a few missing shows.

The security guard asks if the show just started. He returns to the front of the building. Before leaving he comments on how easy we have it.

I start updating tapes. Three hours later it’s time to make copies of the runsheets. Runsheets show the problems in the air. They call them “p-sheets” or “problem” sheets.

My job, as the "p-sheet" person on Saturday, is to find all of the copies, separate them, and distribute them. It’s tedious work, but if you don’t do it exactly “right” you get a memo.

It’s now five minutes to six. Jack is still screening the Rugby match. He asks me if there’s anything he can help me with. I decline the offer. He announces he’s planning to stay. He explains the golf game comes off satellite feed late. He brings in his CD player from the car and sets up camp.

Carlos and Carrie have vanished. I walk down the hallway again, thankful to see the evening shift security guard. It’s time to go home.

I look at the clock, and it’s only three minutes til six. If it were a weekday, I’d be expected to stay until the top of the hour. I sit on the couch and wait for the clock to change.

One minute til six. I figure it’s okay to leave. “Close enough." I say.

The guard says, “Yes, go home and relax. You’ve earned it!”

I smile and nod, exit out the front doors, surprised it’s still daylight.

UPDATE

Two years after working at the TV network, I left to work at the paper for a penny more. Instead of $9.29 an hour, I made $9.30 an hour.

A few years later, I had an amazing visit with one of my network bosses. We had lunch, talked about old times and she offered me a job at $1 more than I originally made.

But, since, I was already making the 'bucks' as a teacher, I declined kindly.

And, I got a tour of the updated facility complete with all of the new bells and whistles. 

And, Carlos was there to remind me "Not to get lost" (not to be a stranger).