He opened the door and felt the cold air slap him in the face, like a dame with eyes flaring with hate and a heart burning with revenge. It was the kind of cold you only get at 3 AM when a man is alone and has nothing left to lose.
WMAG was located at the top of a 16 story bank building in High Point, a small city located near Greensboro. If Greensboro was a Wal-Mart of a city, High Point was a Goodwill store. Still, at night, it was a wonderful place to be. The window from the main control room overlooked the city towards the south while the door to the fire escape looked out towards the west. It was quite a beautiful view, at least before the sun came up.
The start date for Christmas music at WMAG is now the first Friday after Halloween.
I'm not kidding.
Saturday nights, the station ran a live oldies show hosted by a guy I'll call Rod. Rod was Ron Burgundy before there was Ron Burgundy. He had great pipes and a warm inviting personality that came out over the airwaves and wrap you up in a hug. Or so it was described to me. I just thought he had a ballsy voice.
Rod was a ladies man. Sometimes when I came in for my shift, there would be a couple of impossibly blonde women that Rod would ask me to let in. Rod frequently cut out with the control room still a mess with music carts all over the place. "Hey buddy, sorry about the mess but I gotta go. I got you covered, next time." I don't know what he meant by me being covered but I was never covered in cash or by one of his spare blonde women.
No, she points. Is the pointing the signal?
Then another finger points out. Oh, she’s counting. OK, counting to what? Three? Five? OK, she goes all the way to five! The counting is to five! Five fingers is the signal!
No, wait! She balls her hand into a fist and 2 seconds later is reading the news.