During the summer at WTTS, when I would come in to work overnights, I would usually have the janitor, Jerry, to keep me company for the first hour or so.  Jerry was a sixty-something Hoosier who was quite a talker. A real good ol’ boy. He’d be finishing up his duties for the night around the time I got in at midnight, so he’d usually stop in the studio to chat about any and everything.  He usually did most of the talking, telling me about his bungee jumping escapades and his experiences in Vietnam.  Sometimes he’d call the request line and jokingly ask me to play old country artists, like Hank Williams.  But he could somehow always tell what kind of mood I was in, and he’d offer little pearls about life, love, and occasionally God.  He was the only one who could really get away with calling me something like “Cutie” or “Cupcake.”  Sometimes he’d go on for what would seem like hours and I’d get slightly annoyed, only to remember that I’d be spending the next five hours with no one but myself.

In the late Fall, I was scared to death by a new and very unfriendly janitor in the middle of the night.  I don’t know if something happened to Jerry, or if we switched maitenance services, or what.  But I kind of miss him.  I don’t know if that’s sad or not.

Working at a radio station is peculiar in that it is “alive” twenty-four hours a day, and that every once and a while an employee will come in in the middle of the night.  If you are a considerate/cool employee you will either a) call the station to let me know you’re coming in or b) peek in the studio to notify me of your presence.

It’s none of my business why you need to come into work at THREE IN THE MORNING (?!?!), but when I hear unannounced rustling in one of the back rooms, I panic for a second.  I slowly approached the door, silently pondering if I should have armed myself some kind of weapon [like what -- break a CD and stab the perp with its jagged edges?]  I peer around the corner and see one of the guys from the AM station who begins typing on — I shit you not — a typewriter.

“H…Hi!” I say.
My voice starts out hesitant but ends up kind of perky for 3 am.  I wanted my tone to say, “Hi! It’s the middle of the night and I haven’t showered, but we both work at this establishment! Let’s be cordial!”

My chipperness was returned with a blank stare and a curt “Hi.”

“I’m Jenn!”
One more time.  C’mon. Work with me here.

“Hi…Jenn.”
Was that a grumble?

“I just heard some noise back here, so I just wanted to make sure…”
I realized he didn’t give a fuck and his face said it as he returned back to his archaic typing.

“I’m Jenn…” I said again, under my breath.  “And you may NOT call me Cupcake.”