It's actually ringing.
I had been calling into the Sammy Slimeball drivetime show for more than three years. Not every day, of course. That would be pathetic. But Tuesday nights Sammy Slimeball and company would do an hour of nothing but requests. Callers could pick out any song they wanted, and Sammy Slimeball would play it for them, let them give a dedication, and even introduce the song themselves if they really wanted. It was a glorious throwback to the early days of radio, when you had to sit by the dial in your house and tune it in juuuust right to even hear any sound.
Every time I had called in previously–which, again, hadn't been THAT many times–I was greeted with a busy signal. Sometimes I'd hang up and give it another go–after all, I understood the station was inundated with callers. You do need to try again every once in awhile in life. Other times–and this really was a rare occurrence–I simply hung up, continued on my drive home, and listened to people make their choices. Usually I dug what they selected, but sometimes...man, I bet Sammy Slimeball regretted letting some people on air with their selections.
I was going to be different, though. I had my song picked out for weeks, and knew exactly what I was going to say to Sammy Slimeball. It was so great, in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he told me to stay on the line so he could offer me a job after the show. It was going to be–
"Sammy Slimeball show, can you please hold for a minute?"
I began responding with an "of course," but hold music already started playing on the line. Well, they're busy, and this is farther than I had ever gotten before. I could barely contain my excitement, and felt my heart pounding away in my chest.
About 12 minutes later, that same voice came back on the line. "Thanks for calling into the Sammy Slimeball request hour. What do you want to hear?"
"Hi, Sammy!" I said enthusiastically. "Thanks so much for taking my call. I'd like to hear–"
"Look, kid, I'm not Sammy." It sounded like he was rolling his eyes as he said that. "I'm one of five producers on the team here. You don't think Sammy does this all by himself, do you?"
"Of course not!" I said, an indignant tone rising in my voice. "He's got Pickly Pete, Jenna Jam, Stooby in the Street..."
"Yeah, and they've got all of us working behind the scenes to make sure they don't screw things up," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "And even with all of our help, sometimes they still manage to blow it. Anyway...what song do you want to hear?"
"Well, I would love to hear 'Crazy Lover' by Edwin...Edwin...wow, this is a little embarrassing, but I seem to have forgotten his last name!" I said, throwing in a little chuckle to show how playful I could be on-air. "I really do love that song–maybe just a bit of stage fright, here."
"Yes, sir, I know what song you're talking about," the producer said. "But you'll have to pick another one. Someone else has already requested it. Ever since that guy released his new song, somebody calls in to ask for "Crazy Lover." I personally can't stand the tune, but hey, what do I know? I just push some buttons."
"Oh man, that's a real disappointment," I said. "Let me think for a minute...I don't have a backup in mind."
"Well, try and think quickly," the producer said. "We have a lot of people calling in."
"Of course," I said. "Hmm...oh! I know! How about one of MC Cemetery's early hits! I loved that duet he did with Edwin, and I checked out his whole collection of songs. They're really good!"
"Yeah, they're not bad," the producer said. "Unfortunately, ever since he retired from making music, he's actually asked radio stations to stop playing his songs. Too many bad memories, he said. We're a classy venture here, so we're going to honor his request."
"Oh, I didn't know that," I said.
"Well, he's been trying to keep it on the down low. Really doesn't want people knowing about him anymore. His funeral business has taken off, but he still keeps a low profile. Great guy, truly. Shame about his music career. Anyway...you'll have to pick another song."
I was really getting flustered now. My musical knowledge was escaping me. I could sing you more than 10,000 songs, but for whatever reason not a single one was coming to my head. I quickly got onto my computer and started a search for "good songs to request on radio."
"Sir, are you searching for a song?" the producer asked. "I can hear you frantically typing over there."
"Uh...no, of course not," I said. "Don't be silly!" I waved my hand in the air, like people do when they're shooting down crazy ideas. The momentum of my swat carried my hand into the computer screen, and a sharp shooting pain coursed through my fingers.
"So...do you have a song?"
"Uh...yes. How about 'Smart and Smarmy' by The Ottersmocks?" I couldn't believe what I had just said. The Ottersmocks were campy, novel, juvenile, trite. They were like those supergroups whose sole mission is to write cheesy pop lyrics that appealed to teenagers, except somehow The Ottersmocks were even less talented.
"You've gotta be kidding," the producer said. "Look, I understand you're feeling some pressure here, but I'm gonna have to take a stand. This station has never–not once–played a song by The Ottersmocks. We pride ourselves on putting good, quality music on the airwaves. Now, I know this is an all-request portion, and I really do want you to get a nice song played. I think we'll both agree The Ottersmocks is not that song."
"Yes...yes, I understand," I replied meekly. "Sorry for suggesting it."
"Hey, it happens to the best of us," the producer said. "How about this? I'll choose a song for you, and when you get on the air, you can have Sammy Slimeball 'pick' one for you. He loves doing that. Always good banter between him and the guest. How does that sound?"
"That sounds great!" I said. "I'd love to chat with Sammy. What song are you going to pick?"
"Well, I'd hope you want to talk with him, if you're calling into his show," the producer said. "And I obviously can't tell you that. It's supposed to be a surprise."
"Ah, of course," I said. "Looking forward to it!"
I anxiously glued the phone to my ear the rest of the show. I did get to hear "Crazy Lover," which was great, though I thought the guy calling in was pretty much a dud. He didn't even say "cah-RAAAAA-zy lover" like you're supposed to. Talk about dropping the ball!
Other songs played too, without much fanfare. It seemed like a particularly lowkey Tuesday night. The requests were mostly oldies, which isn't a bad thing, though a lot of them I had never heard before. That's always a bit of a bummer–how else can I sing along?
"Alrighttttt, you crazy crew of listeners," Sammy Slimeball's voice boomed over the airwaves. "This is our last caller of the all-request hour."
My ears perked and I sat up in my seat. My shoulders straightened; I cleared my throat and shook my head about, getting out the kinks in my neck. I needed to make sure my diaphragm was nice and relaxed for my big radio debut.
"Yes indeedy, our final caller of the night," Sammy Slimeball bellowed. "Let's go to Sally in Michigan! Sally, how are you doing?"
A voice that was very distinctly not mine responded to Sammy Slimeball that she was doing well, though she was a bit cold. I slumped back down in my seat, my heart sinking. How could they have forgotten about me?
"Hello...hello?" a voice on the other end of the phone said. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, I am! Sammy!" I yelled. "Oh, I knew you'd take my call!"
"Um...no, this is the producer," the voice said. "Just wanted to apologize that we couldn't get you on tonight. We always take a few extra callers in case someone gets disconnected or has stage fright or a really short conversation. Something like that. Better to be safe than sorry, right?"
"Oh...yeah, I suppose that makes sense," I said, though I didn't really think it did. "How many other callers didn't make the cut?"
"You know, it's actually kind of funny," the producer said. "You were the only one who didn't make it on air tonight. Normally we have about four or five who don't, but all these callers sped through their conversations pretty quickly."
"But...but couldn't I talk to Sammy now? Since there's just me left?"
"Sorry, pal," the producer said. "No can do. We run a pretty tight ship here. Once the all-request hour is done, we gotta move on."
"Oh...okay. I guess I understand." I did not. "Wait...can I ask you one other thing?"
"Sure, go for it."
"What song did Sally in Michigan play?"
"Oh man, it was a real terrible way to end the show," he said, taking a deep breath. "Like, I feel awful that it happened. She picked The Ottersmocks."
"But...but I thought we weren't allowed to request that!"
"Yeah, well...we have a couple producers here," he said. "One of the other ones took her call. And that producer apparently likes The Ottersmocks, so she let it slide. Talk about a real bummer. I'm still sad about it."
"Oh...okay," I said, dejectedly. "Well, thanks for giving me the chance to almost speak with Sammy Slimeball."
"Anytime," the producer replied. "Thanks for listening to the Sammy Slimeball Show's all-request hour. Feel free to call in again next week."
I did call in the following week, but all I got was a busy signal.