Silent Night

A radio station is a quiet place from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day. Quiet and deserted, thought Jack, except for the ghosts of announcers past. And not a bad thing, after the fury and chaos and last-minute panic of salesmen and copywriters and production people who staggered off around 4:00 p.m. December 24, haggard, weary, nerves shredded, trying to work themselves back into being acceptable company, or maybe just heading for a drink.

Not much to do on these shifts--run taped shows and voice tracks, keep the music going, wait for the Queen's message. In the afternoon, Jack ran tapes of two Christmas parties--one with the orphaned kids at the Orange Benevolent Home, one with the station staff, with the more embarrassing stuff spliced out.

Finally that night, as the day wound down, Jack found himself back in the familiar deejay mode, playing music that otherwise would not get played, like the Kenton band's robust, dignified collection of carols. And as midnight drew closer, he turned on his mike and said, "Time to say merry Christmas to those who've been having a tough day. Doctors and nurses in emergency wards, paramedics and ambulance drivers, cabbies and bus drivers on the late-night haul, cops on the beat, people hoping to make a dime on the street, store clerks with tired feet, guys who got laid off last week, people whose relationships fell apart just after he bought the ring, travellers hanging for hours in airline terminals and bus depots, those in the jug, on both sides of the bars, and all those in other bars, including the bouncers, and especially anyone who's sitting alone in a room talking to a poinsettia." Then he ran in "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

"Better brighten things up after that," he thought, and put on Dave McKenna's "Lulu's Back in Town." Switching on his control room mike, he sang along: "Gotta get my old tuxedo pressed, Gotta get the mustard off the vest, Tonight I gotta look my best--Lulu's back in town."

The control room phone started to ring. He thought, "Okay, it's some drunk wanting a request, or some lonely lady inviting me over for a drink, or a guy wanting a sports score. Or maybe the program director, who never sleeps."

It was the program director. "Jack," he said, "do you think that's an appropriate song to play tonight?"