It was Tuesday, May 10, 1988.

The phone had gotten turned back on later the previous Friday. Wyatt, naturally, had not paid the phone bill. For that matter, he pled “I’m a little short this week” on the rent, too. “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!”, he eventually bellowed at Shane and me, as he walked out to meet Teresa. Or Michelle. Or Anne. Or someone.

No matter. My ticket out of this – I hoped – was waiting.

Around 9:30, I called the station in Orlando. I got the receptionist; she told me the program director was in a meeting.

“Could you tell him Mitch Berg called?”

“Oh, Mitch! Hi!”, she said, with the faint aroma of recognition, and maybe excitement, on the top. “I talked with Charles; he’s talking about wanting to bring you down for an interview”.

My heart skipped a couple of beats.

“I’ll have him call you”.

I thanked her, and camped by the phone, playing the guitar and drinking Mountain Dew, for two hours. Finally, just before his show was supposed to start, he called.

“Mitch!”

He definitely wanted to get me down to Orlando to talk.

“Tell you what – I’ve got a couple of days off coming up. Call me on Monday, and we’ll get things set up”.

I thanked him. And started sizing up my life to try to fit a future into it.

Not even Wyatt and his limp excuses could faze me today.

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