Radio Free Mickey

By Mike Haszto

Enterthe everyday life of Mickey Miller, whoco-owns radio station WVVV, V-103, licensed to North Ridgeville, Ohio. He's married to asuccessful executive and Southern Belle, Leigh, and they have nine children. He's a very happy and well adjusted person who balances his career with his personal and family life...at least up until now.

Follow the rollercoaster ride that Mickey suddenly finds himself on when things around him begin to change. Station rumors. Media circus. Pressure and tension set in. He makes a few quirky decisions and then the seatbelt loosens on his life over the next six days.

Family issues add to the chaos already created...are the media rumors true that his station is being sold to corporate suits, who have been his stated enemy for years? After all, his love of radio is all about personal ownership and control, that radio is really for the listeners. Those corporate suits have been dominating radio for years since the deregulation laws took shape almost two decades ago.

Follow the path that Mickey takes in uncovering these rumors, and what needs to be done to meet the perceived challenges head-on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 17, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467049658

Mike Haszto

Mike Haszto will be turning sixty-two in this year of 2021. He still resides in North Ridgeville, Ohio, although this native of Islip, Long Island, New York still dreams of a house on the beach somewhere between the Outer Banks and Key West. A tent may have to do. Mike’s adventures still take him on journeys for childhood cancer through the Great Cycle Challenge. This will be Mike’s fourth year riding for the kids who should be living life and not fighting for it. You can donate at: www.greatcyclechallenge.com/Riders?MikeHaszto Each passage of time has taken him into various directions and hobbies…whether the radio industry, footgolf, golf, hockey, etc, but some things remain the same…his love of coaching hockey (31+ years), his love of writing (14 novels and 6 poetry books), his love of being a Parrothead (45+ years) and the escapism of the lifestyle and music of Jimmy Buffett, his intense obsessions with the New York Mets and Islanders, and his love of Joyce and family.

Book preview

Chapter 1 

Mickey sat slouched down in his kitchen chair clinging to his green tea beverage. He knew why he was in this position, but couldn’t really understand what brought him to his sudden fate. Lost in the distance of answering such questions, he was again in familiar territory. His life appeared to be a rerun, and a sorry rerun at that, he thought.

With the rain pouring down outside, keeping time with the rhythm in his heartbeat, he felt the stress coming on. Remembering a religious quote from the Book of Buffett, Chapter 4, verses 3-5, he quietly recited, Breathe in, breathe out, move on…. He took a slurp from his tea, and once again drifted off to do some distance thinking.

He sat alone, yet did not live alone in a modest house that once housed many. His means also modest, Mickey came from humble beginnings, and continued to live that lifestyle taught from his childhood days on Long Island through his current stature in northern Ohio. His current surroundings included a spouse and nine kids, though eight of those have since moved forward to deal with their opportunities, whether college life or careers.

He took a long deep breath, finger patting the right side of his head along the eyebrow. His finger was keeping beat with the storm outside, and every time a clasp of thunder rolled through, his finger dug further into the soft skin surrounding the eyebrow. Lots was troubling him, and somehow his trouble cycles kept bringing him back…first to his roots, and then to the now. Him sitting alone. Him sitting alone at home. Mickey grinned and mumbled under his breath, I guess some things never change. And off he went again on his journey through self discovery. Or was it self pity? It was a trip he’s taken so many times before over the fifty years covering his existence. Yet, this time there was a strange, intense look of determination on his face.

Mickey drifted in and out of his childhood. It was a childhood painted on a complex canvas, areas of shallow pastels that suddenly triggered vibrant and sometimes violent colors. Areas of growth that were squashed by limits and boundaries by unprepared forceful parents who became so overwhelmed in their self development as adults, that they lost sight of their priorities and responsibilities, that of raising seven children who would go on to have better lives than them. His was a very difficult canvas, not only to look at, but also to interpret.

Many people, strangers and friends, have tried to understand his canvas. All have had varying degrees of success, or failure, depending upon the perspective. Mickey seemingly played an infinite amount of roles, and this just through childhood. To say he had split personalities would constitute quite an understatement. To count how many, or to sometimes try to distinguish between them, posed to be an impossibility most times. But, that was how he dealt with the anguish, the loneliness, and the overall quality of his upbringing.

It all started on a rainy day on northern Long Island, a mid-morning birth to two loving parents, their first child in a very promising outlook for a couple in love. His dad was a decorated war veteran of the Korean War, a prestigious Air Force veteran who recently decided that a normal family life was of higher priority than re-enlisting. Who could blame him? He was born and bred in Brooklyn, to immigrant parents from eastern Europe, and he loved the City. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker was his credo. And, he embodied it. His mom was 100% mystery, each and every day of her life, his life, and everyone else’s life as well. Even his dad, Vincent, would agree that she was all mystery. Eventually, forty years later, that mystery had evolved more into secrets, that leaked out ever so slowly, as in the drip drip drip of a torture test experienced during wartime.

So with the slapping of his ass, Mickey was born amid the dampness on a cold raw morning in May.

The phone ringing brought Mickey back to reality for a moment. He gazed at the caller ID, and as usual, didn’t recognize the number. Some 321 area code…which meant absolutely nothing to him. This was something that was consistent in his household. The phone ringing dozens of times a day, with odd number combinations, and rarely leaving any messages. Damn telemarketers, he thought. Taking another sip from his green tea, he let out a growl. I hate this warm! pierced through the silence, and he got up to empty the bottle into his kitchen sink, while peering out the window to across his back yard watching the rain forming puddles across the back forty. He filled the bottle with icy cold water, a dominating trait in his house, then delicately poured some green tea mix through the narrow opening. He shook the bottle with such force that it took but a second or two to mix properly. The rain intensified, he could feel the stress…ever growing again. Quickly, he removed the cap and gulped a load of green tea, almost choking. He tried, but knew he couldn’t calm down.

Still standing at the kitchen sink, he focused again on his journey while staring out the window. The rain had not lessened, in fact, it stroked the patio concrete much harder, creating bubbles as it met the ripples in the puddles. Mickey noticed that, sighed, and again mumbled, My dad used to say the rain would soon stop when that happened.

Right he continued sarcastically, guess we’ll see…

And with the snicker of his nose, Mickey launched into his next scene. His brother had just colored their bedroom walls with crayons, from a box from the sixty-four set of Crayolas. The colors were flaming red, and schoolbus yellow-orange, and midnight blue. One might even toss a bit of periwinkle in there. Keeping in the theme of his childhood, always with religious implications, his mom entered the room witnessing the angelic brother who was child number two coloring the walls. Mickey was on my bed, watching the festivities. She grabbed the crayon from his hand, walked over to Mickey, and gave the innocent child a fresh smack in the face, then the ass, for allowing his brother to do that. His brother, the angel, who could do no wrong. Of course, Mickey was the anti-Christ. As he cried and screamed, his mother would only shout I hate rainy days! That was when Mickey was all of three years old, and his brother was two. It was back in the day when a third child was a year old, and what would become child number four was on the way. Lots of stress in that household he concluded.

Mickey’s mind chuckled as he backed up for another childhood memory. Sitting in a high chair as a two year old…he was playing with his food. It was a nice hot bowl of creme of wheat, poised with sugar and milk. In seconds, the bowl went crashing to the kitchen floor. In a high chair to the left of Mickey was the angel also playing with his same breakfast. With their mom’s back to the kids, the angel flung both bowls that created the crashing noise. In the wink of an eye, his mom turned, screamed, and took the bottled gallon of whole milk and poured the rest of it over the top of Mickey’s head.

Before he could continue with those thoughts, an explosion rocked the house. Window panes shook unmercilessly and appeared to be coming to the shattering phase, and Mickey felt his thighs weaken to the point of collapsing on the floor. He was genuinely shook up, and went into a fetal position immediately. His thoughts raced back to a time when his mom was beating him with the garden hose outside his home on the southern shores of Long Island. His crime was breaking a basement window while playing catch with his brother, still the angel. His time was the penalty of the hose beating, so hard and long, that the fetal position became his position of instinct.

Twenty seconds seemed like an hour with the house vibrating as such after the strange clap of thunder that infiltrated Mickey’s aura. The fright he felt was so real, that he chose not to move for almost an hour. He thought for sure that something had ripped through the house, or that the good Lord had come a-calling for him. He even prayed that his spouse, or kid, would come home and comfort him. However, this was not their style. There was not much comfort in Mickey’s current life, and for reasons he simply didn’t understand. As stated before, Mickey knew the whys of his current status, but he didn’t understand what brought him to this point.

Chapter 2 

While lying on the cold linoleum floor of the kitchen, he found himself again back in time, when there was a happiness to his life. His wedding had just taken place to his only wife now of twenty seven years, and upon returning from their mountainous Pocono honeymoon, he attempted to carry his bride across their threshold. With the third step inside the dwelling, they both came stumbling down to their doorway floor, that of cold, brown linoleum. It wasn’t as though she was particularly heavy. Leigh was a petite five foot three, though her curvy stature put her at about a buck and a quarter for weight purposes. He remembered them laughing about it, then spending the next three hours on that same floor making love with the desire of first-timers. Those were much better days, he smiled.

Mickey knew that there was precious little that could comfort him when his mind would go on these expeditions of memory and stress. He always harkened back to the days of childhood, especially around those tough teen years with puberty and hormones running rampant, and how he would try and cope with the agonies of being somewhat friendless, living in a horrible existence, and trying to grow up and develop interests and feelings at the same time. The way he could calm himself enough to sleep was to think about a beautiful girl, and fill his mind with thoughts of love. Not that Mickey knew of any, mind you. But, his first and foremost belief was it doesn’t hurt to dream…and with that thought, a real Mickey was born…and, well, an unlimited amount of characters as well.

While lying in that fetal position from the intense storm , Mickey continued with his attempts at calming his nervous shakes. He could taste Leigh’s kiss, and feel the brushing of her medium length blonde trusses while they lie on that floor the day of coming home. The look in her eyes was for hall of fame purposes only. The warmth of that look, so soulful, has been tattooed to the eyelids of Mickey forever, happily. Even though his current situation stipulated differently, that look always made him feel safe and secure. She was a southern young lady reared in the hilly terrains just south of Charlotte, North Carolina, a few miles across the border into the southern of two Carolinas. She was a homecoming queen, and prom queen, and her looks would command attention anytime she entered a room. Fact is, her personality was just as awesome, with a southern fried humor, and southern belle innocence to her. Blued eyed, big smile, southern charms, what else can there be?

The storm lessened to a light rain that trickled onto the roof, and gutters. Mickey finally decided to pick himself off of the floor and wandered upstairs to the bathroom. Upon turning the light on, he noticed what awaited him in the reflection of the mirror…a spider. Mickey cringed, turned off the light, and fled down the stairs, out the patio door, and into the rain that suddenly had increased to downpour proportions. He decided to urinate onto the side of his house. While standing there becoming more drenched, he wallowed back to one of an alarmingly high assortment of spider experiences, the one that concluded with several spider bites, and a hospital stay of a couple days, to figure out why he had such high fever, skin hives and muscle swelling…and why he was two shakes from actually dying.

This was such an odd combination to see, as Mickey was not a person to be scared of anything. His second belief in life was live life to the fullest, no matter the situation, and who might be in that situation with you. Yet, within the past couple hours, Mickey gave in to two strong fears, and as he wandered back in from the rain, he again was searching for an explanation to his recent reactions. It wasn’t like him to reach extremes, at least for the past ten years or so, and although he housed many fears, he had kept them in check with a keen focus on his career, his wife, his family. The very human side of him, and the scars that had controlled him for years, rear up their ugly heads seemingly when confrontations and tensions set sail in his calm harbor with storm clouds heading his way from a distance. The intensity of these storms paralleled the extremes that he battled throughout his life. Mickey always thanked God he didn’t settle in Seattle, with the reputation of being one of the rainiest cities in the country. Oddly enough, he settled in northern Ohio, where an acute feeling of all seasons was in order. Ohio was not to his liking at all being a native New Yorker, but it was just another sacrifice he made over a life of giving in.

He toweled off the cold raw rain, and took a swig off the green tea, which had reached room temperature once again. With chills and drops of rain still draining from him hair and face, he sat down, again became contemplative, and embarked on yet another walk of the mind.

He welcomed Professor Whippenpoof to his collection of characters, a quirky personality that brought stability to when it was needed most…in the extremist of circumstances. It was on a rainy day at the ripe age of fifteen that Whippenpoof first appeared in his head, at the intersection of Sunrise Highway and Route 237 in West Babylon. Taking his second belief with him, and while clutching to a 10 speed as he bicycled many miles to retrieve a prize from a radio station in Babylon, he determinedly raced into oncoming traffic in the very busy intersection, testing his resolve and beliefs of life and death. And with the swiftness of metal crushing metal and bones breaking in multiples, Whippenpoof held his arms out to soften the impact of the flight of Mickey’s lifeless and limp body as it flipped many times on its way to the warm wet pavement. As with Mickey, Whippenpoof thrives, and somewhat cries, with the rain.

It’s a test of bipolarization to a point. Rainstorms bring them both to life…but as quick as that happens, it also has the tendency to bring both into the deepest darkest depression known to mankind.

An hour slipped away as Mickey wandered through several pathways, still not coming to the answers that he needed, or awaited him. The rain continued, and Mickey’s restlessness grew to an exhaustive state. He flashed back to spider issues of the past, of camping out with Troop 132 of the Boy Scouts for two years…of camping on Long Island in some jamboree…and of camping under the heavenly stars that twinkled in the northern Catskill Mountains during a couple trips upstate that were rainy and cold.

Mickey couldn’t help but feel to the point of suffocation. He was restless. He was exhausted. He was wet and chilled to the bone. And, he was alone. Just where was Leigh? And where were his youngest son as well? His skin crawled with nervous energy that continued to swell…he knew he’d have to act, and fast.

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Chapter 3 

A little more than four hours ago, his youngest son Kevin was playing his last freshman football game of the season, and his proud mom was there to see. Mickey couldn’t attend the game because of work responsibilities, and this bothered him. Mickey was the type of father who made every effort to coach his children, and if he couldn’t coach, attend every game. He often gave up career aspirations and necessities to attend to his children’s activities. He had decided long ago to make those type of sacrifices in the wake of his own experiences through growing up.

Leigh was very much into football, for reasons unknown. Maybe she liked the game. Maybe she liked the uniforms. Maybe she liked the contact. She had played some in high school, on a girls team, and it was just part of her make-up and wiring that she was so enamored with the sport. She had aggressively directed all of her sons toward the sport, and they all complied, all achieving varying levels of success. She had felt a little more motivation with Kevin though, not that he was any more talented than the others, but because of him being the baby of the family, she wanted to thoroughly enjoy the last four years of her children playing the game she loved.

She was the antithesis of Mickey in so many ways. Her upbringing was so much more family-oriented as she grew up in the south. It is such a different culture when comparing to the northeast. And when the two of them met in college, one swooned and the other never noticed. It was quite remarkable that the two would end up the way they did.

Mickey’s hustle and bustle and sense of urgency was so dominant, while Leigh’s laid back southern style was charming. And an eye catcher. And that voice made Mickey melt.

Hearing that voice coming from the tattering of raindrops sure would be a welcome relief. But Mickey sensed that voice wasn’t to be heard from…at least not now. Mickey became caught up in a panic and the emotions that are heightened when such an anxiety occurs. His suffocating restlessness was overwhelming, and beads of sweat now formed over the residue of raindrops on his balding forehead. He was getting caught up in the moment, a serious focus that emerged from several hours of distant mind-floating.

He got up from the kitchen table and started to go through his pockets looking for his cell phone. Strangely enough, it never occurred to him to pick up the house phone on the kitchen wall and dial her number. His life was all cell phone, ironically, and it never used to be that way. He went through the kitchen cabinets where he normally would lay down the phone for charging. He ran upstairs to his bedroom dresser to not find it there. And he sprinted down the steps and out the door, to his car, where in the rain, he realized he was locked out and couldn’t see past the leaves that had gathered. Mickey slammed his fist on the top of the car, raced back in the house, again passing the house phone, scooped up his car keys and again went outside in a panic looking for the cell phone that would lead him to Leigh’s voice…at least that was the plan.

His car doors were locked mainly because of his upbringing on Long Island, a culture where you learn to love everyone, and trust no one. As he hit the unlock button on his remote, Mickey hydroplaned on the slippery leaves in his driveway. Ouch. He lay there on the raw concrete and leaves, a warm stream of blood flowing from somewhere around his eyes and nose down his face and off his chin. He quickly flashed back to the experience on the wet pavement as a teenager on Sunrise Highway. Then, he was back again, the blood was quite a contrast to the bitter rawness of thirty eight degree air temperature and the even colder steadiness of the raindrops soaking him.

Although conscious, he couldn’t move. Actually, Mickey couldn’t feel a thing. He heard a neighbor’s car roll by his house on their way down the street to their house. He tried to call out to them, but barely any sound was audible. Then, he drifted off again. His somewhat subdued panic led him down a path of past athletic success, and failure.

He was in high school, playing soccer on his prestigious high school soccer team. The images had him reliving an important game, a night game, the first night game he’s ever played. It had everything to do with a winning streak of one hundred forty-four games in a row covering twelve years. And late in the game, being played in a cold, driving rain indigenous to Long Island in mid-October, the Friar in white, number five, fired a rocket into the left upper corner to put his team ahead. The pride felt in securing such a winning streak was enormous, and it was felt strongly by the whole team. With time running out though, a sliding error by a teammate cost them a foul, which was turned into a Brentwood goal. Midway through the second overtime period, Mickey missed an opportunity to win the game, and with a few seconds on the clock, the game was lost on another weather related play. There went the streak, as the raindrops soaked into the ground.

Mickey coughed up several nuggets while still lying on the pavement. He tried to move yet again, and his once athletic body moved in syncopated pain with the throbbing in his head. Groans were heard, but there was no one to answer them. The question begging to be answered still…where was Leigh and Kevin?

The voices then started. Mickey wasn’t sure what to make of them.

Get up you fat ass! Drag your ass up! he heard, from a gruffy hardnosed voice.

Better stay there until help comes… sounded another, in a gingerly fragile tone.

Keep awake. Keep your thoughts going. Don’t give up, was yet another.

Oh what a flipping mess we have here, in a voice sounding like his mother.

Daylight was losing the fight with the horizon, and the darkness of the clouds from the rainstorm made sight that much more of a challenge. Mickey eventually pulled himself up, his face indeed a bloody mess. Cold and soaked, steam rushed from his face. He finally got the car door open to take a look for his cell phone when he realized that his foot was banged up pretty badly from the fall as well. Shaking off the sharp pains in that area, he winced when he discovered that the cell phone was not anywhere to be found inside the car. And the voices were gone as well…

A couple of deep sighs later, Mickey was back in the house hobbling on a bad hoof and still in a panic. He barely got to the kitchen table when he finally saw the house phone on the wall. He grabbed for the damp towel used to dry his head off from the earlier stroll in the rain and dabbled it over his scalp, his eyebrows, and his nose in order to control and soak up some of the blood that still flowed from his face. He picked up the phone. He dialed the number. Ring. Ring. No answer. Ring. Ring. Then voice message. Arrgh! His panic state already crossed the line of desperation, but he was without a clue as to his next move. Figured it was a dead cell phone battery, or she left it in the car while going in somewhere for something. He knew that Leigh always tried to milk everything for whatever she could get. An example of this thinking was the way she rode her gas down to under the fumes…almost all the time, milking that last drop that would get her somewhere. Even when she eventually ran out of gas recently, her thought patterns didn’t change a bit.

Nevertheless, Mickey was still a mess. He already scored the trifecta in messiness, physical, mental, and spiritual. He knew he needed someone to help him, in all three areas. And he knew time was running out.

There was something Mickey knew was developing outside of his controls. He spent the last several hours trying to digest recent events, but couldn’t get a handle on them. He realized he needed an outlet, and since Leigh and Kevin were not available, the whirlwind urgency that surrounded him swirled that much more. Then again, Mickey reasoned that Leigh hasn’t been an outlet for years.

Why the hell AM I looking for her? he mumbled in his trademark underbreath.

Chapter 4 

Time whittled away. That didn’t help the cause of Mickey. He continued to drive himself insane well into the night. He still hadn’t heard from Leigh. He did, however, stop the bleeding from his swollen face. With the rain steadying, it seemed as though an ark would be necessary for him to get to work in the morning. Then he realized he actually had the day off.

A big grin ensued, heh heh he chuckled.

It was well after ten when Leigh and Kevin made it home. By that time, Mickey was snoring away in the recliner watching Die Hard. Leigh gently woke him, and the three headed upstairs for the night. There was nothing from any of them concerning the day’s events. Whatever Mickey held in, he held in. And Leigh and Kevin weren’t forthcoming with game information, nor what happened following the game. And no one recognized the fact that Mickey’s face was a swollen mess, and he hobbled quite noticeably. Moreover, Mickey had no idea that Kevin was wobbling around either, getting help from his mother while going upstairs.

This was nothing new in their household. Usually a free spirit in a great mood, there was always what appeared to be a somber mood in that house of theirs. And the family never really helped matters. Take a moment to interview any family members, and they will all say that Mickey was always a quiet father, and volatile when pushed. It was no secret that everyone went to Leigh for anything they needed, no matter whose perspective was utilized. After years of feeling misunderstood, and to a great point, taken for granted, Mickey just continued to withdraw from them. His love and commitment never faulted, but it was obvious to him that he was nothing more than a figurehead, unless of course, someone needed something.

It seemed as though no one appreciated the fact that Mickey was a devoted father, always finding a way to coach his kids teams in some capacity, and manipulating his work schedule to ensure showing up at kids functions, especially on days off. Though that was the way society was headed. While growing up back on Long Island, there was the ultimate in respect paid to parents, no matter what type of childhood rearing was received. Any time when a child showed disrespect, there was always a yell, a scream, a smack, a spank, you name it. With the defragmentization of society from one generation to the next, and for any number of reasons, respect has taken on new meanings, especially in a weakened form when compared to the prior generation.

As usual, it turned out to be a pretty uneventful overnight. The three of them had their fill of exhaustive adventures for one day, but as Mickey dozed off for the last time that night, he knew deep down that what was to come would certainly change the face of their lifestyle, and quite possibly, their lives.

Leigh slept restlessly as she had several dreams invade her usually quiet sleep. For some reason, she could not put her finger on just why she was experiencing that. Maybe it was Mickey’s snoring. He snored loudly, and Leigh could feel the vibrations from across the bed. She figured after twenty seven years with Mickey, she was used to it. But then again, can anyone get used to it?

One of Leigh’s dreams dealt with family stability, and she was concerned and upset with what tuned in to her subconscious. She felt a motherly intuition, a feeling of loss. She promised herself that she would call each kid in the morning, to make sure the other eight were okay. Her heartbeat was racing, but with the calming effect of having Mickey next to her, she began to settle down. She noticed it was four-fifteen in the morning, hugged Mickey, who moved slightly with a moan, and she fell back asleep clinging to him.

The morning brought a dazzling sunrise, though no one was awake to witness it. A crisp cool temperature did awake the family around six o’clock. Kevin hit the shower, Leigh brewed the coffee, and Mickey tossed and turned while freezing in his bed. Leigh always loved to sleep in cool weather, so she had the bedroom window cracked open about three inches. Mickey, on the other hand, despised this trait in Leigh, because he was no fan of being chilled to the bone, especially since there was little spark and motivation to keep him warm.

Mickey, in smelling the coffee, felt the double whammy, as not only was he displaying world class shivers under the covers, but the smell of coffee left him one step away from tossing his cookies. It was an odor that long permeated inside him. Another childhood scar, Mickey’s parents were so over-coffeed that the somewhat wonderful smell signaling the start of the morning turned Mickey bitter. It was just another sacrifice Mickey has made over the years, one he only seemed to mind in those early morning hours.

A Friday off from work was very unusual for Mickey. His job as a radio executive and part station owner was demanding and stressful to say the least. But it was a true labor of love. Obsessed with radio since he turned twelve, Mickey used that medium, and his creative imagination, as one of the outlets to survive through his well documented adolescence. It was a very small AM station out of Islip, Long Island that captured his immediate attention, and another from New York City that captured his ears, and heart. He emulated the likes of Dan Ingram, Cousin Bruce

Morrow, Harry Harrison, Ron Lundy, Chuck Leonard, and George Michael from WABC in the city. He practiced everything from talk overs to stealing their jokes as a preteen growing up. He found out his internal wiring was all radio, and because of his love for numbers and details, also became obsessed with how the radio stations came about their surveys, such as the top 40 songs on their playlists. Locally, another AM station in Babylon, WGLI became a favorite before the FM band boom. Eventually, as FM took over the airwaves in popularity, WBAB, also licensed out of Babylon, became his favorite. Mickey’s heart, though, belonged to little known WQTV, an FM station that was more static than music.

What interested Mickey was not just a top 40 format, but the jock’s personalities, and the freedom given them to program their own music…not just spin their tunes, but pick the tunes they spun. That kind of free-form format was renegade back then, and basically non-existent nowadays with the advent of deregulation laws in the 1990’s. This leads to, in ways, right into Mickey’s issues. It’s those very same issues that has caused him all types of financial challenges, which in turn, has caused stress and health tensions, which in turn, has caused marriage obstacles, and the dominoes continue to fall for Mickey. Or as the infamous radio cliché goes in the case of Mickey’s issues…and the hits just keep on coming….

Chapter 5 

WQTV was so unlike any other station that Mickey had ever heard. Growing up in the golden eras of Motown and the latter psychedelic phases of rock and roll, he actually knew of neither until Christmas 1971, when his parents broke down and bought gifts for their children. They usually did spend Christmas mornings opening assorted gifts, with the excitement that kids have on Christmas, but more times than not they ended disappointed with new socks, a belt, a pair of jeans, and some winter gloves. Mickey’s brothers and sisters, along with him, just figured it was because they were bad kids throughout the previous year, and it honestly didn’t matter if there was a Santa, or if Santa was their parents, because of the depth of their disappointments. But in 1971, there was a different type of excitement. One of Mickey’s gifts turned out to be a transistor radio, with AM and FM dials. Mickey had never seen one, and with a second gift of batteries, suddenly there was static in the air instead of the silence that so permeated their household on a daily basis. Each child received a unique gift, and each left their Christmas celebration with warm feelings as though they had a good year in behaviors and results, that there really was a Santa, and that he had found their humble home with two chimneys on Long Island’s south shore.

With that new radio came a tremendous developmental phase in Mickey’s life. Instead of spending his free time being a bored kid looking for things to do that would lead to trouble somewhere down that path, he now was being introduced to what would become his first love, his eventual obsession. That’s not to say that Leigh was not his first love in priority, or his real love, after all Mickey worshipped her as a goddess. Still, in his mind, when he turned on a radio, he could get lost in melodies that would soothe him, motivate him, and excite him. When he turned on

Leigh, he got all of those and more, minus the melodies…

Turning on the radio for the first time, the dial was apparently already set to WABC out of the city, and Don McLean’s American Pie filled the airwaves and Mickey’s ears with music other than from his choir at school. It was musical. It was lyrical. And he got shivers down his spine as he listened to it. Jingles followed the song: muuuusic-radio W-A-B-C! He tapped into something that made him feel of another world. He liked it. He found no reason to explore turning the dial up or down, as the top one hundred hits of 1971 kept him entertained for the next week. He’d go to bed with it under his pillow. He’d take the tiny radio everywhere with him. And suddenly, he was a much different kid.

His emotions developed while listening to the varying types of music, finding some songs made him happy, some sad, some active, and some…well he totally hated. And with any new toy given to a child, he yearned for more over time, more diversity in songs and entertainment. And, new batteries. The first set lasted a couple weeks, then he was at the mercy of his parents for new ones. That took a little time. After securing new batteries, he was back to his alternate world, and thoroughly enjoyed it. He decided to scope new channels on the two dials, one dial was full of staticy AM stations, the other was less static FM radio. With the headaches caused from listening to AM radio for periods too long, Mickey flipped the button to FM, and constantly searched for something that would make him feel like WABC did.

As stated before, WQTV was so unlike any station Mickey had heard. WQTV was somewhere in the 102 band on the dial, and it was a tiny station that at times seemed to drift