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It takes an alarming amount of energy just to enter the place. I had a calculated method of self-preparation, specially crafted for the occasion. It wasn’t exactly foolproof (or necessarily helpful at all), but it was a placebo of sorts. A Confidence placebo, if you will. This will make me stronger, I lied to myself.
1. Avoid eye contact.
2. Walk with your shoulders back, chest forward.
3. Bring a partner if you can, if not, wear a jacket or carry a bag.
4. If there’s room, sit down, but not directly next to anyone else.
5. Just be COOL.
If I was lucky, I’d make it to the door unscathed. The place was small, colorful, and provided an alarming false sense of security. Upon entering, there were a number of outcomes brewing: will they notice me today, or pretend I am not there? The worst I would find, in my now experienced opinion, was sticking out. I could cope with the others. In fact, I quite liked blending into the background. In high school, it was what I did best. It was when they would stare, like I was some kind of mythical creature, confused and equally disillusioned. I’d have garnered the same cold, blank reactions had I pissed myself, passed out, or spontaneously combusted right there and then.
Still, the ignoring wasn’t fun either. When I first started hanging out there, I liked to take my sketchbook with me and attempt mingling with the arty types. I was pretty good too, and I always hoped someone would sneak a look as they passed.
Cue double take:
“Woah, that’s really cool,” they’d say, and I’d blush a bit. Then I’d say, “Thanks! I only listen to Zappa when I draw,” and then we’d talk about it. Because that’s what college radio is about right? It’s a cosmic melting pot of individuals, all united by a love for music and hatred of Top 40 capitalist crap (booooo!). A community with an invisible, everlasting bond. Right?
Wrong! Picture this - one day, the station was empty except for me and this other girl. She was light-years cooler than me in every way imaginable; she had big chunky headphones around her neck and a bright red beanie. She was wearing a red blazer to match, definitely vintage (probably a pricey 1960’s piece) and Doc Martens with bright green laces. Faintly, from her laptop, I could hear R.E.M. playing. My heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
“Oh, I love R.E.M.,” I said, smiling a little too hard at her from the other side of the room.
After the first few seconds of silence, I concluded she didn’t hear me and started mentally preparing to try again. It was when she not-so-subtly slipped her headphones over her ears and the R.E.M. stopped that my heart sank.
The radio station looked friendly enough; the walls were covered in stickers, political, colorful, and otherwise. The walls that were bare were painted bright orange, and the main room was barely bigger than my dorm freshman year. It looked like someone’s punk living room: filled with couches, and crayons spilled on the coffee table that was stained with drink rings. The floor was dirty, and there were too many flyers on the bulletin board, but it felt happy. It felt lived in. More than anything, the place oozed cool. And that’s just what it was to me: a dirty, whimsical dreamland.
I remember my first show, my first real airing in my chosen time slot. It was printed on the official schedule: “DJ Hardwick, The Fever Dream”.
Hardwick was a reference to a stupid movie - the boozy, dodgy, metalhead boyfriend was called Hardwick, and he was too comical to forget. "The Fever Dream" was the name of my show, just because I liked it.
And so far, despite all the training I endured (all painfully awkward) and mixers I attended, I hadn’t met a single friendly face. It was more frustrating than anything, what with my countless efforts at friendship and near-constant state of rejection. I was a DJ and I belonged, dammit!
The melting pot was all a lie - nobody tells you that college radio is built on cliquey, resentfully intellectual upperclassmen. They are all painfully good friends, all in indie bands, and all Art majors. They feed on the blood of the weak and thrive on tactics of intimidation.
When are you going on? My Mom texted me. I had been waiting in the lobby for fifteen minutes, disoriented by the faint rumbling bass and my own slow-boiling frustration.
I don’t know, there’s someone still in there, I said.
Isn’t it your time? She asked.
Yeah, I said.
Fifteen minutes into my show, and she emerged - post-spin, glistening with a kind of perspiration only induced by EDM.
“Hey,” she said as she passed me.
“Hey,” I said back.
“Oh, um, I was playing an extended club remix, new release. I just think it deserved the air time,” she said.
I nodded, politely. She scratched her septum piercing and left.
I was halfway through my lineup, trembling a bit with adrenaline, unnerved by the sound of my voice through my headphones, when the door swung open from behind me. I whipped around in the big spinny chair, headphones flying, scared half out of my mind.
Two guys entered, both unmistakably stylish. They advanced on the wall of records to my left, like buzzards on fresh meat.
“No, Tim said Adam Ant,” the first one said. He had a buzz cut, and a yellow over-sized polo. Ralph Lauren, of course. He was followed by his friend, who had a long, thick braid, and a big purple sweater. Both were wearing chinos.
“Adam Ant? My dad listens to that shit,” the second one said. They were rifling through the records now, tossing the vinyls onto the couch. Worst of all, they left the door open. Red Beanie was out in the lobby, this time with dramatic eyeliner and a book in her lap. She looked up for a moment, barely a second, and our eyes met. I snapped mine away, instantly flooded with embarrassment. I could see her look away out of my peripheral. I could feel my control on the situation slipping; I almost laughed, thinking I had control to begin with.
“Are you serious, dude? He’s a punk legend,” the first one said.
“Adam Ant’s not punk,” the other said.
“You obviously don’t know about punk, then,” the first said again. I just watched them, mentally weighing my options. They still hadn’t acknowledged me. I could speak up, or maybe I should close the door first. The latter means risking another glance from Red Beanie, which might end in disaster. I could just ignore them, go back to my show. Or I could leave the booth now, my tail between my legs, and preserve whatever dignity I had left. Maybe it was good that nobody was looking.
“Sorry to offend you, Steve,” the second one said. Steve.
“Punk isn’t confined to the Sex Pistols. Punk is a sensibility. Basically anything that’s alternative is classified as punk because it’s against the mainstream,” Steve said. I hated that I was turned on by the way he said it, and the way his earrings twinkled in the afternoon sun…
Steve looked up then, straight at me.
“I’m in a show,” I said, suddenly, without even realizing I had decided to talk. My voice cracked and my cheeks flushed red, right on cue. Steve’s face contorted, like he was smelling something awful.
“What is this?” He pointed to the computer in front of me.
“The Human League,” I said. He scoffed with blatant disdain, looking back at the records in his hands.
The only other time he looked my way was when I did my outro, laying down the stupid catchphrase I told my mom I’d say. I shuddered through every word.
“This is Bones, signing off. Be nice to each other!”
They had made themselves perfectly comfortable by the time I left, and like I knew figured, Red Beanie couldn’t be bothered. It was just how I liked to be: utterly invisible.
The open mic was the way to go. Everyone would be there, or at least that’s what I put together from the buzz around the station. I would hear others talking - chatting, laughing, eating vegan food together. It seemed cruelly easy for them, adhering to this unbelievably low-key, indie way of life. I made a habit of mentally categorizing myself outside of their sphere. I only had four piercings, and one pair of Doc Martens that I hardly wore because they made my feet look big. And not in a cool, edgy way.
Still, I dressed up for the occasion, and took the bus to campus around seven-fifteen. The thing was at eight, but I imagined if I really wanted to make a statement, I’d offer to help set up. Then they’d be like “hey, you’re DJ Hardwick, you spin Wednesdays at five, right? I love what you’re spinning! The Human League is really cool.”
I was on campus by seven-thirty, taking shelter in the courtyard instead, comforted in the glow of my phone screen. In the cold, I huddled up in my denim jacket and convinced myself I was inconspicuous.
I got the gumption at eight-twelve, making my way over slowly in the darkness. Taking the discreet route. My phone was buzzing in my pocket, all positive affirmations from my roommate, who was being endlessly supportive.
“Don’t worry, dude! You can do this!” She sent me a lot of smiley faces, and I tried to smile too.
The place was packed, wall to wall, with bodies. I couldn’t see the band, but I could hear the music, I could see the purple lights. There was a saxophone, somebody was rapping… Hopefully the next one would make more sense.
I was standing just outside the door, deciding that I was fine where I was. I could hear it, that was all that mattered, right? Wasn’t like I had to make appearances for anyone. It would’ve been fine if the guy in front of me hadn’t turned around. He appeared slightly unnerved - he looked my way, then behind me, then back to me - trying to come up with something that didn’t sound abrasive, probably.
“You guys can come in,” he yelled over the music.
“Yeah, I am just kinda claustrophobic!” I shouted back, instantly regretting it. He turned back, ever so slowly. He started saying something to his friend.
I shifted a bit towards the right, and just out of my peripheral I could see her figure behind me. A bit more over my shoulder and we locked eyes. This eye contact wasn’t uncomfortable, it wasn’t intimidating, it wasn’t hostile. Suddenly, without warning, she smiled.
She walked up to my side, and we stared in solidarity at all the backs.
“Looks humid in there,” she said, and I nodded slowly.
“Yup,” was all I could say.
“I’m Lani,” she said, adjusting her bandanna with one hand and stretching out the other in my direction. I took it and tried my best at casual amiability.
“I’m Kate,” I said.
“Do you like bubble tea?” She asked me.
“I love bubble tea!” I shouted, prematurely, in that painful second of silence between the song’s end and applause. The same guy glanced again, but I didn’t look.
“Let’s go,” she said, and we walked off back towards the courtyard.
“Nice Docs,” she added, and we started to laugh.
I could only imagine that psychic connections like ours only happened once in a lifetime.
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