Short stories, screenplays & other things.
You can’t get what you want (til you know what you want)
You can’t get what you want (til you know what you want)

You can’t get what you want (til you know what you want)

I fell in love with good music, including jazz, after my first adult crush on a slightly older woman while I was still in high school. She was a figure of resilience and authenticity, excelling in the often toxic male-dominated world of broadcast radio. But what truly captivated me was her unyielding commitment to being true to herself and embracing who she loved.

I would often sit in the back of the radio studio for hours, silently observing her. At times, she’d forget my presence and naturally fall into the rhythm of her shift. Answering phone requests, pulling out carts from the rack, and cueing up records – every action was a piece of the intricate dance she performed so effortlessly.

I remember her wearing a light blue mechanic’s shirt, well-worn blue jeans with holes she had artfully added herself during her college days. Watching her navigate the record stacks, deftly retrieving each vinyl, she would skillfully pull out the sleeves of the next four records, ensuring they were readily accessible. It was like watching an artist at work, each movement deliberate and full of purpose.

Every couple of songs, when she wasn’t talking to me, I could see her deep in thought, contemplating her next words. The studio, filled with the vibrancy of loud music, would transform into a sanctum of focused silence the moment she pressed the mic button. The speakers would hush, the red ‘on air’ lights outside would illuminate, and you could faintly hear the music through her headphones as she waited for the perfect moment to begin speaking.

Her voice on the air was like a violin soloist playing a quiet piece of music – melodious, captivating, and profoundly impactful. She had a particular move, a signature of sorts. With her head tilted back, hands in her back pockets, she would sway gently, almost like a musician lost in their performance on stage. In those moments, she seemed utterly absorbed in the music, becoming a part of it, her essence broadcast across south-eastern New England.

I often imagined the journey of her voice from the mixing board, through the processing equipment, traveling up to the roof to a microwave antenna, and eventually beaming 25 miles north to the towering antenna standing solitary against the night sky. Her voice, accompanied by the latest hits of 1984, would weave into the lives of countless listeners – in cars, homes, stores, workplaces – adding a soundtrack to their varied experiences.

Sitting there, in the back of the studio, I witnessed more than just her professional prowess. When she thought she was alone, her true self would emerge. She would talk to herself, laugh and smile with a brightness and carefreeness that was both heartwarming and revealing. It was in these unguarded moments that I saw the depth of her vulnerability, the creative, loving, happy soul that needed protection from the harshness of the world.

She unknowingly guided me in understanding myself and those I would eventually come to know as “Alts.” These were the alternative creative types, neurodivergent individuals like myself, often misunderstood or labeled as odd or disabled by society, yet possessing unique creative abilities.

Whenever I witness an alt person’s “superpower,” I am instantly taken back to my first adult crush. Nothing brings me more joy than seeing the genuine person behind the neurodivergent façade – that part of someone most people never get to see, either due to prejudice or simply not taking the time to connect. It’s a reminder of the beauty in authenticity and the power of true connection. ❤️



Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.