Disc Jockey
At the controls

You know the diet of a disc jockey.  We eat and regurgitate sugar candies. Rising to number 7,  here’s Beyonce’s hottest new hit, “On the fly.” I push a button, and phase out until the next dose of insanity.  Fact is, Spotify, Pandora, and a host of internet radio stations are sidelining me.  Generations have been born who don’t know what a disc jockey is.  For me, the question is a bit more personal.  What have I been?  What am I to become?

The answer came with a 7:30 a.m. call.  Jamal Alexander Bentley made the call from the 13th floor of the Indigo Marriott Hotel, a call that changed his life and mine.  He was standing on the ledge of the balcony, reflecting his desperation with a call to me, the Sugar Daddy, like I had the skills or depth to talk a guy from jumping.

So Jamal tells me where he is, what he’s about to do, and explains he has picked a powder puff personality like me to provide him the trigger event.  His gig:  Play every song he asks for without commercial interruption, or he jumps.  A joke, I’m thinking.  I want to hang up.  He tells me this is not a joke, and something in his voice convinces me.

The guy knows his music.  “You been a disc jockey?” I ask.  “I am you,” he says.  “I am the you that wants to jump.  I’m the “you” you have to pacify with one inane song after another.  The music stops, and you’ll have a real thought, and a real thought will kill you.”