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     *"You're caller number five."  Click. 
    
     On most days, I'd come home from Douglass High, get out of the “good” clothes, and in my room take refuge with my best friend: the radio. 

     If music was a lonely fifteen year-old boy's salvation, then WKY and KOMA,  Oklahoma City's two powerful AM top 40 pop stations, were church and their disc jockeys my clergymen. 

     "You're caller number ten." Click.

     All evening I'd sit anxiously on the side of my bed tending to the white box-shaped Westinghouse AM radio on my night stand, my hand on the dial, monitoring frequencies like a young man in search of messages from outer space, or more succinctly, for a song to cosign my own introverted existence.  
    
     The music that captured my heart was a skillful if often cliched mélange of five dollar chords, memorable melodies, modern harmonies and cohesive production.  Anything from the Archies' bubblegum confection, "Sugar Sugar," to most Three Dog Night, all of it supplemented with helpings of James Brown and Hendrix. 

     The lyrics had to speak to whatever I was going through, and as far as I was concerned, I was in pain.  It was hip to be angry about the Vietnam war.  Moreover, I lived in unrequited  love with any number of girls who didn't know I was alive.  Music accommodated my melancholy. 

     Tuning into a favorite song as it was ending--finding Steam's “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Good-bye” in the middle of its breakdown climax, or the Friends of Distinction's exhilarating “Love Or Let Me Be Lonely” at its fade--hurt.  My consolation was that I'd probably track it down later somewhere on the dial. 

     I'd listen until Mama called us to dinner, do the dishes and return to my vigil.  I slept with the radio on, its volume low.  The Spinners' “It's A Shame” and the Carpenters' “(They Long To Be) Close To You” supplied the top-forty soundtrack to my dreams.   

     "You're caller number eight." Click. 

     I used to try to win stuff on the air. It wasn't my motivation for listening, but when I felt lucky, I'd grab the phone.

     "Be caller number twelve and win tickets to the Oklahoma State Fair…be caller six and win the Rolling Stones collection....”

     There was a technique to getting through that I never mastered: The second the disc jockey announced the game, you went for it.  Either the line stayed busy--and I'd hear the disc jockey on the radio say, "We've got a winner"--or I'd be too early: with, say, number thirteen being the magic number, he'd answer and say, "You're caller number seven."  Click. I'd call again--and again--but by then, it was too late.

     One evening, at the D.J.'s announcement of a game, I dialed. It rang, which wasn't unusual; nor was his answering. But what he said this time, was: “Hold on a minute.”  He laid the phone down and I went queasy. 
    
     Through the receiver, I could hear strains of the same song coming out of my radio--Chicago's “25 or 6 to 4," which segued into a series of recorded commercials. While they played,  the D.J. returned to the phone. “Give me your name and  address,” he said perfunctorily, nothing like the bright and dynamic personality he was behind the microphone.  My voice quivered.  He extended a cursory “Thank you,” and hung up.

     But back on the air,  he was Mr. Gregarious again. “It's eight fifteen in the city, and we have a winner.  Steven Ivory of the Oklahoma City area made the call….”
    
     I sat on my bed, stunned.  I still don't know what fascinated me more: hearing my name on the radio--via no less than the hallowed frequency carrying songs by the Jackson 5 and the Beatles--or having my name and "winner" used in the same sentence.  I'd never experienced that before.  

“…We'll be sending him 'Chapter Two,' the new album by Roberta Flack.”
    
     Roberta Flack? Who the hell is Roberta Flack? Oh well. It didn't matter. Whoever she was, I won her record. I hadn't won a thing in my whole life, really.  Never had the gumption to try. I made the call and somehow got through.  Succeeding was the real prize.  Excitedly, I called my friend Donny.  He was happy for me, but it wasn't the same; he hadn't heard it for himself.

     That night I didn't sleep.  Is there truly any slumbering on Cloud Nine?  

     The next day at school, I walked a little taller. I feigned nonchalance as I worked the tale of last night's victory into every single conversation I had.  

     What would I do for an encore? Attempt conversation with Anita Wedgeworth? I mean, real talking this time, not telepathy. Actually dress for physical Ed class and show 'em how to dodge ball?  Well, no. Hey, but if I had, I'd have been the last skinny man standing on the court. After all, at least that day, I was a winner, and winners win, baby. 
    
       I love you, Roberta Flack.

Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com) Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM or MYfeedback@eurweb.com