Not always moving on up.

It used to be said that you could judge the success of a disc jockey by the size of his moving van.  You thought I was going to say microphone, didn't you? 

I've moved all over the country and, on rare occasions, it has been for the better.  Sometimes, I’ve worked in environments where the pain and suffering I encountered should have been reserved for the punishment of the most heinous sinners in the afterlife.  This particular hellhole was 70 miles from the nearest Starbucks, down a dirt road, in the middle of a horse pasture.  It was peaceful and usually quiet, except when large field rats would discover the gaping hole in the building wall and scurry through the office looking for the nearest exit. 

One day, while I was on the air, a saleswoman foolishly attempted to use the “indoor outhouse.”  I'm not exaggerating about the comparison.  It resembled a gas station restroom; only it was smaller, slimier, and a yellow bulb to detract insects illuminated the grimy wood paneling.   Even with "Betty Davis Eyes" blasting over the airwaves, I heard the screaming coming from the restroom.  I stepped out of the control room, and tried to communicate with her through the closed door and over the unintelligible shrieking.  I could tell she was trying to form a word or words, but her vocal cords were simply not cooperating. 

There was a significant amount of space between the door and the dingy carpeted floor.  That’s what made it so easy for the cottonmouth water moccasin to catch her with her pants literally down around her ankles.  There was only one advantage to being in that position while encountering an aggressive reptile that can strike with lightning speed and deliver hemotoxic venom. But from her shrieking, that fact did not seem to bring her any comfort. 

The snake would slither under the door into the hallway and the screams would subside.  On the other side of the door, I stood ready to hit the snake with a broom.  Obviously rattled by my bravery and chivalrous stance, it would retreat into the restroom and the shrieking would start again. The snake and I did this broom dance twice before the general manager came around the corner with a .44 magnum. 

I really don't remember the exact number of shots fired.  I do know he didn't reload, so at the most it was five or six. 

I couldn't hear for days.