You're not Skip Hansen...you're now Jonathan Hanley.

Many years ago, in a land far, far away, there lived a maniacal, ruthless ruler named Mark.

Mark was a manager of a radio station. He was very tall, always wore a three piece suit and overcoat, and his hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. His large, tinted, thick-lensed, white-framed glasses hid squinty, dark blue eyes of a person heavily medicated. I never found out exactly what drug-induced stupor he was experiencing, but I suspected it was a combination of anti-anxiety drugs, anti-depressants, and marijuana. He once confessed that alcohol made him sick. If that was true, I suppose I could rule out that drug as part of his daily routine. Mark's lumbering gate down the hall in the office building where the radio station was housed could only be described as tentative at best. His tall, over-coated, long-haired form would weave from one side of the hall to the other, occasionally bumping one wall then the other like some remote-controlled mechanical device, until he reached the elevator.

Mark was from New Jersey...although I was not in New Jersey during the time I worked for him at the radio station. I was in Boise, Idaho. His pronounced, mobster-esque accent seemed very out of place in this land of potatoes, red-necks, and dairy farms.

I'd never met anyone from New Jersey. Furthermore, I'd never met anyone who's intention was to change my name, deny me my identity, and suck out my soul. If there is a devil...this Mark person was him! I had made a wrong turn somewhere on the road of my radio career...and had entered hell. This was the place some call hades: working at a radio station in Boise, Idaho for the devil himself.

Shortly after dragging my sorry ass from California to Idaho, Mark asked me into his office for a chat. I had just finished my mid-day radio show at what used to be the biggest AM radio station in southern Idaho. It was my third day there. The conversation went something like this...

Mark: C'mon in...have seat, Skip (His Jersey accent sounding a bit slurred).

Me: (Sitting down in a small, stained office chair in front of his extremely large desk. What were these stains on the seat cushion, blood stains?) How's it going?

Mark: Good...good. Hey (He got right to the point), where'd you get this name "Skip".

Me: Well, you see, my grandmother thought it was appropriate after I was born to name me Skip as a nickname since...

Mark: Well, listen (Cutting me off in mid-sentence). From now on, you will be known as Jonathan Hanley while you're on the air. In fact, it's best that we call you that even when you are not on the air, just to keep things "real".

At this point in the conversation, time seemed to stand still. I couldn't tell you if I sat there staring at the devil behind the desk for ten seconds or ten minutes.

Me: Really? (I cleared my voice) What's wrong with Skip Hansen?

Mark: Skip Hansen just doesn't sound like a radio name. Jonathan Hanley does. In fact, I name all my mid-day radio personalties Jonathan Hanley. It fits during that time period...the housewife time...for the ladies.

Another long period of silence ensued.

Mark: Also, Jonathan, I need you to change your delivery and your personality on the air. It's too laid back. I need you to pick up the pace and energy...be more upbeat. Put some spark into it.

Silence.

Mark: So...tomorrow morning when you sign on, you will be Jonathan Hanley.

Me: Tomorrow morning when I sign on, I will not be Skip Hansen...I will be Jonathan Hanley. Isn't that kind of strange?

Mark: Don't worry about it, no one will notice. You haven't been here that long. Besides, you're going to adjust your delivery and personality as well...right, Jonathan?

I felt sick to my stomach. The blood was rushing from my head to somewhere else in my now limp body. I felt my soul being literally sucked out. I could swear that his squinty blue eyes behind the thick, white-framed lenses flashed red for a moment. He had a smirky little smile on his sallow-complected face. I thought about getting up from the blood stained chair and bolting out of his garishly-decorated office and running all the way home to California. The palms of my hands were now sweating profusely. I kept staring at a strange souvenir-like item sitting on the desk in front of me. It was a round, tennis ball-sized cow terd with fake eyes and beak. Two wire legs stuck out of the bottom, attaching it to a wooden stand that said "Real Idaho Shit Bird". And then...it winked at me.

I found myself reeling down the hall in a daze, weaving from side to side, hitting the walls as I tried to make it to the elevator, trying not to vomit. The elevator doors opened by themselves, I stepped in and turned around. I could still see myself sitting in the devil's office a mile down the hall, he was still smiling that little smirk at me. The office door slowly closed by itself. I reached for the first floor button and stopped. I was on the fifth floor, and didn't want to go further down into the bowels of the earth...after all, I was already in hell. I tapped the lighted button that said "Roof". The elevator car lurched upward for a few seconds. The door opened and I stepped out into the mid afternoon sunshine. It was September, and the air had begun to turn cool. It smelled fresh. I took in a deep breath and my head began to clear. I stood on the roof of that office building for a half hour or so, gazing at the 1978 Boise skyline and snow-capped mountains in the distance. I made my decision at that moment.

It wasn't until a few months later that I got out of that situation. I did become Jonathan Hanley...on the air...placating the devils wishes for a short time. The devil called Mark stopped showing up at the office shortly thereafter. Evidently, another devil-like executive made the decision to remove him from his position. The radio station was sold to another company, and another devil moved into that office. He got rid of the Idaho Shit Bird. One day I sat down with the new one and asked for a raise and for my name back. He refused both requests...I gave two weeks notice...and left Idaho for California.

I suppose there is a moral to this story...probably several. The grass is always greener...be happy where you're at...there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow...the devil wears several disguises.

I did learn something from this experience. A job can take your energy and your identity sometimes. But a job is not what you are inside. A job is just something you do for money. Never let is suck out your soul. Only you can allow that to happen.