While working as a board operator at a radio station just a few weeks after surviving a format flip, I happily RSVP'd to the company party which was held at a some fancy pants club in Chicago's River North neighborhood. I was just 19 years old and only worked Sunday mornings from 6-9am, so the number of people I knew (and who knew me) was limited -- especially since most of the people who hired me got fired when the station was sold and the format flipped. That night at the party, I surrounded myself with the handful of on-air folks who also survived the mass firings. My girlfriend, Missy, loved to dance and made a name for herself at the previous year's party when she danced up a storm (while wearing a teeny-tiny dress). She even studied dance at Butler University at the time. I, on the other hand, didn't like to dance and only did it to appease her. Unlike the previous year's party, this party featured a vacant dance floor. Absolutely NO ONE was dancing. As the DJ played song after song, the empty dance floor continued to call Missy's name. Despite her pleas, I held firm that we would not touch that dance floor until someone else made their way onto it.
After the Chicago market manager finished his "we're all one big happy family" speech to the three radio stations celebrating together in that club, two women made their way to the dance floor. Missy seized the opportunity and grabbed my hand as we made our way to dance to the Bee Gee's "Stayin' Alive". This was moment I noticed that all eyes were on us. Those two other ladies (who broke the dance floor's virginity) left the floor.
About five short minutes after we returned to our seats, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I had a business card. My first thought was: "Wow! Maybe someone wants to give me a job!". Nope. The security guard wanted to know if I had any proof that I worked for the company. Suddenly, no one was offering me a job but instead wanted proof that I had a job. The security guard kept saying "she wants to know:, so I asked who this infamous "she" was. He walked me through the crowded room and to an angry-looking woman who stood a short distance from us. With her eyes fixed on me, she blurted out: "Who are you? Who do you work for?" I shared an audio version of my resume and her face went pale. "Oh," she said, "I recognized your name, but not your face. In fact, no one knew who you were. I thought you crashed our party."
With the warmth of the market manager's "we're all family now" speech now fully evaporated, I returned to my seat and informed Missy we had danced our last dance of the evening. Suddenly, I was famous for all the wrong reasons. Everyone seemed to find the story amusing, but I felt like an insignificant cog in this giant radio machine. Our station's General Manager later made his way over to me and apologized that the lady (who was part of Human Resources) tried to kick me out of the party. He shook my hand and handed me an envelope containing my Christmas bonus while insisting that I keep on having fun.