At first New Life sponsored Clean and Sober, one of only two nonmusic programs on WZTA, with a portion of the money going to Armstrong. Deciding that was a conflict of interest, she soon dropped the idea of having any sponsors. ZETA-4 management considers the donated air time part of its public-service commitment, though the show wouldn't stay on the air long, says program director Neil Mirsky, if the phone lines weren't busy.
Mirsky says there's no way to measure the size of the Clean and Sober audience. "I think it's safe to assume it's in the thousands," he estimates, adding that a few Sundays back, ZETA-4 moved to new studios and the show didn't air because the phone lines weren't working yet. That day and the next, the station was flooded with calls from people wondering what had happened to the program. "Apparently," Mirsky muses, "there are people out there who really depend on this show."
This Sunday's Clean and Sober Hour is winding down. Doug, who called last week after shooting morphine, calls back. This time he's wasted on cocaine and Xanax. When he makes sense at all, he waxes pseudophilosophical, in the way that sounds fascinating only to people under the influence of mind-altering drugs. "I'm trying to figure out what category I fall into, why I still use drugs," he concludes.
"This is pathetic," Armstrong says. "You're spiraling downwards quickly. I can't come to your house and put a gun to your head and make you stop this."
"No, I'm just looking for a reason why I do this. You have a great program." Click.
Almost out of time. Next call. The voice sounds familiar. It's Patrick from a while ago, now sobbing and laughing at the same time. "My name is really Michael," he begins. "It's Michael. I'm not going to bullshit you any more. I'm playing with a .38 trigger right now, got it here in front of my mouth."
Armstrong and Sawitz sit forward, their faces tight. "Listen, Michael, you don't have to be doing this," Sawitz urges. Armstrong holds up a piece of paper bearing the crisis-intervention hotline number, which Sawitz repeats to the caller. They tell him it's a good sign that he's phoned in; it means he's got hope, even if he doesn't know it right then.
Michael's laughs and cries grow heavier. "You know what? The thing is, I don't want to do it. It's so stupid of me; it's so stupid." He trails off, muttering, then sobs a desperate "Dammit!" and, with perfect timing -- it's exactly 7:00 A he hangs up.
Armstrong signs off quickly, after inviting Michael and any other listeners to call right back and speak to either her or Sawitz off the air. Sawitz leans his head back on the chair, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. They sit grimly for several seconds, then begin to talk desultorily. Though neither says it, they're both wondering if the phone will ring. After about twenty minutes, they decide to leave and get breakfast. Michael never calls.
