Authors: Wynn Wagner
What the news director was telling me was that he wanted to add an on-air gig to my schedule. He wanted me to do a long newscast at noon. One newscast a day was the offer, but it was an eighteen-minute show. He wanted it to be easygoing and lighthearted. He didn't want blood or guts. Commentary was fine, but it all had to be mainstream. He told me that my commentary always had to be the opinions that the listener already held.
He said that there'd be an engineer (great!) and an editor (grrrr!). An editor meant that he wanted to keep me on a leash. I couldn't really blame him, but I didn't like it. He said he had heard some of my news work from years ago, and he liked my folksy approach. He wanted me to keep to the informal chat style, like I was talking directly to him as a friend. I wasn't playing some Joe-Announcer role at a big sports stadium. He liked that I came across as talking directly to one listener.
And, by the way, he added, if the station brass liked the newscast, they might want to send it out to a network they controlled. The company owned radio stations all over the country, but much of their content came out of a few locations in major cities. The manager of the station was looking to be a supplier to the rest of the network. They thought I might be a feather in the station's cap.
The engineer was a pro. He wanted to twist knobs but not be your friend. Typical for an engineer. I only knew Ronny on the other side of a big double-pane window in the studio.
Janie Marroquin was my editor and writer. Everybody called her by both names, never just Janie. She has the harshest Latina accent you can imagine, but she is a great editor and writer. When we first met, I thought they were kidding me about using her as a writer. She talks like she just stepped out of the barrio, but she is an amazing writer. She blasts her way through wire stories and newspapers. Her keyboard smokes as she prepares everything. Somehow she moves the words from her laptop computer to the monitor right in front of my microphone. I can make changes if I want, but I almost never want to. I tweak a little when we're live, but that doesn't need any advance work on my part. Yes, I do news by the seat of my pants, and it makes the news director really nervous, considering my colorful track record.
We practiced for a few days before we were supposed to go on the air. I think the news director wanted to make sure that I was up to the job. He could have me tape the show if he wasn't comfortable with everything. One-Take Sean came through. It was as though Janie had heard my old newscasts and was writing just for me. She didn't even complain too much when I tweaked the scripts.
The first part of the show was always hard news, or as hard as we were going to visit. We almost never did bloody stories. It was the softer side of news, and I always nailed the script. There was a clock in the studio with a sweep-hand. I hate digital clocks in a radio station because it makes me do arithmetic when I could just look at the second hand of an analog clock. The Lord of the Clock was Ronny's finger. If he was different from the clock, he won.
In the eighteen-minute show, we had two breaks for commercials. One would come six minutes in. Ronny would hold up one finger a minute before the first break. He would hold up a bent finger at thirty seconds, and he would count down the final ten seconds using all his fingers. I never missed his cue, and that pleased him. Some engineers have to fudge and cheat, but Ronny knew that I would nail our landing.
...They signed a consent decree with the Department of Justice. That's a pile of complicated documents written by expensive lawyers. In a nutshell, the company was saying to the government, “Hey, we did nothing wrong, and we promise never to do it again.” They paid a twenty-seven-million-dollar fine, a lot of money to be sure. Unfortunately, the cost of the Justice Department investigation is reported to be eighteen million, and during the eight years this has been an active case, the company reported a profit of two point three billion—with a B—dollars. This has been Perspective America. I'm Sean Roberts....
"And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio intercom.
Janie told me that the station manager wanted to see me.
"Sounding better and better,” she said.
"Thanks."
"Senator Whitehead's wife wants to sue us,” the station manager told me. “I thought you should hear it from me."
"Do they have grounds?"
"You know the broadcast?” he asked.
"Sure,” I said. “I assume it's the one where her husband was caught in a ladies’ room on the highway outside Washington."
"Yeah,” the station manager said, “but you said he was in drag."
"He was,” I protested.
"That's why I'm not worried about the lawsuit, but she thinks we held her out for public ridicule."
"What can I do to help?"
"Stick to the scripts that Janie Marroquin writes for you."
"Always."
"Good,” she said. “Two other things, and I'm not sure how to do this delicately."
I had that sinking feeling where the room got heavy. Station managers don't use the word “delicately” unless they have some desperate news. This time she just wanted to let me know that a beer company wanted to hire me as their spokesperson for a new national ad campaign.
"You okay with that?” she asked.
"Know anything about the money?” I asked.
"No, they're still playing games. There isn't anything concrete. When it is we'll get your agent to contact them."
"I don't have an—” I started to expose myself as not being able to negotiate, but I stopped myself. “Sure, you have a phone number?"
"I know you're in AA and all,” she said, “and I didn't want to tell them to contact you unless you were okay with it."
The conversation was right on the borderline of some federal laws. I'm sober, and I had never appeared on the station's property drunk or stoned. The second “A” in AA is “anonymous,” and having this conversation told me that I wasn't all that anonymous. Big deal—so what. My drinking was never anonymous. She was looking out for my best interests. Maybe she wanted to make sure her noon talent didn't get into a situation that would make her have to find a replacement.
"It's fine,” I said, “so long as I don't have to sample the merchandise."
"I'm just watching your back,” she said.
"Thanks. I mean that."
"One more thing,” she said. “I want to take your show national. When you were hired, you and the news director talked about expanding to some of our other sister stations. This is bigger. I want to see if we can't syndicate your show on a much larger scale. I think we can both make some decent coin for it. Could you get your agent to call me about a new contract?"
"Sure!"
"Next Monday I need you to get Janie Marroquin and you in here an hour ahead of time so we can talk about content and format. We aren't going national so fast, but we might as well plan for it."
"I'm sure that'll be okay."
"What we need to do, starting Monday, is add another block at the end of the cast, a space for local news. I have you sold as a local interest, and I don't want to endanger those spots while we transition."
"Makes sense,” I said.
"Great, get your agent to call me today or tomorrow."
"Bueno."
Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic, and I don't even know where to go look for a talent agent. I have to find one today, maybe yesterday.
"We may be going national,” I told Janie Marroquin in the studio. We use our little studio as our office.
"Ooo, marcha,” she said. “Senor Voice is moving on."
"Well it's a package deal,” I said. “If I'm moving, you and Ronny are coming too. You got a talent agent?"
"Why would I? I'm a writer, not talent."
"I don't know, but I need to go get one, like, today. You're talented in my book."
"Cool,” she said. “I'm union, babe, and a national gig is already covered by the contract. It's a nice increase, but it's already negotiated by the union."
"Do you know any talent agents?"
"Chinga, man,” she said. “I gotta do everything for you? This'll cost you. Come buy my lunch."
We ate pasta while she looked through her tablet PC. I already knew that she used an Android computer. When I asked about getting an Apple iPad, she told me that I'd be a real dick and hate myself because it was such a piece of shit. She said it was cool to own unless you wanted to turn it on and actually use it for anything other than what Apple engineers expected.
Halfway through lunch she remembered somebody who wasn't in her Android contacts.
"Gay guy,” she said. “Very hot-looking."
"I'm looking for an agent,” I laughed, “not a husband."
"I'm thinking of your best interests, puto,” she said. “Keep you happy so we do better shows, man."
I met with Chico the same evening. He was just as hunky as Janie Marroquin said. Not my type, really, but he was really easy on the eyes. Chico was about my height, six feet. He was trim like a tennis player with light golden skin. Chico wore a royale beard but kept it trimmed short, angular and no wider than the pinstripe on an automobile. He kept his hair cut short, probably for business reasons.
"Hey, doll,” he said to me when we met. “Janie Marroquin says you need a talent agent."
"Does everybody call her by both names?” I asked.
"Pretty much,” he said. “I've known her for ten years, and everybody does that. Don't know why."
"You know my deal?"
"Says you're lonely,” he told me with a wink. “That you could use a frisky romp in the hay."
"Maybe, but I'm allergic to hay. Right now I just need a talent agent. I never worked with one before."
"Sweet, I love virgins. I can work this a few different ways. If you want me to look over your contract, you can just pay me $5,000, but you can't call me in three months with a problem. You wouldn't be my client, so you pay me whatever I say my going rate is every time you call me."
"What's the other way?"
"Most agents do a percentage, usually ten percent off the top of your pay. I can do that if you want."
"Ouch."
"Hey, I am worth every penny of that, but I have another deal. If you sign a longer-term contract, I will only take three percent under $200,000. If I get you more than a two hundred thousand for any year, I get fifteen percent."
I thought about the various plans and said, “On this last one, I'm worth more when you get more."
"Exactly,” Chico said. “It makes me work harder."
"Do you have any papers with you?"
"Papers? All you white guys are the same. Just because I'm Hispanic, you think I'm illegal. I don't need no stinkin’ papers,” he said quickly.
"Not immigration papers."
He laughed and said, “Boy, you do move fast. I like it."
"You have no idea,” I laughed. “I want to read over the papers tonight. Want to catch breakfast tomorrow?"
"I can't do that unless you do a sleep-over tonight,” he said with a really raspy voice.
"Won't your husband get mad?"
"I don't believe in husbands,” he said with a big grin.
"Let's start with baby steps, Chico. If everything is okay, I will have signed papers for you in the morning. The boss wants to start talks tomorrow."
"Which plan?"
"I think the three percent and fifteen percent thing."
"Thought you might, babe,” he said with a wink. He gave me a hug and a kiss, and the kiss was a little bit longer than you might expect for a business meeting. I guess he liked what he saw. I almost skipped out to my motorcycle for the ride back to my apartment.
Chico drove up to me as I pulled out of my parking space. He was driving a screaming-red Lotus Elise, a British sports car. It was never on the top of my must-have list, but it was a real kick ass car. It told me that Chico liked fast cars, just like me. He had the top off and stored someplace. If I had paid that much for a car, I don't think that I'd leave the top off in a parking lot. Maybe he was more trusting than me. Whatever. It looked like a fun ride, and Chico looked happy to be behind the wheel.
"Hey, I'm heading home,” he said. “Follow me if you changed your mind about that romp."
He turned to the right out of the parking lot and zipped down the street with just enough oomph to enjoy his car. My apartment was to the left. After a few seconds of hesitation, I pointed my motorcycle to the left and headed back home. I was tempted, but I didn't even know Chico. He was handsome, to be sure. Almost preppy. Oh, what the fuck...? I did a quick U-turn with my Harley and gunned the engine to catch up to Chico's car. He was halfway through a turn, so I barely made it before he was just gone to places unknown.
At a stoplight, I pulled alongside Chico's Lotus, revved the Harley's engine, and raised the visor of my helmet.
"You can take me,” he hollered over the engine noise, “but I'm the only one of us who knows where to turn."
I put the visor back down, bowed my head, and stuck out my lower lip to pout. Chico thought it was funny and was chuckling as the light turned green.
You can count all the instant tricks I've had on one hand, and you'll have plenty of fingers left.
We drove about twenty minutes before getting to his house. He lived in a new section of town where all the houses had huge arches over the front door and exaggerated roof lines. They barely had any space between the houses, so this was not the part of town full of people who liked gardens and yard work.
Chico pulled into the garage of his house, and I pulled my bike onto his driveway and got off. Even though Chico lived in a nice part of town, I took time to lock everything on the bike. He waited for me in the garage. As soon as I cleared the garage door, Chico pushed a button to close it.
"What made you change your mind?” he asked me with an evil grin.
"I have no idea,” I said, and that was the truth.
"Well, I'm glad you did. Come on in."
"Wow,” I said as I eyed a dozen or so bicycles hanging on hooks on one wall of Chico's garage. There were bikes of every sort, some with knobby tires and others with tires that seemed no wider than a piece of linguini.