Drama Is Her Middle Name (3 page)

3

MARCH 2005

Ritz punched the alarm code to her Jersey City apartment, set
her keys on the tiny, marble-top table at the front door, sat in
her comfortable, chenille-covered chair, and grabbed the remote and the unfinished Black & Mild blunt from her Orrefors ashtray. This was her routine. Ritz loved routine and
order because so much of her life had been chaos, beyond her
control. From the death of her mother to the crazy course of
her career—there was so much that Ritz could simply not
control that the things she could control, she controlled to
the extreme.

Smoking a blunt gave her a strange sense of control and
power. It was her secret rebellion—a breaking away of always
doing the right thing. It was also something she did that no
one—virtually no one—knew.

“Girl, you are already crazy, the last thing you need is some
weed on top of all of that!” Tracee had said, the first time she
saw Ritz roll a blunt. The two had been hanging out for a
year, but it was the first time Ritz really let her hair down in
front of Tracee.

“This is what keeps me from being completely crazy,” Ritz
said. “Here, you should try it. It might loosen your tight ass
up, Miss Prude.”

“Everybody I know smokes. It's the one thing that sets me
apart,” Tracee said. “It was the one thing I
thought
we had in
common.”

“So are you going to stop liking me now?” Ritz asked as she
took a long pull on her blunt and blew a thin smoky stream
into the air.

“Who said I liked you?”

The two fell back on the couch and giggled and ate.
Tracee didn't need the munchies to enjoy eating. And Ritz
didn't need her blunt to know that Tracee was the best friend
she had ever had. In both radio and the music business there
were few mentors for women. Every successful woman looked
at newcomers as competition, potential threats to their position. It was next to impossible to have a female friend to trust
in those businesses. Ritz was happy she had Tracee and vice
versa.

Ritz took another toke of her blunt. Pangs of loneliness
were starting to set in. The smoke was quickly absorbed into
her Ionic Breeze air filter.

Why did she have to move all the way the fuck to Florida?

Daydreaming about missing her friend had become part of
her routine. It had been about a year since Tracee had moved.
And Ritz was realizing how empty her life was. The weed and
the daily grind of the station provided some comfort, filled in
some of the spaces. But . . .

Girl, you need a change. You need a real change.

Ritz's routine was too routine. Her show was nearly perfect. Her intros, flawless. She read commercials better than
most. She was a great interviewer. She even handled her outrageous callers with aplomb. Ritz was a pro. A pro's pro. But
for some reason, she still wasn't satisfied. It didn't seem to be
good enough.

She had been doing her night shift for four years. For four
years her time checks had been perfect. Her intros were perfect. She was perfect. But her show wasn't spectacular. It didn't
stand out. Ritz wanted to stand out. She didn't want to be
just another jock.

She dozed off in her comfortable, oversized chair, waking
up to reruns of the
Honeymooners
at three in the morning.
She dragged herself to bed, thinking about what she needed
to do to distinguish herself, to get into a drive-time slot. The
phone woke her up at nine on the dot, as it had every day
since she moved to New Jersey.

“Hey, Auntie M,” Ritz said, sounding as if she had been up
for hours. She liked calling her Aunt Madalyn “Auntie M”
because it reminded her of the
Wizard of Oz
. Ritz had always
felt connected to that story of a little girl with no parents,
raised by an aunt. Ritz felt she had a lot in common with
Dorothy, including an Auntie Em.

Ritz always looked forward to the call that came every
morning at nine, a wake-up call that Ritz had grown to depend on. No matter what time Ritz got in—some nights if
she had an appearance, it would be nearing four when she got
home—her aunt would call at nine. Aunt Madalyn's call
jump-started Ritz's day and got her off on the right foot. It
was almost a superstition. Aunt Madalyn, who listened to
Ritz online on the computer Ritz set up for her and Uncle
Cecil, would critique Ritz's show from the night before, and
Ritz loved getting the reviews.

“That was a nice first hour, sweetie,” Aunt Madalyn would
say.

“Tell the truth! You only heard the first hour.”

“You know me too well, baby. I fell asleep. Your uncle Cecil had me rubbing his back, and I got so tired I just shut
down the computer and went to bed.”

“I bet you did! You fell asleep? Sure. I know y'all got your
freak on!”

“Ritz!”

Ritz loved embarrassing her aunt, who was always so prim
and proper.

In the three years since Ritz took over the night shift
on WHOT, her aunt called every day to encourage her, to
give her advice, and to just be an ear for Ritz to sound
off to.

“Auntie M, I don't know why I'm stuck on this night
shift.”

“Don't you worry,” said Aunt Madalyn. “It's just a matter
of time. God is just preparing you—making you sit in the
sauce until you're ready. Just be patient. You always want
everything yesterday, but a beautiful flower takes time to root.”

“I know I'm better than everyone on my station, Auntie M.
My program director keeps telling me how much he loves my
work ethic and my delivery and all of that, but three years on
nights is getting real tired.”

Ritz's career was building. When she got the shift four
years ago, there wasn't a happier person. How many jocks just
a couple of years out of college land in New York City—the
Big Freaking Apple? Media capital of the world! She was
most proud that she didn't have to start on overnights—
midnight until five in the morning. Most rookies started on
overnights. It was more of a tryout spot. You either got
bumped into a better shift or bumped off altogether. Some
people got stuck on overnights, usually those who either had
marginal talent but rarely made mistakes or those who were
perfectly suited for overnights—a rare find.

Ritz started on the evening shift—six to ten, which followed the coveted afternoon drive shift. Drive time was close
enough for Ritz to smell. After about two and a half years,
that smell turned into a stench. She watched her station fire
one sorry afternoon jock after another and never once look
her way. They brought in Dr. Mark, a best-selling author
whose specialty was sex. He was a cross between Dr. Ruth and
Dr. Phil with a little Dr. Strangelove thrown in for good measure. He had a devilish wit and a nasty sense of humor that
would make R. Kelly blush.

His show had taken off with female callers wanting to
know how to find a good man. He had capitalized on the
trend of lonely women, which was only getting worse. Women
didn't know where to turn for a good man.

There was “on the down low,” and JL King and gay men
pretending to be straight. There was the rash of “good men”
with good jobs and professions marrying Asian and white
women, leaving the “sisters” in the lurch. There were already
five women for every man in most major cities, and those
numbers were far worse in the black community. Tyler Perry
made a mint doing plays and movies like
Diary of a Mad Black
Woman
that basically celebrated the plight of women dealing
with low-down-dirty dogs. There were enough of those
women to keep a show going indefinitely. Dr. Mark had more
than enough material, and he was becoming very popular because women viewed him as their savior. He had all of the
answers—or at least enough to keep them calling in for advice. WHOT saw big numbers. Ritz saw red.

She called a meeting with her program director, Ernest
Ruffin, whom everyone called Ruff. “Ruff, I don't get a shot
at the afternoon drive?! Not even a chance?”

“Come on, Ritz. You're not ready,” Ruff said. “Next to
morning drive, this is our biggest moneymaking shift. Dr.
Mark comes with a new audience that we need to reach, and
sponsors love his success in publishing.”

“I understand the business!” Ritz shot back. “Look at the
numbers, Ruff. I have quite a following, too.”

Ritz was No. 3 in the evening in New York. It was nothing to sneeze at. She had a loyal following that was more than
a million strong.

“But Dr. Mark has a
national
audience, and we're looking
at syndication,” Ruff said. “Ritz, you know we love you here.
I believe in you. But business is business. You'll get your turn,
just be patient.”

Ruff reached out and pulled Ritz close to him to give her
a hug. It was an uncomfortable moment that could have
turned sexual quite easily if Ritz allowed it. She knew that
Ruff had a slight crush on her but she never fed it. She'd
watched too many women make it to the top of their field by
being on top of their boss, grinding him into submission. But
Ritz wanted to make it on her own merits and on-air talent.

After a couple of minutes, Ritz pried herself away from
Ruff's clutches just before he tried to snuggle his face into her
neck.

“Yes, I'll get my turn. You just better hope it's here, Ruff.
Because if someone else gives me a shot at the afternoon
drive in this town, you'll be very sorry you ever hired this Dr.
Doolittle or whatever his name is.”

“Now, now, Ritz. Don't be catty. We're a team here. We all
have to play to win. I'll make sure you're well taken care of.”

Ritz was not convinced. The next day her aunt called as
usual. Before Aunt Madalyn could get a good “How are you
doing?” out, Ritz was already ranting.

“Amateurs! Amateurs! They have these people who have
never done radio sitting in the big seats, the money seats.
While I, who studied, went to school for this stuff, paid my
dues, get passed over. It's not fair!”

Calmly, Aunt Madalyn listened—as she did when Ritz was
a little girl and would come home with a gripe about a
teacher giving her an A-minus instead of the A-plus she
thought she deserved. She waited for Ritz to finish, then said,
“No, sweetie, it's not fair. But you cannot stop doing what
you're doing. Your time will come, trust me.”

“That's the same thing Ruff told me,” said Ritz. “But
when? When?!”

“That I can't tell you. But water seeks its own level, and
cream always rises to the top.”

“It seems like my cream is curdling. It's getting boring
every night. The same old songs, the same old promos, the
same old words. I feel like I'm not getting better. Maybe I
should go to another market. Maybe Philadelphia or Detroit?”

“You're in the best place you can possibly be,” Aunt Madalyn tried to reason. “People would kill to be where you are,
honey. Everybody is trying to get to New York. You're already
there. You better not give up that seat. Have some patience.”

“Auntie M, that patience stuff if wearing thin,” Ritz said.
“You don't understand.”

“I understand better than you think. Don't lose yourself in
your frustrations, baby. Stay focused on being the best you
can be and it'll pay off.”

Ritz's frustrations were getting the better of her. Every
night when she got home, she would stay up a couple of hours
watching reruns of the newsmagazine shows. There seemed
to be a revolving door of “fresh” faces covering the entertainment scene but very little talent.

“Whatever happened to people working their way to the
top?” Ritz asked herself as she watched that Latin chick who
once was a fill-in get elevated to NBC's morning show. Then
she landed a juicy spot as host of a reality show on top of that.

“So all you have to do nowadays is sleep with the head of
the division and you get the world,” Ritz muttered to herself
about the rumors of how Miranda Chicano actually caused
the divorce of the head of the network. “I should purchase
some knee pads and practice my jaw exercises. That seems to
be the easiest way to get to the top.”

Then Ritz let her imagination wander. Ruff
was
kind of
sexy for a man in his fifties. He wisely shaved his head, which
was already balding, and he worked out enough to not have
a potbelly but not enough to be in really good shape. He always smelled good, too. Some people could wear Paul Sebastian and just stink. But when Ruff wore it, he owned it. He
must have been wearing that scent since high school, but by
now it smelled like it might be part of his own body chemistry. Ruff's hands were very strong, sexy and masculine, like
Bill Clinton's. Ritz met the president at the press conference
when he moved his offices to Harlem. She dusted off her
press pass, which she forced herself to renew every two years
just in case. Ritz made sure she got in line to shake his hand.
She instantly understood the buzz about him. He had a hypnotic air, an undeniable magnetism. And best of all, he had
these big, smooth but very masculine hands—just like Ruff's.

Ritz quickly snapped herself back to reality.

“What in the hell am I thinking?!” she said to herself. “I'll
find another way. I have to find a way to get to the next
level.”

During her shift the next night, Ritz got the first edition of
the next day's papers. The early edition of the
Daily News
and
USA Today
and the
Post
were usually on her desk by nine or
nine-thirty P.M. On Thursdays, she made sure the night intern brought her the
Star
, the
Enquirer
, and the
Globe.
She
needed to stay abreast of the real news, the news that was
popular with the people. Ritz had started delving into gossip
on the air about a year before—simply to cut the boredom. It
was fun reading about the outrageous lives of some of these
celebrities, and it kept Ritz and her listeners in a frenzy, kicking these rich folks when they were down.