Drama Is Her Middle Name (4 page)

Ritz liked asking questions like “Why do you think Eddie
Murphy's wife
really
left him?” Then she would invite her
callers to explore all of the rumors and all of the options. Doing her show was nothing but pure fun.

On this night, with her shift heading into the final hour,
Ritz picked up
USA Today
. On the front cover in full color
was a photo of Delilah Summers. Her article was an “explosive ABC special report” with the new Palestinian leader.
The interview was billed as “changing the face of the Middle
East conflict.”

When Ritz came back from her break, she was still thinking about how big Delilah Summers had become. Delilah was
the hottest news interviewer in the country and had even
overtaken Barbara Walters. Many saw Delilah Summers as
not only the heir apparent who would move in when Barbara
Walters retired but as the one who could actually push Walters into retirement. Delilah had easily bagged seven major
interviews that others wanted last year, including an exclusive with the president, an interview with Saddam Hussein in
prison, and the bombshell of bombshells, the interview with
Whitney Houston that all but finished the diva's career.
Delilah Summers was a superstar.

“Delilah Summers,” Ritz cooed the name over the air after
she came back from her song set. Ritz would normally give
the time and temperature and maybe a little banter about
something in the news, but Ritz had Delilah on the brain.

“Can you all believe that she and I went to school together? She's a little older than I am, of course,” Ritz said.
“Boy, was Delilah Summers a wild one! Now look at her—all
famous and serious and everything! Wow, people sure do
change. Or do they?”

Inside, Ritz had sharp pangs of jealousy. Delilah Summers
was not only wild, she was reckless. She was the one at the
frat parties getting pissy drunk. Not Ritz. Delilah went through
boys the way dudes go through women. Not Ritz. And Delilah was a real bitch. She had been very condescending to
Ritz from the day they met. They'd been college roommates.
While Ritz was a little bit shy and a little bit corny back then,
Delilah capitalized on those traits. Ritz became her doormat
and her confidante.

One night Ritz played lookout for Delilah while she gave
a blowjob to the program director of their campus radio station. He also just happened to be the husband of the dean of
the media department who was a chaperone at the party.
Delilah did a good job of making everyone believe she was
the golden girl—the consummate talent, the ultimate professional. She was good at fooling people into thinking she
even had morals and scruples. Nobody got to see the real
Delilah—except the people who were involved with her sexcapades. And Ritz, of course.

Ritz knew things about Delilah that she had vowed to take
to her grave, but now those same secrets were scratching at
the surface, itching to get out.

Delilah had the complete package. She had the look—
clean, All-American. Her hair was always well done. She
kept it cut just above the shoulder in a simple pageboy that
framed her face. Delilah was pretty, even during the 1980s
when everybody looked bad with the big hair and horrible
fashions (remember Gloria Vanderbilt jeans?). Delilah had
style. But she also had substance. She could read copy better
than anyone, and her delivery was flawless.

Delilah also understood a few things that Ritz was only beginning to understand: It's not what you know, it's
who
you
know. Or better yet, it's who knows you. Delilah Summers
seemed to make it her business to be known by all the right
people. While Ritz knew that deep inside herself, there was a
diva waiting to get out, she hadn't quite allowed her to be
free. Delilah, however, flexed her diva muscle until it bulged.

In addition to spending time partying and socializing with
the “right” people, Delilah also put a lot of time into polishing her act. She perfected everything from her diction to her
looks. Before they graduated, Delilah had already landed a
gig at a local television station working as a news anchor.
Within in a year, she had made it to a major network as a reporter, and a year later she was sitting comfortably in the anchor's seat.

She had all of the skills of Barbara Walters, without the
lisp. And even though Delilah was a classic beauty, she was
non threatening. Where Katie Couric was cute—some even
thought
too
cute to be taken seriously—Delilah crossed over.
Early in her career she landed an interview with the vice
president of the United States. He was one of the more reclusive types who never granted interviews. He didn't want to
be president and shunned the spotlight. But he agreed to an
exclusive with Delilah Summers that instantly made her a
player.

Over the years, the name Delilah Summers became synonymous with big interviews—from the exposé with Michael
Jackson, to her gripping interview with Fidel Castro in Cuba.

Delilah Summers was at the top of her game. Ritz Harper
was floundering—doing nights at an urban station with no
upside. And on this particular night, Ritz decided to shift the
balance as she reminisced over the airwaves about her old
friend.

“I remember one night Delilah got so high that she passed
out on the steps of our dorm,” Ritz said. “People were walking over her like she was a lump of garbage. Can you imagine
that? I remember when she was giving head to every star on
the basketball team. Now she's sitting down with heads of
state. Oops, did I say that?!”

She certainly did. And it felt good. Ritz felt euphoric as
she purged the years of envy from her spirit, as she regurgitated the years of frustration. For years Ritz had wondered:
What if? What if
she
had done the things that Delilah had
done? Would she be a star today, too?

But the burning question for Ritz in that moment was:
How solid was Delilah Summers's star? Could it actually fall?

“Yeah, Delilah Summers . . . she may be a spokesperson for
safe sex now, but I know she turned a trick once and there
was nothing safe about it. She needed money to pay for her
room and her books and, well, she did what she had to do.
Then a few weeks later she finds out she's pregnant, something about the rubber breaking. Well, I had to accompany
her to an abortion clinic not too long after that!”

Ritz was
not
making it up. Delilah Summers had had an
abortion, and Ritz had driven her home. Ritz was not just her
roommate, she was Delilah's only female friend. Delilah, who
didn't particular care for women, shunned female friendship.
Ritz put up with a lot to be her friend. Ritz was so enamored
of Delilah, so in awe of her. She wanted to be like her and at
the same time wanted to be nothing like her. Ritz thought
she was better than Delilah. She couldn't do what Delilah
seemed to be willing to do. But Ritz was also so intimidated
by Delilah that she felt compelled to take her shit and keep
her secrets. Ritz couldn't even talk about her until this toasty
summer night many years later when it all came spilling out.

“I'm just sick of all the hypocrites out there—all of these
so-called leaders who come off all perfect. I'm sick of the Jesse
Jacksons and his illegitimate baby. I'm sick of Al Sharp-ton and . . . well, where do I start? And I'm sick of Delilah
Summers!”

The phone lines started to light up. Ritz had almost forgotten that she was on the air. She had missed her break and had
talked through two song rotations. The night program pretty
much ran without much interference. There wasn't a producer, and Ritz operated her own boards.

“Ritz, I am sick of these people, too!” cried Terry in the
Bronx. “You go! It's nice to know there's someone out there
keeping it real!”

“Thank you, Terry!” Ritz said. “And what's your favorite
station?”

“WHOT! The place to be,” Terry said on cue. Ritz never
forgot to get the station ID in. Even though she veered from
the program—which was to promote the station, make a few
comments, and announce the next songs—she was still the
consummate radio professional. She always got in her radio
obligatories. “Next caller, you're on with Ritz!”

“Yo, Ritz, you need to stop hating!” Gary from Brooklyn
said. “I can't even see Delilah Summers doing any of that!
That's why black people can't get ahead now—there's always
someone there to knock them down.”

“No, Gary, I'm talking about someone who gave too much
head,” Ritz shot back. “And as far as black people holding
each other down—aren't you tired of having people represent you who are frauds? Let's really keep it real tonight.
Aren't you sick and tired? You should be. I know I am. It's
time for us to start telling it like it is. And hopefully raise the
standard around here. That's right! I'm going to tell it all
tonight. What do I have, ten more minutes? Well, I have at
least ten more
days
of stories about Delilah Summers. So y'all
need to stay tuned. When we come back from this break, I'm
going to tell you about the girlfriend she had in college—and
I mean
girl
friend!”

By this time, all nine lines were blinking furiously. Ritz
had to go to a commercial break to answer the phones. On a
normal night she might average a few calls. The phone lines
would light up when there was a contest or a give-away, but
it was pretty much quiet in the studio. But on this blistering
early August night, it seemed like the Fourth of July the way
the lines were flaring.

The first line she answered was the only one that mattered—the hot line. That was the red blinking light from her
bosses.

“Uh-oh!” she thought. “I done did it now!” Ritz wasn't
sure which boss would be on the other end, and she was very
nervous. She picked up the hot line not knowing if this was
the beginning or the end of her career.

“Ritz, what the fuck! What are you talking about?!” Ruff
exclaimed. “But before you answer, I need to know: Is any of
this shit true?!”

“Hey, Ruff,” Ritz said coyly. “I didn't know you listened to
the night shift.”

“Stop playing! Are you trying to get us sued?”

“You know me better than that!” Ritz said. “It's all true. I
wouldn't be saying it if it wasn't true.”

“Girl, it better be!” he said. “You know how powerful
Delilah Summers is. If she comes after us and your shit ain't
right, then that's our ass! Or should I say that's
your
ass!”

“Ruff, Ruff, Ruff, you worry too much,” Ritz said. “If you
want, I can bring on eyewitnesses!”

“Word?” Ruff was very corporate, but when he was comfortable, his roots would show. And he was very comfortable
with Ritz. “Okay, kiddo, you better drink lots of coffee because you're going on the morning show to break this story
again. Then after that we need to talk.”

Shocky John did the morning show on WHOT. He had
just come back to New York after leaving because of a parody
he'd done on the tsunami victims, which was too tasteless
even for his audience. The station felt the heat of the
protests, particularly from the Asian community, and they
suspended him indefinitely. He quickly landed a job in Philly,
where his ratings shot to number one. Ratings
are
king, and
Shocky John was welcomed back to New York City in almost
no time with open arms. All was forgiven.

Shocky John and now Dr. Mark got the WHOT billboards
and the commercials. They did most of the appearances and
promos. They were the stars. But at seven in the morning,
Ritz Harper was going to get her fifteen minutes. She spent
the final ten minutes of her show feeling as if she had smoked
a whole blunt, as she fielded calls and got sassier by the
minute. Afterward she didn't want to go home.

“What if I oversleep?” she thought. It was midnight and
Ritz usually stayed up until about three watching talk show
reruns, the
Honeymooner
, and
Bewitched
. She loved Samantha's antics. Then she'd doze off with the TV still on.

But tonight Ritz couldn't sleep, so she would take Ruff's
advice and get some coffee and stay up. She sat up with the
overnight jock, the Sandman, who played mostly slow-ass
classic R&B songs that put people to sleep. He was a real
character, and Ritz loved him. Sandman had done overnights
at the station for more than fifteen years. He was a staple.
Ritz sat with Sandman and talked about the business, about
his days when Frankie Crocker was the star of WHOT. And
she daydreamed about seven A.M.

But Ritz's big day started around twelve-thirty A.M., when
a call came in from the
New York Post
for her. They were running a story on the front page about the wild and sexually explicit past of Delilah Summers and they wanted a quote.
A
quote?

“Miss Harper, what else can you tell us about Delilah Summers? ” night editor James Hairston asked. “We're running
with this for our front page. We got a tip and listened to your
program. Pretty explosive stuff!”

“Well, if you want to know more, you have to listen at
seven. I'll be on the morning show exposing even more,” Ritz
said. “In the meantime, I'll leave you with this: It's all true!”

And she hung up. Ritz was beginning to love her flair for
the dramatic. She was getting butterflies thinking about what
would come next. The final-edition papers were delivered at
five-fifteen in the morning. And the station got them all:
Daily News
,
USA Today
,
Newsday
,
The New York Times
, and
The Post
. She rifled through to grab a
Post
, and there it was:
“Exclusive: Delilah Summers Goes Down!”