I'll Be Here All Week (25 page)

“I've got some ideas.” Spence exhales deeply and shakes his head at himself.

“I'm listening.”

“First thing's first,” he says and sits up on the bed again, his feet feeling the cushy carpet between his toes. “Just know that I love you.”

“I love you, too. You're my TV star.”

“For one night, at least.”

“That's good enough for me,” she says. “I hope you know that. I never fell for you because you're an entertainer. Or because you were that guy on the stage that night. Or because you're so funny and can make everyone laugh like you do.”

“I thought that women always wanted a man who can make them laugh.” Spence grins. He always thought that was the silliest line. If women want funny men so much, how come Brad Pitt is always on the cover of
People
magazine's “Sexiest Man Alive” and not Drew Carey?

“But it's easy to make me laugh,” Sam says. “I love you because you know how to make me smile.”

It's at that moment that Spence realizes exactly what he wants and where he wants to be. He stands up again and walks over to the window. A million crazy thoughts are running through his head, but one of them seems like it might just work. He smiles and crosses his fingers.

“I have to make a phone call,” he says to Sam. “Let me call you back?”

“Always.” She makes a kiss noise through the phone and hangs up. Spence feels like he's seventeen again as he immediately starts dialing the phone again.

“Yo,” Rodney answers on the second ring. It's the first time he's ever done that.

“Let me ask you a question,” Spence asks without bothering to introduce himself. “You get fifteen percent, correct?”

“Yep,” Rodney says. “Depending on the gig, of course.”

“Let's call it fifteen percent,” Spence says. “But I'm looking for a specific gig.”

“Where?”

“Toronto.”

“For when?”

“For good,” Spence says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rodney asks.

“I'm talking about I have an idea,” Spence says and paces the hotel room. “And if I know you and the million pies you always have your fingers in, I think it's possible that you might be able to help me help both of us. The right phone calls, the right demo, the right auditions. I think it could work out well for everyone. If you're willing to try something different.”

“Yeah?” Rodney says, and it sounds as if he's actually sitting on the edge of his seat. “What'd you have in mind?”

Spence's headphones feel a little loose, so he tightens the top of them during the commercial break. Going over his notes, he quickly rereads the asides he came up with earlier in the day but hasn't had a chance to use yet. He can probably get off a few quick one-liners here and there before the show wraps for the day. Across the desk, Skip is checking the time left on whatever song is playing and gives him a nod that there's less than thirty seconds to go.

“Just another weekday morning with Mad Man Skip and the Gang,” a prerecorded voice plays over the airwaves, “on Toronto's hit music station, the Wolf.”

The sound of a wolf howling at the moon is heard, followed by a crazy scream and the sound of a guitar thrashing a hard rock chord. Skip nods his head and flips a switch on the soundboard. A red light goes on in the corner of the room to let everyone know that the show is now live on the air.

“Mad Man Skip in the morning,” Skip says, a big smile on his face. There's an old saying in radio that, even if people can't see you, they can hear whether or not you are smiling. Skip firmly believes that and lives by the motto. “Wrapping up another long set of favorite hit tunes right here on Toronto's number one home for rock. This is the Wolf, and this is Thursday morning. Sitting across from me, my partner in crime. How you doing, Spence?”

“I'm still awake, so that's good news,” Spence says as the sound of a jackhammer plays in the background for no reason whatsoever but to make background noise. He follows Skip's lead and smiles as big as he can.

Skip and Spence,
he thinks. It sounds corny, but he likes it.

Skip has been a great new boss and is quickly becoming a fast friend. In his fifties, he has been doing radio forever. He knows his days on the air are numbered, and he likes having a younger guy next to him to carry a lot of the heavy load. Spence doesn't mind it, either, since he plays well off his boss. Skip and Spence. It's a ridiculous-sounding combo, but at least he's not called “Monkey-Boy.”

“Hey, Spence,” Skip says while checking the digital clock on the wall, “I see you're gonna be doing a little stand-up this weekend, huh?”

“That's right,” he says. “Everyone out there can come check me out tonight through Sunday at Absolute Comedy at Yonge and Eglinton. I'll be hosting the show all weekend.”

“Nice,” Skip says, “and while you're there checking out the show, be sure to pick yourself up an ice-cold Molson Canadian. The true Canadian beer, Molson is available at Absolute Comedy and all across the country. Truly Molson, truly Canadian.”

“Nice plug,” Spence says.

“That's why they pay me the big bucks,” Skip says. The sound of a cash register is played and a loud “cha-ching” noise fills Spence's headphones. Presumably, somewhere in Toronto, morning commuters are hopefully at least cracking a smile.

“You get paid?” Spence says. “I need to renegotiate my contract. I've been doing this crap for free.”

Skip laughs and makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Counting Crows up next. It's Mad Man Skip with Spence in the Morning on the Wolf. But first? Here's Megan with traffic and weather.”

Skip takes of his headphones and steps out from behind the desk. Slapping a hand on Spence's shoulder, he retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. His long ponytail has gone gray. He looks like an aging hippie, which is pretty much what he is. He's also technically a liar. The radio station is actually not number one. Recent numbers say it comes in third out of six. Not half bad, really. But not first.

“Going for a smoke.” Skip smiles. “See you in ten, okay?”

“You got it.” Spence nods and takes off his headphones.

“I'm coming out to the gig tomorrow. Bringing the wife.”

“I get to finally meet Mrs. Skip?” Spence says.

“Mrs. Skip number three,” Skip corrects and coughs. His husky DJ voice is probably due in part to the smokes he's getting ready to inhale. He steps out of the booth and walks down the hall.

Spence takes a look at the digital clock and decides to grab a quick cup of coffee. There're a few songs left to play and then some commercials, but they're all lined up and automated. He gets up from his small corner in the booth and steps out into the hallway. There, staring him straight in the face, is his own photo. A poster of him and Skip smiling like idiots in some wacky pose. The framed poster is the same one he's seen recently on a couple of bus stop stands. He looks ridiculous, but Sam was right. He definitely looks better now that he has stopped highlighting his hair.

He smiles. He hasn't been behind the wheel of a car in months. He takes the subway to work every day and, when he can, walks as much as possible. He's been told that, when winter hits in a few weeks, he'll walk less. He wonders if that's true. He likes to think that he'll suck it up better than people think he will, but it doesn't matter. Whether it's on a bus or a streetcar or subway train, it sure as hell beats being behind the wheel for eight hours a day. He can't imagine driving across Iowa anymore.

“Time for a recharge?” A sales guy spots him in the break room and offers him a cup of coffee. Spence chuckles politely and takes the cup. The early hours took some getting used to at first, but he's doing okay now. He used to go to bed around four, so it's different for him to be getting up not long after that and making the trek downtown to be on the air by six. A year ago, he couldn't have imagined going to bed before eleven every night.

“Sounding good today,” the sales guy says and raises his cup. He raises his back and thanks him, although he can't remember the guy's name. There are so many people that work at the Wolf, it can be pretty overwhelming. The hardest part has never been the early hours or the public promotions or even the silly, censored jokes over the airwaves; it's keeping up with the dozens of other employees and who the hell they all are. People randomly walk by him and pat his back.

“There's the funny man,” some guy in a tie says as he walks down the hall.

“Here comes trouble,” a receptionist will say when he walks through the lobby. It's always some remark about his role as second banana. He's “the funny guy” or “wacky dude” or some variation of comedic sidekick. And sometimes they just call him Spence.

He just hopes the people in their cars and offices are laughing. So far, the ratings say they are. Even if they aren't number one, they're not bad. He crosses his fingers every once in a while and hopes it stays that way. He likes the gig. That smiling that Skip insists he keep doing isn't fake.

It shouldn't have worked out this way, but it did. Oddly enough, for the first time in his life, everything went according to plans. The right phone calls, the right demos, and the right auditions. A little bit of wrangling for the right permits, a little rough start auditioning for the spot, and then, out of nowhere, everything just clicked. Turns out that Buzz in Peoria was right all along: Spence is pretty damn good at doing radio.

“Yo, Spence,” a familiar voice calls from the hallway as he starts his way back to the booth. He turns to see Greta walking down the hall. A short twentysomething with long, dark hair that goes all the way down her back, Greta is a bit of a wonder woman at the Wolf. She does everything from answer phones to record commercials to set up live appearances. She has been Spence's lifeline ever since he started a few months back, showing him around and helping him out whenever he felt lost.

“What's up, Greta?”

“Messages,” she says and hands him a few little sheets of paper.

“Wow,” he says, “I must be popular or something.”

“Or something,” Greta says. “Absolute Comedy wants you to confirm that you're performing this week.”

“Just announced it on the air, so I hope so,” he says.

“Alrighty,” she says. “I'll e-mail them for you.”

“Thanks,” he says. He looks down at the scraps of paper. One is the message from Absolute Comedy. Another is from some other comedy club in the city. The local gigs keep coming, which he's always happy to take. The money is always good, and the commute is always short. Just the way he likes it.

A third message is from Sam:

 

Sushi tonight?

 

“You wanna bring the boyfriend and have sushi with me and Sam?” he asks Greta. “Maybe I'll bring Skip.”

“Don't count on it,” Greta says. “Skip doesn't eat raw anything. But I'll bring Tommy, sure. What time?”

“Seven,” he says. “I've got that gig at nine.”

“Look at the local celebrity.” Greta smirks.

“Sure,” he says, “keep thinking that.”

“Not too shabby, if you ask me,” Greta says. She's right. He gets more for his stand-up shows now than he ever did before. And that's not including random public appearances. The ironic part is that he gets the gigs more because he's popular on the radio than because he did
The Tonight Show
. But at least
The Tonight Show
got him through the door at the radio station in the first place. It also didn't hurt that the program director was a fan of Craig Kilborn.

“So? Dinner at seven?” Spence asks.

“You got it,” she says and walks back down the hallway. He pulls out his phone and sends a text message to Sam.

 

Dinner with Greta and her guy at seven?

 

A second later, she replies:

 

Works for me. I love you.

 

He smiles and steps back into the booth. Skip has returned and is doing something on the computer screen; probably reviewing the music list for the next hour. Skip nods as Spence comes back in the room. They never talk too much during the breaks. It keeps it fresh when they go live. It works out very well and makes their timing better when they're on the air. It took getting used to, but Spence likes it now.

He looks at the scraps of paper in his hand and flips through them one more time. There, in the stack of reminders about meetings with network guys and appointments he needs to make, is a short note that Greta scrawled out for him.

He laughs to himself as he looks at the paper. Never in a million years did he think he'd smile when he got messages from that guy. For the first time in almost a decade, he thinks Rodney might just be worth every penny.

Fuck you, Rodney,
he thinks, only now it's with a grin.

“What?” Skip says.

Spence jumps a bit in his seat. He didn't realize he was talking out loud. He clears his throat as he looks up at Skip and smiles.

“Nothing,” he says. Skip gives him a smile right back and returns to what he was doing.

He looks at the note for a second and then looks up at Skip. Skip does the swirling motion with his hands, flips some switches, and puts his headphones on. The prerecorded intro plays again and welcomes the listeners back from a commercial break. Spence picks up his headphones and gets ready to go live again. Then he takes the message from Rodney and places it on the table in front of him, right next to the tiny photo he keeps there. The photo of Sam.

He smiles big and leans into the microphone.

Thank you, good night.