Drama Is Her Middle Name Page 3

  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.

  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 d
eep 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 girlfriend!”

  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 som
e 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!”

  “The Post always did have a way with words,” Ritz thought. “And how are they going to call it their exclusive? That shit was my exclusive!”

  Then she turned to the story and skipped through the blah, blah, blah to get to her quote.

  “Yep, they spelled my name right!” She smiled with satisfaction.