Drama Is Her Middle Name (6 page)

6

Ritz's move from the night shift was swift. Ruff promised the
move would be “soon,” but she never anticipated it would
take literally three days after her bomb-drop on Delilah Summers for her to be given the coveted afternoon drive shift.
Radio was cruel in that way. Dr. Mark, who had decent ratings and quite a following, was summarily moved to Ritz's
shift. He still had a year left on his contract that the station
did not want to eat. In radio, the drive for the best ratings was
nasty. WHOT saw Ritz as their next cash cow.

“This must have been the way that little William Hung
felt on
American Idol
or that Omarosa from the
Apprentice,
”
she thought with amusement. “Fuck that! I actually have talent! I deserve this.”

Ritz started doing newspaper interviews and magazine
interviews. She was featured on
Extra
and
Access Hollywood
.
VH1 was hollering for her. She even made an appearance on
Bill O'Reilly's show to talk about the shameful state of the
news field. There was Stephen Glass, Mike Barnicle, Jayson
Blair, Dan Rather, and now Delilah Summers.

Ritz's relationship with Ruff changed instantly. Soon he'd
turn into Ritz's very own public relations rep as he and Ritz
had daily discussions about which shows to do and which
ones to avoid and what angle to take.

“Tell the
Enquirer
to fuck off,” Ruff said. “We have to have
some limits! But O'Reilly?! Damn, girl. You have arrived!”

“Shiiiit,” Ritz said. “He ought to add his own ass to that
list of fallen news heroes. Didn't he have to settle out of court
with some chick who accused him of sexual harassment?
That's the kind of shit I'm talking about!”

“Easy, killa,” Ruff said. “You're going to go on The O'Reilly
Factor
and you're going to make nice. He has five million
viewers, and we want to get a few of them on WHOT. You
can work that. I know you can.”

“Why, of course,” Ritz purred. “You know I will make it do
what it do.”

And they both broke out into a private chuckle. Soon Ruff
realized that he really liked Ritz. She was “a bitch with balls,”
a woman after his own heart—tough enough not to let people take advantage of her, but soft enough to know how to be
a lady. Ritz liked Ruff, too. He was the first and only boss she
had who was completely up front and honest with her.

Ritz found most people in radio to be very shady. “Hell, it's
that way with most people in life,” she thought. They would
smile in your face, telling you everything was fine, while taking out a knife to stab you in the back. Not Ruff. He would
look you square in the face and stab you in the front—if that's
what he was going to do. Ritz always knew where she stood
with him, and he never lied to her.

Their relationship didn't progress beyond mutual admiration. Ritz had a rule about crossing lines with her bosses. Ruff
was from the rules-were-made-to-be-broken school. He would
break all of the rules for Ritz, but she would have to make the
first move—which she was not inclined to do. Until she did
come around, Ruff was relegated to chief cheerleader and
mentor and, of course, boss.

It was one in the afternoon, an hour before Ritz's debut in
her new slot. Ruff made sure she had everything she needed
and everything she wanted—including Chas. She had convinced Ruff that she needed a producer to take her to the top.
Chas didn't have the typical radio experience, but Ruff hired
him anyway.

“I trust you, Ritz,” he said. “But if it doesn't work, I'm
bouncing both of your asses out of here! Don't fuck this up.”

She sat on the toilet of the handicapped stall in the station's bathroom. She was nauseous and didn't want anyone
to see her looking anything but confident. Her hands were
sweating and for perhaps the first time in her adult life Ritz
was scared.

“What if?” was the question that kept swirling around her
head. “What if I
do
fuck this up?”

She felt completely alone. Ritz didn't have Tracee to lean
on. She wasn't speaking to her Aunt Madalyn. She couldn't
dare tell Ruff about her fears. She could talk to Chas, but he
would tell her what she already knew: “Girl, you better suck
this up. You only have one chance to make a good first impression, and this is your chance!”

Ritz gluped down some Maalox that she had in her bag just
in case, splashed her face with cold water, reapplied her
makeup, and got ready for the debut of the
Ritz Harper Excursion: One Trip You Will Never Forget!
She and Chas came up
with that one in a brainstorming session over the weekend.
He coached her on how she would present her show with
drama and pomp. He even lined up some explosive guests for
her debut week. Everything was planned to the letter. But
there was still that little voice inside of Ritz, that little voice
of doubt.

Ritz's first hour on the air went smoothly. She started off
chatting with her new listeners and talking about how excited she was to be there with them. She invited them to call
in. Ritz loved talking to “her people,” as she referred to the
loyal listeners of her night crew. She was determined to create the same family-style environment in the afternoons, as
well.

“You're on with Ritz, who's this?”

“Bitch, who the fuck do you think you are!” It was Delilah
Summers. Ritz was thankful for the seven-second delay and
even more thankful for Aaron, the engineer who was a
holdover from Dr. Mark's show. He was a pro and not only
quick on the bleep button, but also smart. He left in the FCCACCEPTABLE “bitch” and only bleeped out the “fuck,” so the audience could get the full dramatic effect.

“Delilah?” Ritz said in the sweetest voice she could muster.
“Girl, long time no speak! How are you! What can I do for
you?”

“Oh, you've done enough, bitch!” Delilah's speech was
slurring, and it was clear that she was under the influence of
alcohol. “I ought to come down to that station and fuck you
up. Better yet, I wouldn't dirty my hands on your shanky ass!
Bitch!”

It was quite a departure from the usually well-spoken perfect diction that defined Delilah Summers. She sounded like
the straight-up from Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, chick that she
really was. Like Tina Turner, Eartha Kitt, Maya Angelou, and
even Madonna, Delilah Summers had found a way to erase
all ethnicity from her vernacular and delivery. She was the
quintessential crossover personality. But one call to Ritz erased
all remnants of the image she had worked so many years to
craft. Ritz put her business in the street and her career in the
toilet, and with one call, Delilah Summers flushed it.

“You are such a jealous, grimy bitch,” Delilah continued.
“After all I've done for you . . . Ritz, you will get yours. You
will
get yours!”

And she hung up.

“Well!” Ritz said. “I guess she was mad, huh? I don't blame
her. But I will tell you all this: What hasn't caught you hasn't
passed you. She shouldn't be mad at me, she should be mad
at her damn self.”

Deep down inside (and that place was growing deeper by
the day), Ritz did feel a little remorse. She and Delilah had
been friends—even if it wasn't an equal relationship. Delilah
had worked hard, and Ritz had learned a lot from her. But oh
well. If bringing Delilah down put Ritz on top, so be it.

“I deserve being here more,” Ritz said to herself, trying to
convince herself of that. “She didn't look out for me. Not
once. Fuck her!”

The phone lines lit up just as they had the first night of the
Delilah Summers scandal. And there were calls from all of
the entertainment and newsmagazine shows—including
60
Minutes
—wanting a response from Ritz. It was announced
that afternoon that Delilah Summers was let out of her network contract for “personal” reasons. While her star had fallen,
Ritz's was on the rise.

7

ON THE AIR

“You're on with Ritz. What's on your mind?”

“Hey, girl! This is Sheila from Atlanta, and I have a problem. I have been seeing this man for about a year now. But I
met this other guy and I can't stop thinking about
him.
”

“Okay?” Ritz said. “This man you've been seeing, would
you consider him your boyfriend? I mean, you say you're
seeing
him, but are you in love with him? Are you all talking
marriage? What's the deal?”

“We have a little boy together and yes, we're talking marriage.”

“Oh my!” Ritz purred.

“I love him,” Sheila from Atlanta said. “I really do. He's a
great father. He's a great boyfriend. But we're not compatible
in bed. I want it all of the time and he doesn't.”

“Ooooooh!” Aaron, the engineer, howled. Ritz kept his
mike open because Aaron was good for a dumb-ass comment
or sound effect during the show. He also provided lots of
color that Ritz liked.

“Yes, you
do
have a problem,” Ritz said.

“I don't want to cheat on him, but this other man who I
met online is so freaking sexy. We've talked on the phone,
and Ritz, without even touching me, he made me come
harder than I ever came with my man.”

Aaron was quick on the “beep” button when she said
“come.” He was always ready. Ever since that whole Janet
Jackson titty flack at Super Bowl XXXVIII and Howard
Stern's many, many violations that cost him and his station
millions, Ritz didn't take any chances. She skirted the line often but she never crossed it. She wasn't messing with the
FCC, which she called the Fucking Cunt Commission.

“Fantasies are fine,” Ritz said. “In fact, I think they're
healthy. And as long as you two don't actually get together, I
say use your Internet jump-off and fantasize about him while
you're in bed with your man. See if that works. And during
those times when your man isn't in the mood, I suggest you
get you a Jackrabbit vibrator. They have a new one out called
the Impulse and, girl! Well! I won't tell you . . . you go see for
yourself. And if I were you, I would pull out my old Jackrabbit and go to work in front of him. Trust me, if he doesn't get
the hint, then he's not a real man. And if it doesn't work—I
mean, everything I've told you—holla back.”

“Thank you, Ritz!”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Ritz said. “I mean, it will be
your
pleasure!”

“Ooooh!” Aaron howled again.

“Next caller,” Ritz said. “You're on with Ritz!”

During the first break, Ritz took a sip of her diet Pepsi, one of
five she drank during her shift.

“Jamie, I'm ready for another,” Ritz yelled to her latest intern, who was busy getting the hundreds of faxes coming in,
checking the e-mails, answering the phones, and loving it.

“Okay, Ritz,” Jamie said, never letting anyone see her
sweat. Jamie was a third-year student at New York University
and ambitious as hell. Her banker father taught her the No.
1 rule of success: Identify the power and stay close to it. “It's
the only way you will conquer it, sweetie. You have to be at
the right hand of power.”

Jamie went above and beyond the call of duty for Ritz and
never complained. In fact, she always seemed to have a smile
even when Ritz humiliated her on the air.

“Um, intern!” Ritz would scream on the air. “This diet
Pepsi is not cold enough! What's your problem?! People, can
I tell you how hard it is to find good help?”

Jamie never showed any frustration. She would just go
back and get a colder diet Pepsi, pressing it against her arm
to make sure that it was indeed cold. She then put the cool
one in the tiny freezer in the half fridge in the Ritz's “office.”
The station pimped out an entire large corner of the utility
room to give Ritz her own space. All of the corner offices
were taken by executives. Ritz's makeshift office turned out to
be among the biggest. It was definitely the most colorful. She
decorated it with an animal-print rug, painted the walls
pink—her favorite color—and adorned them with photos
from her most famous interviews. She had pictures with Angela Bassett and Janet Jackson, O.J. Simpson (one of her favorites. She was surprised by how sexy he was), and even
Jennifer Lopez, whom Ritz interviewed when J. Lo was the
hottest thing going—back when she was with P. Diddy, who
was just Puffy then and Ritz was still doing nights. Now the
tables had turned but J. Lo was still one of her favorites.

Jamie rushed back to the studio with the ice-cold diet
Pepsi and discreetly placed it on the desk in front of Ritz,
who picked it up without even looking.

“Now that's better, intern,” said Ritz, who never called her
interns by name on the air because they never lasted longer
than three months and she didn't want her audience to get
attached. Keeping them nameless kept them anonymous and,
therefore, nobodies. But Jamie was in her sixth month. Ritz,
despite the hard time she gave her, actually adored her.

“That Jamie is trying to make herself invaluable,” Ritz told
Chas after the girl's first week on the job.

“This one may be a keeper,” Chas said.

“Nah, I doubt that,” Ritz said, not wanting to concede.
But when Jamie's three-month stint was up, no one said anything. They just kept her on.

After slipping the icy diet Pepsi into place at Ritz's right
hand, out of the way of the stack of faxes, magazines, and
other papers, Jamie took her seat to finish screening calls.
The phone lines never stopped, and it was Jamie's job to
weed out the nut jobs from the whack jobs. The whack jobs
were the most coveted callers—like James in St. Louis who
once called to get advice about what to do about his fifteen inch penis. He was having a hard time,
literally,
getting a
steady girlfriend. And there was Stephanie from Westchester,
who had slept with practically every star athlete in the world.
She was always good for some gossip about someone no one
ever expected to hear about.

The nut jobs were plentiful. These were the people who
just wanted to be on the air and really had nothing to say.
They were just plain crazy. That kind of crazy didn't make for
good radio. It was tedious.

But Ritz loved the whack jobs. She even got a collect call
once from a maximum security prison. Jamie wasn't sure
whether to let it through, but her instincts never let her down.

“Ritz, we have a confessed pedophile on line three, calling
collect,” Jamie said, hoping not to get yelled at. “Maybe you
should take him next!”

“Excellent!” Ritz said.

“Hey, this is Ritz, who's this?”

“This is Gene. I'm calling from Dannemora,” he said.

“That's a prison!”

“Yeah. I hear you talking about Michael Jackson and what
you would like to do with pedophiles, and I'm here to tell
you, none of that shit you're talking will work.”

Aaron was ready on the bleep button.

“When I raped my daughter, I knew inside it was wrong
but I couldn't help myself. I can't explain it. It's like another
thing came over me and I was watching myself doing it,
telling myself not to, but I wouldn't listen.”

“You raped your daughter?” Ritz asked, trying not to let too
much disgust show in her voice. She hated this man whom
she had never met, but she wanted him to stay on the line.
She didn't want to lose him—not until she milked him for
his story.

“Yeah, and I kept doing it,” he said.

“Did she tell on you?”

“Nah, not at all. She thought it was her fault. I was good
at convincing her of that.”

“So how did you end up in jail?”

“I raped my girlfriend after the bitch pissed me off. She
went to the cops, the bitch!”

“How long are you in for?” Ritz asked.

“Oh, since this is the second time I got caught, I got
twenty-five years. They have me in some treatment, group-therapy thing where I have to talk about my issues with other
rapists and pedophiles.”

“So how do the other inmates treat you?”

“Oh, I'm not fucking with them and they don't fuck with
me,” he said. “I know they say that people like me get raped
in prison—but it ain't happened yet. And I don't see it happening.”

“That's a shame,” Ritz slipped out. “So you say my solution—castration—won't work?”

“Nah.”

“But wouldn't that be getting rid of the weapon?”

“Nah, Ritz. The weapon ain't between my legs. The weapon
is between my ears. You have to change the way a man thinks.
Even if he don't have a dick, he will find another way to rape
if his mind ain't right.”

“Is your mind right?”

“Not yet. I belong in jail. I ain't ready to get out. I would
rape again, I believe.”

“Wow, that's real honest of you.”

“Well, you say you like to keep it real. That's as real as it
gets.”

“It sure is! You're listening to the
Ritz Harper Excursion,
better than any trip you'll take, y'all. And we'll be back after
these messages!”

The red “On Air” sign went out as Aaron played bumper
music leading into the commercial set.

“What the fuck?!” Ritz said. “I'm still shaking.”

“Yo, dude was mad icy,” Aaron chimed in.

“I'm entering that segment for the Air Awards,” Chas said,
always thinking about the show and the product. “That was
some gripping shit.”

“Where's the Moët?” Ritz said. “After that, I need something a little stronger than soda. Besides, isn't my girl coming
any minute?”

The studio was abuzz over the arrival of Mariah Carey—
who might be the only guest who could top the pedophile.
She was one of Ritz's favorite people to interview because she
was one of the few “in the business” Ritz actually liked and
respected.

Advice was just one of the features that had catapulted the
Ritz Harper Excursion
to the number-one spot. In less than
a month, Ritz was syndicated to four cities—Philadelphia,
Hartford, Washington, DC, and the flagship in New York.
There was talk of adding ten more within the year. Other
cities wanted their Ritz fix, too, but Ruff didn't want to move
too fast.

People loved the advice, but the real reason they tuned in
was for the celebrity interviews. Ritz had found a formula
that was part Oprah Winfrey, part Jerry Springer. She got all
of the high-profile artists, entertainers, and authors on her
show, but there was always, always a twist—which her audience counted on. Ritz had millions of listeners, and they were
all part of a special insiders' club.

Ritz had developed a secret language with her audience.
When a guest was on and Ritz wanted to say something about
the person without the guest knowing, she had sound effects
to let the audience know what she wanted them to know.

She interviewed legendary rapper Biz Markie. He was an
idol in many circles and was there to promote his new reality
show. Every time Biz opened his mouth, Ritz gave him the
business—one look at Aaron, and the sound of a dentist's
drill would go off under whatever Biz was saying. Not once
did Ritz mention that Biz Markie's mouth looked like he had
been chewing metal bubblegum. She never had to say that he
looked like he had gingivitis and periodontal disease. The
dentist's drill said it all.

If someone was pretending to have a lot of money and was,
in reality, broke, Ritz would have Aaron play the sound effect
of a cash register being hurled out of a window. Cairo, from
the R&B group Cotton Club, who made a solo splash in the
1990s with the biggest one-hit wonders of the decade, rolled
through, and Ritz let him have it.

“I saw you on
MTV Cribs
,” Ritz started. “What a gorgeous
home!”

“Yeah, Cairo said. “I don't get to spend much time in it.”

“True that.” Ritz took off the gloves. “Word has it that day
was the only time you spent in it, because that ain't your
house! Now tell the truth. Your label rented it for the day.
You're still living with your mama, aren't you?”

(Sound effect of the cash registering being tossed out of
the window:
Cha-ching, Crash!
)

Cairo sat there speechless, glaring at Ritz. He wasn't prepared for that uppercut to his diminutive chin.

“Silence says it all,” Ritz said. “Let's go to a break.”

As they went to a break, Aaron played Cairo's hit song.
Cairo stormed out of the studio, not saying a word. When
Ritz came back, she explained his absence but also the method
to her madness.

“I know some of y'all think I'm cruel,” she started. “But
what's cruel is lying. There are so many young people out there
who think that all they need to do is become a rapper or a
singer or something and they're set for life. The truth is, very
few of these people really have money. The rest are projecting
this image and don't have the money to keep up their lifestyle.
You remember TOTAL—hit records galore, but still living in
the projects. Now that's cruel. People need to keep it real!