God's Gift to Women (2 page)

“Where’s my daughter? And where’s Terri?” I asked again.

“Relax, Mr. Payne, your daughter is—”

He stopped in midsentence as the elevator doors opened on the lobby level. Suddenly, a wave of photographers and reporters rushed toward me. I was blinded by a barrage of flashing lights. Although my vision was blurred, I could see the outline of several husky policemen clearing a path.

“Julian, can you tell us what happened?” a reporter yelled out.

“Who shot the security guard?” another shouted while shoving a microphone in my face.

“Fuckin’ vultures!” I tried to lift my hand to shield my bloody face, but my arms were strapped down. The yelling was deafening—like a continuous roar. The paramedics tried to move faster, but it was no use. The lobby was packed with policemen, reporters, and nosy fans who had come to watch. The atmosphere was festive, like a circus.

“Get out of the way, please!” the paramedics yelled. “This man is in critical condition! Move, move, move!”

The paramedics fought through the main doors, but once we made it outside we came to an abrupt stop. The crowd was even larger. People were jumping up on the hood of their cars trying to get a better look. As the brisk night air blew across my bloody face, their loud voices suddenly faded—replaced by sirens and the humming of the helicopter blades. I could feel the blood soaking through the bandages.

It was obvious from the paramedics’ expressions that we were running out of time. The ambulance was only a few yards away, but the crowd was out of control. When they continued to push, the cops pushed back—violently. People were knocked to the pavement and trampled.

“I love you, Julian!” a woman screamed as she struggled to get off the ground.

“I’m your number one fan!” another woman shouted as she lifted her blouse, exposing her breasts.

Suddenly a woman lunged toward me and ripped the sleeve off my blood-soaked shirt.

“Aarrgh!”
I screamed.

“Now I’ll always have a piece of you,” she said. Her hazel eyes and deranged stare were all too familiar.

“Move back!” the cops yelled as they pulled her away. “Move back, damnit!”

The stretcher seemed to move toward the ambulance in slow motion. I was growing weaker. I fought hard to stay conscious—to stay alive. I gazed up at the flashing lights from the squad cars as they danced across the dark sky and against the nearby glass buildings. It reminded me of the Fourth of July in Chicago.

I wish I had seen the fireworks on Lake Michigan this summer,
I thought to myself. And I never did see the view from the top of the Sears Tower. I wish I had gone to Sam’s first basketball game when she was seven. I wish I could be with Terri when my baby is born. But most of all, I wish I had never met Olivia Brown. She was the reason I was bleeding to death in Houston, Texas, on New Year’s Eve.

How could she go this far?
I wondered as they lifted me into the ambulance.
And why did she choose me?

JASMINE-SCENTED CANDLES illuminated the studio, creating a spiritual ambiance. I reclined in my chair as I listened to the song “Is It a Crime” by Sade. The candles had become a ritual ever since I started at WTLK back in ’89. The flickering light and smell of jasmine were relaxing and made me more introspective—aromatherapy, they called it.

The faint candlelight also served as camouflage for the dilapidated condition of the studio. The carpet was covered with decade-old cigarette burns, the plaster was falling off the ceiling, and the exposed water pipe leaked into an old Folgers coffee can. “Sade, your song is right on time,” I said as I glanced around the room. “This place
is
a crime.”

Just before the song ended, I put on my headphones and adjusted the volume to the mic. The digital clock on the console read 11:55
P.M
. “Five more minutes and I’m outta this dump!” I said with contempt. My producer, Mitch, was in the control booth next door setting up the calls. I could see him through the large soundproof window. I switched on the intercom to get his attention.

“Well, Mitch, in a few minutes it’ll all be over,” I told him. “The final episode of the Green Hornet and Kato.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Julian,” he said in his usual smooth tone. “It’s not the end of the world, just another phase in life.”

“Listen to you, sounding all philosophical. That must be one of the benefits of old age.”

“Who you callin’ old?”

Mitch had smooth, dark brown skin and short black hair with gray streaks. He looked very distinguished but he had recently turned fifty-five and was getting touchy about his age.

“Look, we can arm wrestle for your Viagra prescription later,” I laughed. “Right now, let’s get to work and try to wrap up the show on time.”

There were five people on hold. Mitch printed their names in bold letters on a piece of paper and taped it to the window. That was our sophisticated communication system. “Five, four, three, two—” I heard Mitch count. Then he pointed at me to signal we were on the air.

“Welcome back to
Love, Lust, and Lies
on WTLK,” I said in my deep radio voice. “We only have enough time for two calls, so let’s go straight to the phones. Adam, you’re on. What’s your question or issue?”

“Hey, Julian! I just want to congratulate you on your new show,” he said. “I hope you don’t get big-headed and forget where you came from when you blow up.”

“Negro, please! I’ve been struggling in this business for fifteen years. I’ve never been about money
or
fame,” I told him. “I’ve never owned a new car, don’t own a nice watch, I cut my own hair, and every night I go home to a ten-year-old girl who’s goin’ through puberty. Now, if that doesn’t keep you grounded, nothing will. Thanks for calling.”
Click.

Mitch was laughing his ass off because he knew I was telling the truth. I drove a beat-up 1994 Toyota Camry, which I bought used in 1996. And my scratched-up Gucci was ten years old. I laughed myself because when I looked down at it, it had stopped working—again.

“Okay, Sharon. You’re my last caller!” I said as I pushed the button to line two. “What’s your question or issue?”

“My question is about love and commitment.” She sounded depressed.

“We don’t have much time, sweetheart. What’s your point?”

“My point is, when you love someone you should stand by him—no matter what, right?”

“I agree. If you truly love someone, nothing should come between you.”

“Well, I thought my husband loved me, until—”

She stopped in midsentence.

“Come on! It can’t be
that
serious,” I said jokingly, trying to cheer her up. “What happened? Did you gain a little weight, lose your job, get a bad hair weave? What?”

“No, Julian, he left me because I was raped. The doctors said the damage was so severe I’ll never be able to bear children,” she said. Then she began to cry. “And after going through that hell, can you believe that no-good bastard had the nerve to tell me it was my fault that I got raped? How’s that for love and commitment?”

I hit the mute button on my microphone and buried my head in my hands. When I looked up at Mitch, I knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking. Why tonight—of all nights? The clock on the console read 11:56. We were almost out of time. But I was determined not to end my last show on a negative note.

“Are you all right, Sharon?” I asked. “Do you want me to put you in touch with a therapist?”

“No, Julian, thank you. I’ll be fine. It happened a long time ago.” She quickly composed herself. “I’m just sick and tired of men using the word
love
at their convenience. The only thing they love is getting pus—”

“Hold up”—I cut her off—“I get the point! And you’re right,
love
is a serious word—men shouldn’t say it if they don’t mean it.”

“Have
you
ever been in love, Julian?”

“Hold on a second, who’s interviewing who?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. But I was just wondering if there’s ever been a woman worthy of
your
love.”

I paused for a second as I thought of my wife, Carmen. Her picture was right in front of me, the one we took in Vegas on our honeymoon. I never spoke about her on the air since
that
day— it was too painful. But I decided to open up. Maybe I was caught up in the moment or by the vulnerability in Sharon’s voice.

“Yes, I’ve been in love—once,” I told her.

“Are you still with her?”

“No, she’s gone—cancer took her.”

“I guess we have something in common, Julian,” she said, then she hesitated. “We’re both alone.”

Mitch was nodding in agreement. We both knew why. But I wasn’t about to go there on the air.

“Like you said, it happened a long time ago,” I told her. “You’ve got to let go of the pain in order to move on. And speaking of moving on, it’s time for me to get out of here.”

The phone lines were ringing off the hook, but there was no time left for calls. The management at WTLK was strict about ending segments on time, especially since the station was programmed to go off the air at midnight. The clock on the panel read 11:58.

“Before I go, I want to end the show with an inspirational poem, the way I always do on ‘Hot Buttered Soul Poetry Friday.’ I call this piece ‘Movin’ On.’ I reached for my notebook. “This one’s for you, Sharon, and all the ladies out there who are trying to move on.” I cleared my throat and began to recite:

every experience

be it bad or good

teaches us a lesson

or at least it should

mr. right

turned out to be mr. wrong

learn from your mistakes

keep the faith

press forward, sista

move on

dry your tears

wipe your eyes

find the strength

look inside

don’t call him

don’t see him

don’t play one sad song

block his cell

delete his email

look ahead, my sista

just move on

love yourself

take care of yourself

and if the need arises

sista, please yourself

do a check up

from the neck up

say a prayer

sista, hold your head up

cause one day you’ll have all the joy your heart can hold

and then you’ll be glad you pressed forward

and so thankful you moved on

After I finished reading, I felt choked up. I was closing the show for the last time. I hesitated for a second, then I let it go.

“Good night, Chicago,” I said emotionally. “Thanks for allowing me into your homes, your hearts, and your minds— peace.”

Mitch quickly turned on the studio lights and came running over. He was holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two glasses. He shook it up and then popped the cork. Champagne sprayed everywhere.

“Congratulations, Julian,” he said, as he poured it over my head. “You’re finally escaping this concentration camp!”

“Yeah, it took me over ten years, like
Shawshank Redemption,
but I finally made it,” I laughed as I wiped the Champagne from my eyes.

He poured two glasses and handed me one.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” he said. “To the most outspoken, talented, and arrogant son of a bitch in talk radio.”

“Hear, hear!” I said as we tapped glasses.

“Now,
I
wanna propose a toast. To the man who has given me inspiration, motivation, and die-rection. Here’s to you, Mitch.”

We toasted again. Then there was an uncomfortable silence. I had dreaded this moment all week.

“You know, Mitch, I’m sorry I couldn’t work out a deal to take you with me. You know how much you—”

“Look, Julian,” he interrupted, “this is your time—your season. You were born for this. Besides, I’ve got a big deal I’ve been working on. I only wish Carmen could’ve been here to share this moment with you.”

“Yeah, me, too.” I stared at her picture on the console. “She’s the reason I stuck with this raggedy-ass station for as long as I did.”

Mitch walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. He was a short man, standing about five six. I towered over him at six three, but he had a charismatic way of speaking that demanded attention.

“It’s been two years, Julian. When are you gonna let it go?” he said in that fatherly tone. “You said it in your poem, life goes on! Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start taking some of your own advice?”

“Look, Mitch,
dating
is not high on my list of priorities!” I
said as I pulled away. Then I started packing up my equipment. “I’m moving to Houston in two days. I just want to finish packing, have a farewell drink with Eddie at Club Nimbus, then get the hell outta here!”

“Sounds like a plan, Julian.” He poured himself another drink. “But you know as well as I do, Sharon was right; you are alone. You should’ve asked her out—she’s obviously single,” he added sarcastically. “Tell you what, why don’t we see if she’s still on the line?”

Mitch reached for the button on the console. All five phone lines were lit and my microphone was still on.

“Cool out, Mitch!” I grabbed at his hand. But he managed to press the speakerphone button for line two. There was a sudden click, then a dial tone.

“It’s best that she’s gone, anyway,” he said as he backed away from the console.

“And why is that? Not that I care.”

“Because Samantha will never allow another woman into her life, or yours, not until she learns to accept that you are
a man
—with needs.”

He sat his Champagne glass on the console and headed for the door.

“Where you goin’?” I walked toward him holding my glass. “I thought we were celebrating tonight.”