On the Line (22 page)

I
t's been a little over a month since I was canned. I check the station periodically to see what's happening in my slot—
elevator music.
Word on the street is that ratings for my former time slot are in the toilet. But I really don't have too much time to dwell on that minor victory. Randy fills my days with pulling my manuscript together and my nights with loving.

Quiet as it's kept, I've never been in a real relationship before, but Randy is real patient. And I'm slowly beginning to believe that I deserve some happiness and a man who cares about me. Some nights we don't make love—we just talk, laugh and cuddle. I kinda like it.

Anyway, I've been sitting by the phone all morning waiting for the call from Randy. Today he's making the presentation of
The Best of On the Line
to the editors. I'm a nervous wreck. I check the phone one more time to make sure it's working and it rings in my hand.

“Hello?”

“You ready to be rich and extremely famous?”

My heart takes off on a wild ride. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. They love it and want to go to contract immediately.”

“What! Oh my God.” I start spinning around in a circle.

“I'll have the contract ready by the end of the week. There's going to be a full court media press, book tour, advertisements, talk shows, the whole gamut.”

“This is incredible. I can't thank you enough.”

“My pleasure. Look, I have a ton of stuff to get together. I'll see you tonight and we can celebrate.”

“Okay.” In a dream state I hang up the phone. Wow, I'm going to be an author. The prospect is suddenly terrifying. For years I'd only been a voice, a personality. According to Randy I was going to be pushed out into the spotlight for the world to see and scrutinize. I'm filled with mixed emotions. It was one thing to sit in a soundproof room and rag people, it was another to be put front and center for your own issues to be looked at. True, the book was only a combination of stories from previous shows and letters that have been in my to-be-read file for ages, but I was still going to have to be the front woman answering the questions. I'm not really sure what I'm worried about—the book ain't about me!

I gotta call my girl Macy, who, by the way, is now a producer on WHOT's major competitor station. Ha, how ironic is that? I knew she wouldn't be down for long. The girl has skilz.

She picks up on the third ring and, before she can get a word out, I tell her the news.

“I knew it! Told you. Girl, you are in there. Just make sure you take me on tour with you.”

“You know I got you, sis.”

“So when are you going to sign the contract?”

“Randy said it would be ready by the end of the week.”

“I guess the real question is, when are you going to get your fat check?”

“Not really sure how long that takes. I'll ask Randy.”

“Well, I have to get ready for work. Keep me posted.”

“I will.”

“See you on the
New York Times
list.”

“For real.”

The rest of my day pretty much flies by. Randy told me that I needed about three or four more stories, so I spend my time looking for some really good ones. Before I know it, it's time to get ready for my celebratory date with my man. Wow,
my man.
I've never said that before. Never had one before. Most of the men who've been in my life have been in and out. It was better that way, at least it had been. But from the moment Randy stepped into my life, he decided he wanted more than a one-night stand. Right up to this moment, I'm not sure why I let him have his way, but I'm beginning to like it—a lot.

When the doorbell rings, I'm just about ready.

“Hey, baby.” He walks up to me and kisses me nice and slow, just the way I like it, and I start feeling all squishy inside.

“Hi, yourself.”

I take his hand and we walk into the living room. “I just have to get my purse. Did you decide on a place for dinner?”

“I thought we could go down to Tribeca, get something to eat and then check out the film festival. How's that sound?”

“Perfect. I've never been to the film festival.”

“Me either. It will be a first for both of us.”

Randy was wonderful about stuff like that. There were so many things that we did together for the first time, like canoeing in Central Park, or the time we went to Brooklyn to roller-skate before they closed the Empire Roller Dome, or the Saturday visit to the Botanical Gardens. He opened a new world to me and I loved every minute of it. I'd lived in New York all my life and there was so much of it that I'd never seen before.

As always our evening is wonderful. We laugh and talk and hold hands just like a real couple. Randy tells me all about how he got started in the publishing world and some of the crazy clients he's had over the years, and I swear on a stack of Bibles that I see Robert DeNiro at the festival, but Randy insists that it wasn't him.

“You feel like some company for the rest of the night?” he asks me once we get back to my place.

“Did you have someone in mind,” I tease him.

He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me close. “Why don't you tell me.”

“Well, there's this guy that I really like and I'd been thinking about asking him for a sleepover.”

“Really? Anyone I know?”

“I think you do.” I push the door closed and pull him inside.

 

Today is the big day. I sign my contract and, according to Randy, they will hand me a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and I'll receive the other half when I turn in the finished product. A half a million bucks for splashing the foils and phobias of other folks' angst. Can't beat it with a stick. Let's just say I'll be heading straight to the bank. There's already been buzz on the airwaves and several media blogs that I'm poised to sign a mega book deal. But the last thing I expect when I walk out of the editorial offices is to be assaulted by the press, who demand a statement. You would think that I'd just been set free on a murder rap with the number of cameras and news hogs waiting for me.

“Ms. Newhouse, Ms. Newhouse, can you confirm that you just signed a half-million-dollar book deal?”

“Ms. Newhouse, is it true that the book is based on the stories from your callers?”

“Will any of the people that you use in your book get any of the proceeds?”

“Do you feel any sense of conscience in using your listeners' stories to benefit yourself?”

“When will the book be released? What does your old station have to say?”

The questions are flying at me so fast that my head starts spinning. I'm usually the one asking the questions and demanding answers.

Miraculously, Randy appears at my side. “A press release has been prepared that will answer all of your questions,” he announces, silencing the melee. “The book is scheduled to be released this summer and we'll be sure that each of you gets an advanced copy.” He grabs my arm and hustles me back inside the building and out the back way.

“What the hell was that all about?”

“I guess I should have warned you. The publicity department intentionally leaked your meeting today. It's all part of the publicity campaign to start building buzz about the book.” He stops and turns to me. “It's going to get crazy.”

I don't know what to say. I'm still in shock, and I'm rarely at a loss for words.

“It'll be fine,” he says.

“I just want to go home. Okay?”

“Sure.”

We get to the back exit, walk around the block and Randy hails me a cab. “Look, some interviews are being set up for you. We really want to get moving on this book. It's already on the fast track to publication. We know it's going to be hot. The public loves tell-all books and yours is totally original. We want to capitalize on it before some other radio jock decides to do the same thing.”

I nod numbly. This is much more than I expected.

“They're going to try to get all in your business and in your head, so be prepared.” He opens the cab door and I get in.

“Someone from our PR staff will be contacting you to get some information for the press release. Once that's done, all the questions and your schedule will be handled through our publicity office.” He leans down and looks me in the eye. “I didn't want to tell you this before but we've already gotten inquires about film rights.”

My heart slams in my chest. He kisses the top of my head. “See you later.”

The cab pulls off into the mess of midtown Manhattan traffic and, for the first time since this odyssey began, I'm starting to feel very uneasy.

 

As promised, a chick named Tanya Steele, my assigned publicist, calls later in the day and does an impromptu interview via phone and wants to know my whole history: where I was born, my parents, where I went to school, how I got started in the business and what prompted me to write the book. We talk for more than an hour. By the time we're done, I'm pretty burned-out. It took a lot to skirt around my real life, the real Joy. For the listening public I was simply Joy Newhouse, the bigmouthed DJ who took provocative to the next level. No one knows the real me or why I turned out the way I did. I want to keep it that way, but I have an eerie feeling that my past is soon going to become my present.

T
he book is almost out of production and will be on shelves in a matter of weeks. Tanya has set up a whirlwind of interviews for me. So far they have been going really well. The early reviews have been good and Randy says he's sure that with the early orders from bookstores,
The Best of On the Line
is destined to debut on the
New York Times
list. Maybe I've dodged the bullet after all.

Just as I'm about to take my first sip of coffee for the day, my phone rings. Probably Macy.

“Hello?”

“We have a problem,” Randy says, instead of hello.

Slowly, I sit down. “What is it?”

“The PR department has received several letters and calls over the past week demanding that a halt be put on the release of the book.”

“What? From who?”

“Apparently from some of your callers. They don't want their stories in the book without being compensated.”

“What?”

“You're scheduled for your television interview today with Dallas Winters.”

Dallas Winters has one of the highest rated television talk shows in the country. To land a spot on her show is major. It would guarantee that sales of the book would shoot through the roof.

“They've threatened to stage a protest during the show.”

My insides turn over. I don't believe it. “What are we going to do?”

“This is as much my fault as any. We really should have determined if we were within our rights to publish the stories. I'm going into a meeting with our legal team in about an hour to see what our options are. As soon as we're done, I'll get back to you.”

I can't even respond.

“Try not to worry. We'll work it out. I'm pretty sure that there really isn't anything they can do to you. There were no real names used, and once they aired their laundry on your show, it became public knowledge. This is just about greed at this point. I'll call you later.”

I hang up the phone and, for a while, all I can do is sit there and stare into space. Finally, I pull myself together and get up. My thoughts are spinning in a million directions at once. One thing I've learned over the years in the media biz is damage control. No way am I getting on national television to get busted. But what to do is the question. I have about four hours to figure it out.

 

My publishing company has a car pick me up and take me to the station. My girl Macy is right next to me holding my hand. Once I decided what I was going to do, I ran it past her. Not so much for her approval but simply because she is my best friend.

“You're sure you want to do this?”

“I have to. It's about time.”

“Did you tell Randy?”

“No. I'm pretty sure after he hears it, he won't want to deal with me anymore anyway. I may as well hold on to the illusion as long as possible.”

Macy pats my hand. “If he really cares, it won't matter.”

“Yeah,” I say. But I'm not too sure.

When we arrive at the studio, Randy is there with Tanya.

“Sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back. It's been crazy,” he says. “As far as legalities are concerned we have nothing to worry about. You're in the clear. Tanya has already spoken with Dallas regarding the questions she's planning to ask. You'll be fine.”

“Thanks.”

Randy grins. “Break a leg,” he says as I hear my introduction.

I walk out onto the stage, which is so much smaller in real life than on television. The audience is on their feet cheering. Dallas greets me with her renowned big smile and open arms. Finally the crowd calms down and resumes their seats.

“Thank you so much for being on the show. Everywhere I look these days there's something about you and this awesome book of yours. Tell us what made you decide to write it.”

I give her the down and dirty about the change in management and my unceremonious dismissal, which has the audience in stitches.

“It was really my friend and former producer, Macy Martin, who came up with the idea to write the book. I took the idea and ran with it.”

Dallas leans in as if she wants to share a secret. “Joy, I understand that there have been some rumblings from your former callers about using their stories. Is there any truth to that and how do you plan to deal with it?”

I steal a glance offstage and see Macy standing there biting her fingernails. She nods her head.

I draw in a breath, realizing that what I'm about to do will change the world's perception of me, but maybe it will finally set me free.

“When I first got into the business, I knew that if I wanted to be successful I was going to have to be out there, be different. I listened to all of the talk shows and tried to figure how I could stand out. So I went to WHOT with the idea of
On the Line.
I told them I even had a letter to kick the show off with.” I clear my throat. “I'd like to read that letter now.”

Dallas leans back in her seat. “We're all ears.”

 

Shalonda squeezed her eyes shut and imagined luscious green palm trees stretching out to meet deep, relaxing ocean waves. She shivered from the cold breeze that seeped through her windowsill and wondered what it would be like to live in a place where the weather was warm all year round. Maybe someplace down South, where strangers actually smiled at you. A place where life was different.

At times like these all she could do was imagine the miracle of bright, sunny beaches connected to warm, blue water. It was the only way to survive. She would lose herself inside a hopeful fantasy until the large, sweaty body on top of her collapsed. When the pumping finally stopped, Shalonda didn't return right away. She lay still and quiet beneath him, willing herself not to look at his face. She didn't look at faces anymore.

This was the seventh appointment of the day. The first one talked too much—he was nervous, a kid not much older than she was. The second was maybe about fifty, and he came almost before he could get it inside. Who was the third one? She couldn't remember. The fourth had a slight limp and claimed he was wounded in Iraq. And the fifth and sixth, they were nothing more than body parts jumbled up together.

Number seven was almost done. A quick glance when he entered her room brought the blurred image of tall, thin and brown. She clamped her eyes tightly and held her breath to avoid the smell of tacos or nachos as he gasped for air.

“How much for a second go-round?” the man asked between grunts.

“Another thirty,” she replied, her stomach suddenly queasy.

He twisted up his face and rolled off of her. “Ain't no discount like buy one get one free, or half off the second one?”

She rolled her eyes in his direction. “Sorry.”

Grabbing his pants from the floor, the man pulled out three tens from his wallet and dropped them into her slightly opened nightstand drawer. “Well, I want another ride, little girl, 'cause you nice and tight and that won't last for long.” He walked over to a nearby chair, sat down, pulled the used rubber off and tossed it on the floor. “Come on over here,” he ordered.

Shalonda obeyed, thanking God for her imagination. Shalonda cringed when Rianna's dead body flashed into her mind. She had tried to help Rianna develop the ability to see something else, too, be somewhere else in her mind. Too young and too naive, Rianna was no more than thirteen years old when Juice deposited her in the apartment across the hall. Within a year the drugs turned a beautiful little girl with short curly hair and big dimpled curves in her cheeks into a mangled zombie. When decent men stopped paying for her malnourished body, the sicko and weirdo clients stood in line. For fifty dollars, Juice would let them do anything, except kill her. She used a mixture of crank, heroine and alcohol to do that herself.

Guiding Shalonda onto the edge of his long, spider legs, the man barked instructions. “Just work me around like this and I'll be hard again real soon.” She used her hands to massage him exactly the way he had shown her. In two years she learned to follow orders meticulously in order to avoid the consequences. She pressed harder when he told her to and faster as he demanded. Once he was ready, she carefully rolled on a new rubber and he thrust himself inside for the second time.

Rather than feel the throbbing between her legs, Shalonda drifted off again. This time she imagined it was Juice in the chair beneath her instead of a stranger. That's who she wanted to be with. When they first met, Juice would brag about her to everybody. He treated her to expensive dinners and bought her anything she wanted. But now the only time she saw him was for collection.

They met in a popular nightclub where Shalonda's fake ID and suggestive clothes changed her from a tall, awkward fifteen-year-old child into a sexy, well-endowed, eighteen-year-old woman. The steroids in the food had worked over time, so it was not difficult to make people believe what they thought they could see. Technically she didn't lie to her parents about attending a slumber party at her best friend Donetta's house that night. There was a slumber party and going to the club was one of the planned activities. With Donetta's mother working third shift, they dressed to pull. High heels accented big, shapely legs, slinky miniskirts hugged tight to their full hips, and low-cut halter tops showed all they had to offer.

When Juice entered the room, everything and everybody seemed to stop. He was perfect. A sexy bad boy sporting some serious bling. Two fingers on his left hand were circled by platinum rings, each covered with huge diamonds. A large gold chain swung dangerously from his neck, accented by the diamond-encrusted rugged cross that paid homage to his faith. His black-and-white Sean John ensemble was topped off with two large diamond post earrings that glittered from both ears.

The women in the club vied for his attention, some flirting subtly, others offering themselves more brazenly. But it was Shalonda who brought the sun up and called it dawn. She knew Juice was drawn to the way the innocence of her smile enhanced the curve of her hips, and after about an hour of teasing and taunting, he finally pulled her onto the dance floor and whispered, “Show me what you workin'with.”

Shalonda moved impressively, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Hours in front of the television watching music videos had boosted her confidence. She twisted and shook and gyrated all around him, knowing she had made her point when she “backed that ass up,” as the song suggested, and felt his hard-on.

The man inside her now was as hard as Juice had been that night. Shalonda bounced up and down on his lap while his face contorted. He held on to her hips, with both hands shifting her body forward and back or side to side as necessary.

“I'm coming, baby. This is it,” he finally yelled out just before he exploded.

She waited to stand up and move away. It was another tough lesson learned. Once, when Shalonda separated from a john too fast, he slapped her across the face so hard that a tooth came loose. She still had the small scar over her left eye where her head had hit the edge of the nightstand. Telling Juice about it brought no sympathy. Instead, he scolded her and said he would have slapped her, too, if she messed up his groove by moving too soon. He went on to chastise her, explaining that when a guy pays his hard-earned money he must walk away completely satisfied.

“Damn, girl! You was even better the second time.” The john whistled. Shalonda stood up and covered her body with a robe. Without thinking, she glanced at him and looked directly into a mouthful of rotten teeth. Her stomach lurched, and she rushed into the bathroom.

The man stood up, removed the condom and wiped himself off with a paper towel. He looked over to the bathroom door then at the nightstand. Strolling casually across the room, he glanced behind him one more time before reaching inside the drawer and quickly grabbing a handful of bills.

By the time Shalonda had rinsed out her mouth and emerged from the bathroom, the man was dressed and on his way out the door. “See you, sweet thing,” he said, blowing her a kiss.

Shalonda checked the clock. Her next appointment was in forty-five minutes, so she made up the bed hastily and ran a tub of hot water. This was not her normal routine. She usually didn't bother cleaning up until the day was over. But this appointment was different. Rodney had been coming almost every week for the past two months and their time together was special.

Shalonda lowered herself into the warm liquid and savored how it soothed her battered body. She grimaced when she thought back to the night that she declared her independence and ran away to be with Juice. This was not what she was running to, but somehow this was where she was. This was not the freedom he promised, but it was all the freedom she had. This was not the love she thought she'd found, but it was the only love she knew.

Laughing was hard when she really wanted to cry. Shalonda had hated her parents for things that now seemed so insignificant. They were snobbish and too old-fashioned. There were too many rules. They wouldn't let her have any fun. And there was no way she was going to listen when they told her Juice was no good. How could she trust them? They despised, rejected and even feared her generation: the hip-hop generation. They didn't understand Juice the way she did. He was a black man in America who didn't have a chance to go to college, making it the best way he could. He was a black man in America who grew up in the projects, a stereotype, no father, a drug addict for a mother. He was a black man in America and the system was not designed to treat him fairly. Everyone was out to get him—especially the police.