Political Timber (4 page)

Sol didn’t like me at first.

“See that cable there. If you touch it, you’ll get electrocuted. Touch it if you want.”

Sol, I was to learn, felt that every curious kid who walked in the door was after his job.

“Hey, Sol,” Matt yelled when I first walked in. “Pack it in, old boy, your replacement’s here.” Which didn’t help.

“You think it’s all fun, right?” Sol asked as we were setting up for my first night of actual live-on-the-air work after two dry runs. “You kids, you think the audio techs just kick back, push buttons, drink coffee, and listen to the jock make an ass out of himself. Then we collect a fat check, cash it at the White Hen across the street, and take the dough around the corner to the bar, where we tell all the girls we’re a hot-shit radio professional.”

On the rare occasions you run into a guy as blunt as Sol, it is hard not to give him the same in return.

“That’s exactly what I think. Except I didn’t even know the White Hen would cash my check. That’s cooler still.”

The first I’d seen of Sol’s sinister smile curled over one corner of his square mouth. I heard a low rumbly laugh as he went on with his preshow prep. Then he pulled a microphone and stand out of a green plastic trash barrel full of knotted wires and gadgets. He set up the mike right in front of me.

“What’s the deal here?” I asked as I began playing with the equipment. “Test,” I barked. “Hi, Mom.”

Sol just continued that unsettling little chuckle.

“No, really, Sol. Why do I have a microphone? I didn’t have one during dry run.”

On the other side of the glass wall that separated the technicians from the on-air talent, Matt strode into the room and took his seat at the desk.

Matt turned toward me, gave me two thumbs-up.

I waved, then pointed to the microphone in front of me, mouthing,
What is this?

He thumbed me up a little farther, ignored my question, and flashed an incandescent smile.

I noted that he had spectacular teeth for a guy who was on radio instead of TV.

“Goooood evening, boys and girls!” Mad Matt yelled into his microphone. It pierced my eardrums. Sol handed me a stick of gum.

“Have I got a treat for you, loyal fans. Right here in our studio, and for an extended engagement, we have got
THE NEXT MAYOR OF AMBER!
”

Matt swung around to leer at me, eyeballs as white as his teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” I yelped, and I heard it in my headset. I was on the air.

“There you go, Amber, another politician with a messiah complex. Boy’s a natural for the job.”

I held my head in my hands, staring straight ahead at Mad Matt. Beside me, Sol’s laugh picked up a little speed and volume. Sounded like a twenty-year-old Chevette idling at a stoplight.

Matt waved at me to speak. When I didn’t—couldn’t—he helped me out.

“Word has it the kid’s a juggernaut. First he’s going to sweep the high school president’s race, then stop by and pick up the conveniently available mayor’s job. Can the White House really be far off? And why shouldn’t he have it in his blood? Do we know who this boy’s grandpappy is? I’ll tell you who he is, he’s... whoa, whoa, slow down there, Mad Matt. You haven’t even let the boy introduce himself. Tell us, scion, what is your name?”

“Gordie,” I chirped.

“Is that sweet, or what? Amber, meet Mayor Gordie. Huh? Won’t work, ya say? Okay. Yo, Gordie, think you could let us in on the rest of it?”

To the world, or to the part of it that was listening, I’m certain that it sounded as if Mad Matt was interviewing a mental defective just to get laughs—which would not be out of line with what he normally does on his show. But to me, inside my headphones, which were acting like corks to trap all the desperate thoughts in my skull, it was more like this:

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. What? Shit? Huh? Howdidithappen, howdidithappen, howdidithappen?
He
knew. Sonofabitch. Set me up. Sonofabitch. What works best? If I shut up I look stupid. If I run... no. What if I cry? That diddler cop who cried on the show got a lot of sympathy afterward. ...

“Just a name, Gordie? I mean, is it one of those obscene-sounding names with no vowels in it?”

“F-F-Foley.” I spat all over my microphone.

“
There
you go, boys and girls. Gordie Foley. Now, should I tell you who his granddad is? Nope. Lines are open, you all tell me.”

Matt punched a button, Sol pushed a couple of levers, and music filled the air.

I keeled over onto the console.

Sol pulled me back up by my shirt collar so I could see the boss grinning at me, winking, and circling his fingers into the okeydokey sign, as if we were all in on this terrific cool joke. Except, of course, that I wasn’t in on it. I
was
it.

“Hello, you’re on the air.”

“Ya, hi. I know who he is. Is his grandfather *@#%-face Foley?”

The station operated on a seven-second delay. Being an insider now, I was privileged to here the pre-beep filth.

“Yes, you are absolutely right, Gordie’s granddad is none other than famous felon *@#%-face Foley himself.”

“Hey, Matt. Come on...” I finally spoke up. More or less.

“No, no, no, Gordie, we’re just having a little fun here. I love old Fins. Everybody does. I even voted for him. I had to; his goons came to my house.”

“Well,” I said, by way of defending the Foley family honor, “I don’t know about that. But I don’t have any goons, I can assure you.”

“Oh, that’s sad. Hell, buck up, kid, maybe you’ll get some goons of your own for your birthday.”

“My birthday’s already passed.”

Great, Gord. Sharp. I was for sure going to have to work on this repartee business if I was going to last in either of my new endeavors. Sol was openly laughing at me now. Oddly this cheered me, seeing him loosen up finally.

“On second thought, why wait? My listeners have always been generous to needies in the past. Let’s get on the phones, kids. Crack open those piggy banks. The drive starts here. Get Gordie some goons—call in your pledges and suggestions now.”

He threw on some music, rolled his chair back from his desk, and made his way toward me. I was dripping with sweat, exhausted, slumped in my chair, my nose resting on my knee. It was seven fifteen.

Matt sat up on the edge of the control deck in front of me. He slapped my shoulder.

I made a move to slap him back. Caught myself.

“So, Gordie, you want to quit?”

“*@#% yes!” I yelled.

“Don’t.”

“Ya? That’s it, ‘Don’t’? Pretty persuasive there, Mr. Matt.”

“What did you come here for?”

“I’m a senior. I want girls to want me, and I want guys to be jealous of me.”

Matt nodded, stared off wistfully. “I hear you. I wouldn’t trade my senior experience for anything. Those two years were hotter than all the rest combined.”

“Ya. Well, song’s running down, Matt. You better get back out there and start zooing me and my family again.”

“Gordie, you knew the kind of show I do. You
wanted
to be a part of it.” He leaned in closer now, put his small smooth hand on my shoulder. “And you were right to want to. Tell me, what’s in your future? You gonna be... mayor?” Matt laughed, Sol laughed, I laughed. “Or would you maybe like to get in The Show somewhere?”

I didn’t have to answer. He knew. I knew. I don’t know if Sol knew, but it didn’t matter since he didn’t give a *@#%.

Matt was all too aware of what goes on inside little skinny guys who can’t play guitar but more than anything want to play guitar. We just want to be
in the vicinity.
That much Mad Matt and I shared.

“Good, stay,” he said, straightening up. “You aren’t going to regret it. And I’ll let you in on something—”

Finally, I thought, he’s letting me in on something.

“There ain’t no such thing as bad fame. The point of getting on my show? Is getting on my show. Being
known
is being great. No matter what I do to you, the girls
are
gonna want you, and the guys
are
gonna hate your guts with envy.”

I was swimming in it now. The lead cannonball in my stomach had dissolved, and in its place was a launch of balloons like at the start of the Olympics.

“Hell,” Matt said as he backed through the door into his booth. “We might even make you mayor.”

“Jesus, don’t do
that
,” I said.

He settled in comfortably at his desk, waited for the song to end, and gave me a brand-new thumbs-up, with a big-brotherly smile. This time I returned salute.

“Okay, constituents, we’re back. And our next topic with the candidate will be how the former mayor is enjoying his stay at the federal country club. Fins Foley: life on the inside.” He drew out the last word suggestively, and pointed to Sol for sound effect. He hit a button and the sound of a howling dog rang in my headphones, screaming, like he was being torn in half.

Was that supposed to be Da, or me?

F
LEXIBLE CAMPUS WAS ALREADY
working exactly the way it was supposed to work. It was designed to give the student a glimpse of the real world and how he was going to fit into it.

I found out, for example, that I was not a night person.

The morning after my first full night at WRRR, I woke for school at eleven o’clock. Who knows how long I would have sacked if my mother hadn’t ambled in with an armful of my laundry, all folded and fluffed high with Downy fabric softener, which made my skin break out but which I couldn’t stop nuzzling anyway because I was addicted. There, I said it, all right?

“Ahhh!” she shrieked.

“Ahhh!” I shrieked.

As she picked up my things—they’d bounced all over the place with all that Downy spring in them—she scolded me.

“My god, Gordie, I thought you left hours ago.”

“Well, Ma, didn’t you get suspicious when you didn’t see me at the breakfast table?”

“I did so see you there. You ate English muffins with your father and me. You had three glasses of cranberry juice.”

“Oh,” I said. I looked under the covers and saw that I was, in fact, dressed for school. “I must have fallen back asleep.”

“Oh, do you think so?”

She could be wicked sometimes with the sarcasm.

“Sorry, Ma. Won’t happen again. Just getting used to the new hours.”

“Yes, well, if you want my vote—”

“I do,” I snapped reflexively.

“Not that vote. I mean, if you want my opinion, I think the mayor nonsense is probably a better fandango for you than the disc-jockey nonsense. The hours suit you better.”

Just then, from out of the dirty pile of laundry she was scooping up, my little flippy phone started its Fisher-Price beepity squeak.

“Jesus,” she said, dropping the laundry again.

“Ma, you know, if these chores are getting to be too much for you in your silver years...”

Phone buddy blipped again.

“Yes, well, when I’m living in the mayor’s mansion with you, I’ll be able to lie there like a lump too and watch somebody else do it.”

She brought the clothes over and dumped them on me rather than rooting around for the phone herself.

“Hello, Da,” I said.

“If that’s not the most ridiculous, pretentious little...” Ma didn’t like the FinsFone much.

“That your ma? Tell her hi for me.”

“Da says hi, Ma.”

“Hi, Da, don’t buy him any more toys, Da,” she said on her way out.

“Whoa, wait a minute, Gordie.” I heard paper rustling in the background. “What’s your ma doing there? Ain’t this calculus? I got the schedule you gave me right here in front of me, and it says this is calc period.” It did not matter to Da where I was when he called. In fact, I believed he timed the calls for when I would be in a crowd.

“I’m home, Da.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m a senior. We do shit like that.”

“Hmmf. Well. Not anymore you don’t. You are a candidate. We have to have you spotless.”

“Like yourself,” I said, flinching for the oncoming blast.

“Precisely,” the prisoner said, meaning it. “Now, Gordie, I gotta ask you some personal questions here, background stuff. There’s gonna be a lot of scrutiny on you, and you gotta squeak. We can’t wind up embarrassed.”

“Hey, Da?” I cut in, not really changing the subject of embarrassment. “You ever listen to the radio?”

“Never. ’Cept the occasional Sox game, and Woo Woo Ginsberg Sunday nights.”

“Good. I mean, that’s nice.”

“Never mind me, here. We have to work on your profile. I want you to go and meet someone. He’s going to be sort of your manager, handler. I’ll let him do the Q-and-A stuff. He’s the best in the business, spin controller supreme. No matter what you look like, this guy’ll make you shine. Here’s the address. As long as you’re playin’ hooky—”

“Jesus, Da.
How
old are you? Nobody says ‘playin’ hooky’ anymore.”

There was a long silence.

“Gordon,” he hummed. “We seem to be getting out of the gate a little early here, in terms of the young colt getting frisky with the old stallion. Ever been kicked in the head by an old gray stallion?”

“What was that address, then?”

“That’s my boy. And you do what he says. No smart-mouth.”

“None,” I said, and hung up. Then, before getting out of bed, I called WRRR and changed my nights to Monday and Wednesday, so I could sleep late on my mayoral days. Perk of the job, I figured.

His name was Bucky, and the address was Bucky’s Spuckies Sandwich Shop and Caterer. I knew the man, and the shop, from when I was a kid, though I hadn’t been in there in years. It was a quiet little place that I had stared at from the bus a thousand times without really thinking about. Because it was the kind of neighborhood shop you didn’t go out of your way to patronize, and my family had left the neighborhood back when everybody else had. But today I noticed it. Because today I wasn’t riding the bus, I was navigating the Hawk. And because today Bucky’s Spuckies had a new look.

The door opened under a big red sign with the name painted in shock white. To the left of the entrance was a plate-glass window with a menu, pictures of pizza slices and fries to whet the appetite, and, in the middle, a towering cartoon version of a very phallic sub roll in a Superman pose—fists on hips, feet spread wide, cape billowing behind with his BS monogram prominent.