Late Night Talking by Leslie Schnur

Author:Leslie Schnur
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Caught Ya!

Jeannie was buzzed. It was as if she had consumed three iced grande skim lattes in a single hour. Her chest was pounding, her temples throbbing, her veins pumping with adrenaline.

How many calls had come in? Hundreds. How many calls had she taken? Not enough. The phone was ringing off the hook from the moment they finished the tape until the end of the show three and a half hours later. It was clear that “watching” people who didn’t know they were being watched was titillating to listeners. And then judging their behavior, with the “what would you do?” aspect—making people search their souls for how bad or good they would be in the same situation—was fun. You become a witness to bad behavior, as well as judge, audience, and voyeur. It was a reality show featuring the worst traits of people, with listeners able to feel higher than thou. Whether this was its own kind of bad behavior was a question in the back of Jeannie’s mind, but she didn’t want to go there. She liked the excitement, the potential, the promise of getting noticed—by her bosses, by other stations who might want to woo her away, by her fans, and by the one person she so wanted to impress.

She felt like a teenage girl with a crush. Tommy, can you hear me? Can you feel me near you? The Who was blaring in her head when Moss walked in.

He knocked on the edge of her cubicle wall. She swiveled in her chair to face him. His ratty, stringy bracelet was hanging there on his dark, hairy wrist. Not the accessory for his perfectly cut suit and his crisp dark shirt.

“Nice show. Well done.” He smiled.

She fought it with all her might, but his compliment was important to her, made her feel proud. She smiled back.

“Nice bracelet,” she said. “And thanks. Amazing response. The calls.”

“You like it? It’s Cartier.”

“Really?” She stood to get a better look. “Looks more like vintage day camp.”

“You know, that’s exactly right. You are a true fashion maven.”

“Let me guess: it’s from the seventies. You bought it on Telegraph Avenue.”

“Look who’s talking. And no, this,” he said, as he spun the string around his wrist, “was a gift.”

“From who? Fan mail from some flounder?”

“Fan mail…” he laughed. “You could be the poster girl for 1972.”

“I like the seventies. Sort of my decade, spiritually speaking.”

“Hence the Frye boots,” he said, looking down at them and then lettting his eyes roam slowly up her body like a plow on a snowy hillside. “And everything else. Even the Rocky and Bullwinkle reference. I knew there was a reason we—”

“But back to the show,” she said, changing the subject with a look as if to say “Your obnoxiousness is noted.”

“You’ll do it again. The person on the street thing.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in Frankfurt at some meeting with other captains of industry? Can’t you rely on Harry to do your bidding?”

“That’s a helluva lot of questions.

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