Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (39 page)

“I couldn’t believe how stuck in the past
some
people were,” he said. “They still referred to the Civil War as the War of Northern Aggression, and they called me a Yankee. I’m from Baltimore.” He paused before saying, “I bet you ran into some problems with Mr. Ree.”

“A few.”

A twinge of anger went through me, thinking about the racism Ree and I faced when we were together. It wasn’t
that
bad, but when you feel it from your father, you don’t forget.

“Still in touch with him?”

“Ree? No!” I leaned back from the table, waving my hands. “Absolutely not.”

“Yeah, I’ve known a few recording artists. What a crazy life. What egos.”

“Yeah, DJs are bad enough.”

“Too bad my days as Rad Rick are over. So, any significant other back in Dallas?”

“No one will be moving here with me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His eyes shifted to my boobs. I focused on his wedding band.

“How’s your wife?” She looked about 18 when I met her. That got his eyes off my chest.

“She’s fixing up the place we bought on Long Island and couldn’t be happier.” In the next second he slipped into a perfect thug rapper imitation of Ree, arms moving in downward motions. “
The strip-ah, the strip-ah, the strip-ah. I tip-ah, I tip-ah, I tip-ah.
”

He obviously thought it was funny so I smiled back.

“Man, I loved that song. I love rock, too. But that was a fucking
smash.
”

“Yep.” I rubbed my tattoo. “It certainly was.”

“Still is. It tests really well. What, ten years later?”

I was glad to hear that Ree was making money off that song. The down side was that I’d have to hear it for the rest of my life.

Rick said, “I hear Starz is giving a huge push to his new single.”

“You can’t do better than having Nigel Hamilton-Jones in your corner.”

“I’ll say.”

I couldn’t believe my buddy Nigel was in charge of Ree’s big comeback. He wouldn’t let me hear the new song until he took me out to dinner tomorrow night. I couldn’t wait to see him again. Hear the song? I’d hear it eventually. May as well get it over with.

“You’ve never worked at a rock station before,” Rick said, “but I think you’d be great. You’ve got that smoky voice, a sense of humor, and a youthful edge.”

“Any station that doesn’t play Mr. Ree is okay by me.”

Rick ordered the $20-an-ounce Kobe-style Washugyu beef. I asked for one of the least caloric entrées. Sashimi. As soon as our had-to-be-gay waiter walked away, Rick got down to business.

“What do you think of the station?”

I had my line ready.

“It’s like an old pair of faded, comfortable jeans you can’t part with.” I left out
but never wear.

“In other words, it sucks.”

We both grinned. WBRR wasn’t just any old Classic Rocker. It was the mother of them all. It debuted over four decades before on the same day the Beatles released
Sgt. Pepper
in America (June 2, 1967). It broadcast live from the original Woodstock in 1969. It was the station everyone tuned in when the news broke that John Lennon had been shot — and mourned with when he died. Its DJs were once as famous as the rock stars they interviewed. Now its ratings were in the toilet.

“The average age of the DJs is what, 60?” My 28 seemed so young in comparison.

Rick charmingly asked the un-PC question, “How old are you?”

“The lower end of the 25-34 demographic.”

“Perfect.”

Rick had a nervous habit of picking at his postage stamp. “Don’t let Cat Cruz know you think she’s that old.”

He was talking about the beautiful Latina woman who had been holding down middays for about 15 years. Cat was short for Catalina. She used to call herself the Cat Woman until the Batman people served her with a cease and desist. She’d just turned 40; the baby on the staff.

“So what’s up?” I said. “Changing formats?”

“Nope. Research shows WBRR has unbelievably strong loyalty and recognition as being
the
spot on the dial for rock. The jocks are like family members to the listeners. That doesn’t mean we can’t renovate.
Slowly.
”

His cell rang. He gave the caller I.D. a glance. “It’s the little woman.” He lowered his voice as he talked to her and kept his eyes on my chest.

Every time I’d lost out on a job because I wasn’t the right race, I thought of all the guys who’d been passed over because they didn’t have a uterus. Or men
and
women who weren’t the right age anymore. That’s life. The radio life.

“Excuse me,” Rick said as he stood up. “I’ll be right back. I have to tell my son a bedtime story or he won’t go to sleep.”

I strongly suspected he was telling the “little woman” a bedtime story.

What did renovate slowly mean? Was he going to offer me overnights? The radio equivalent of Siberia. And could Isis, the woman doing it now, the one whose every word I analyzed as a kid and wanted to emulate, be in her
70s,
as Nigel guessed? Maybe she was retiring.

I took out my phone and did some social to pass the time. With my new name, I had to start fresh in every way. I grabbed @JazmynBrownNYC on Twitter.

Rick returned with a satisfied look on his face. Definitely phone sex.

“So where was I?”

He told me the latest consultant hired to turn around WBRR had renamed it.

“The jocks are to call the station ‘99 the Bear’ and nothing else,” he said.

“The
Bear?
”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well…” How could I put this tactfully? “Sounds great for a station in the Rocky Mountains.” Seeing his crestfallen face, I added, “Wall Street hates bears. If they were going to name it after an animal, call it the Bull.”

“Too much like bullshit.”

That would have been perfect.

He unleashed his pitch like a windup toy. “I want this station to play the best rock of yesterday
and
today. I want talent that brings
energy
to the airwaves. Who’ll get it out of its time warp. The expensive oldsters will start to go as their contracts end. Do
not
repeat that.” As if they and everyone in the business wouldn’t know. “You’ll be a star in the new regime. Hell, you may end up in mornings or afternoons. I know a woman in drive time is rare in this format, but if you rack up better numbers…”

I pegged Rick as a card-carrying member of the Dangling Carrot Society. But he had me.

Bear schmear. Bring it on.

“The Dick and Dork morning show are going to have ‘Bare it on the Bear Thursdays’ where girls come in and take off their tops for major prizes.”

“Wow… real theater of the mind.”

He ignored my sarcasm as he slowly twirled his glass around as though he were grinding it into the table. “Chopper’s giving away a tricked-out Harley with a big angry grizzly on it, we’re going to have people dressed as bears handing out station stuff all over the place, and Maxx is going to have the Barenaked Ladies do an acoustical concert on his show.”

I admired Rick’s do-or-die outlook. Nigel was the same way with the records he promoted, forging on with a winning attitude whether he loved or hated the product or artist.

“That brings us to the lovely Cat Cruz and you.”

I sat up straighter.

“I’m going to leverage the Barenaked Ladies connection by calling the midday show… The Barenaked
Radio
Ladies and have
two
hot women on instead of one. Would you have a problem pretending you were doing the show nude?”

“Right.” He assured me he wasn’t joking.

“Cat might actually take her clothes off,” he said. “She’s an exhibitionist, you know, but you wouldn’t
have
to.” He pulled at his chin some more. All he needed were horns to complete his devil look. “Unless you wanted to. I’m sure a nude pictorial could be arranged.”

I clutched my folded arms, rubbed my unfinished tattoo.

When I was starting out in radio, I was asked to slather myself with honey and have hundred-dollar bills stuck all over me. Selected listeners would have five seconds to grab as much money as they could. Ree intervened. The station had no problem talking the traffic-reports girl into doing it. In the madness that ensued, one of her breast implants ruptured.

Our cheerful server appeared with our food.

“Excuse me,” I asked the waiter with a charming smile, “would you do your job naked?”

“Only if you left me a
really
big tip, honey.” He flitted off.

In the dead silence that followed, Rick laughed nervously. “It’s pretend, Jazmyn.”

“A pictorial isn’t.”

“Just a suggestion. Not a deal-breaker.”

The more I turned over the Barenaked Radio Ladies idea in my mind, the more I hated it. What I hated more was not being on New York radio.

“Rick, you could pair me with the Wicked Witch of the West. I have to be on New York radio at least once in my life.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, wicked witch…”

“What’s that mean?”

He didn’t answer. As for the show itself, he wanted me to run the soundboard.

“That means Cat is still the star,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t. Howard Stern runs his own board. It puts you in
control.
”

Rick’s offer was 90K, union scale.

“The magic number is 100. And you’re asking me to pretend I’m naked? Please.”

It was almost triple my last salary, but New York was three times as expensive. On the other hand, I had no income at the moment. I had lingering doubts about Cat, but we shook hands on it.

In no time flat my sashimi was nearly gone.

“Miss lunch?” Rick asked.

I pushed the plate away.

“Uh, Jazmyn, we’ll put you up in a hotel for two weeks, but would you mind moving to a less-expensive place?” It wasn’t really a question. “Parker Meridien’s too rich for our blood.”

The seduction was over. I was now in that new gainfully employed state of mind; a mix of relief, terror, challenge, and enslavement. I also felt like a space capsule finally landing on another planet after 11 years. Instead of a loud, rocky
thunk
it was soft, measured, exciting.

When I Married My Mother:

A Daughter’s Search for What Really Matters—

and How She Found It Caring for Mama Jo

“This book is important to every mother and daughter, and to every woman who wants to be one.”

— Maya Angelou

In this memoir, who would think a diehard New Yorker caring for a declining, doll-collecting, estranged, hoarder mother in the Bible Belt would turn into the adventure of a lifetime? Throw in bingo-playing drag queens, longstanding family feuds and unresolved guilt in every direction, and Jo finds that love blooms and laughter erupts in the most unlikely places. She found that rather than dreading her new role, she embraced it. Surprisingly, these were some of the best years of her life—and her mother’s.

Not only a helpful guide to those navigating their own story of a loved one in decline or now gone,
When I Married My Mother
is a you’ll-laugh-you’ll-cry story for all. The eBook and paperback editions include bonus material of an author interview, Mama Jo’s favorite cookie recipe, caregiving tips, and discussion questions.

Photo by Meg Busch and Jo’s droid

JO MAEDER was a radio DJ in South Florida and New York City who once went by the air name “
The Rock and Roll Madame
” and followed The Howard Stern Show. She now lives in North Carolina and is a writer/bird nut. She travels, cooks, and bakes decadent cookies whenever possible. Ditto dancing. Read “
The Story Behind the Story
” that inspired
Opposites Attack
on Jo’s website. Connect with Jo
here
or through: