Authors: Shannon McKelden
“Do you think that matters? One of the qualifications for winning is that the jock has kept their job for three years. By the time of that interview, I won’t have a job. And even if I do get another job by then, it won’t be the same. Not the same station or the same listeners.”
The light dawned in Katya’s eyes, and for a brief moment she looked like she might cry for me. But she bucked up and braved on, obviously determined not to let me wallow in despair. “You’ll think of something, Margo. You always do. You’re not beaten until you say you’re beaten. And I would
totally
say you aren’t beaten.”
I wasn’t terribly reassured however. I’d been voted Best Country DJ by my listeners. Listeners who would no longer have me to listen to in another week. Suddenly, it all seemed even more bleak.
I, Margo June Gentry, Margo in the Morning, voted Best Country DJ by
Today’s Country Magazine
was soon to be unemployed. I didn’t even know how to wrap my mind around that.
Suddenly, my “perfect” little life didn’t seem so perfect any more.
Maybe my “lucky” Elvis bobblehead was defective.
Pulling out my rhinestone-studded Elvis keychain, I unlocked our apartment door. Kevin had Kenny G on the stereo, but it seemed louder than usual. I pulled the door shut behind me and turned to find our apartment full of people. Suit and tie-wearing people. At least in the case of the men. The women had omitted the ties in favor of cleavage.
“Margo!” Kevin waved from across the room and made his way over to me. Still dressed for work, his Brooks Brothers suit sported nary a wrinkle. He had on a designer tie which, frankly, to me, looked like any other tie. I grew painfully aware I was wearing a pair of running shorts and a cut-off Hound Dog T-shirt, worn to softness and washed nearly threadbare, over a sports bra, and Reeboks.
Underdressed was an understatement.
I dumped the day pack carrying my work clothes on the floor in front of the hall closet and moved into the apartment.
“Surprise!” Kevin said when he reached my side. He kissed me quickly on the cheek, with a barely concealed flinch at what I’m sure was my vaguely ripe smell. “We decided to throw you a party to celebrate your little award.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to work up some enthusiasm. It had been nice, after all, for Kevin to think of me. I could ignore the “little award” comment.
I looked around the room, taking stock of our guests. Surprisingly, I didn’t recognize all the faces, or even most of them. One of them was Kramer Neuhalfen, or Newfoundland, or something like that. He was Kevin’s boss and greatly resembled a cousin of the Saint Bernard, heavy-jowled and saggy-skinned. Kevin’s secretary, Sally Stick-Up-The-Ass, was also here, champagne glass in hand, skirt hem crotch-high. She once informed me it was really sad I was forced to work with the less fortunate. When I asked what she meant, she pointed out it was quite obvious that only people of lesser intelligence, like the Beverly Hillbillies, listened to country music. She even offered to help me find a job at a classical station, if I thought it wouldn’t be too much of a reach for me.
Gee, that reminded me I no longer even worked for an “underprivileged” country radio station. I needed to find a job quickly so Sally didn’t offer to help me with the search. Yet another reason not to tell Kevin about my unemployed state.
I recognized a few other people from Kevin’s office. Most of whom I’d never been introduced to, but had passed in the hallway the few times I deigned to grace Neuhalfen and McMillan Accounting with my presence.
Odd thing was, no one in the room was a friend of mine. They were Kevin’s crowd.
“Did you invite Chris?” I asked, snagging a glass of champagne and taking a gulp. “Any of the gang coming?”
“Oh, no,” Kevin said, completely matter-of-factly. “I figured you see them all the time. You rarely get to socialize with these friends.”
Maybe because they weren’t
my
friends?
“Say,” Kevin said, slipping the champagne glass from my hand, “why don’t you go shower and change into something nicer before you join us? That way we’ll all be more comfortable.”
Kevin doesn’t rank very high in the tact department. But, I was a mess and I knew it, so I didn’t bother to call him on it. Besides, I’ve been known to voice my opinion a bit loudly at times, so I couldn’t really fault him for that.
“See you all in a bit.” I finger-waved at the room of virtual strangers and joined Elvis in the shower. One “Jailhouse Rock” and a side of “King Creole” later, I smelled better and actually felt better, too. However, I had no desire to join a room full of Kevin’s friends who couldn’t care less about my award. I’d rather curl up in bed with a good book—
Elvis: The Fat Years, An Unauthorized Biography
was waiting for me—and a cold beer, or maybe enjoy a rousing round of chase-Kevin-through-the-sheets to get my mind off my job.
Still, I did care about Kevin and the fact that he’d even thought about throwing a party for me. For that alone I’d buck up, smile and accept any bones thrown my way. I didn’t expect any, but I could enjoy the expensive champagne and the hors d’oeuvres Kevin undoubtedly had catered and delivered. That made the prospect of the rest of the evening much better. More food I didn’t have to cook. I’d just console myself with the fact that tomorrow night was Friday—my night with
my
friends. No suits allowed.
Dressed in a more acceptable pair of black slacks and a shimmery tank top, with my still-damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, I stepped barefoot into my bedroom.
“Elvis is dead, you know.”
I whirled to find Kevin’s boss standing before my Paint by Number Elvis portrait, the gift from my brother when I was eleven that instigated my whole Elvis infatuation. It was rather disconcerting to have Kramer’s large presence so close to my bed.
“Really?” I asked. I would have really played it up if one of
my
friends made a stupid comment like that, but I didn’t want to embarrass Kevin. So, I didn’t pretend to faint dead away with the horror of discovering my idol wasn’t really hidden away on the second floor of Graceland, wheelchair-bound in his old, deteriorated age, but alive nonetheless.
“Of course, he is,” Kramer continued, tugging at his collar to settle it between two thick folds of skin that made up Chin One and Chin Two. “They examined the body.”
“Actually, that’s a huge relief,” I said, planting a hand on his meaty back, directing him out of my bedroom where his presence was giving me the creeps. “Because my collection wouldn’t be worth nearly as much if Elvis was still alive.”
His brow wrinkled in thought as we left the room. “So it’s an investment, is it? All this Elvis stuff?” He waved a heavy paw at the wall in our hallway, on which hung a framed, signed copy of the musical score from
Blue Hawaii;
a collage of seven original 1956 Elvis bubble-gum cards; a glass-front case containing a tube of Hound Dog Orange non-smear lipstick; a pen Elvis used to sign autographs at Graceland; and assorted photos, buttons, etc., that I’d collected over the years.
“Sure, it’s an investment,” I said, steering Kramer back out to the more public areas of our apartment. Only he would have the balls to walk, uninvited, into someone’s bedroom. Thank God I’d dressed before leaving the bathroom.
“Still damn weird if you ask me,” he said.
Good thing I hadn’t asked him.
We entered the living room again, and Kevin looked over at us in surprise and headed our way. From his concerned look, I got the impression he was worried I’d say something to his boss that I shouldn’t. I gratefully released Kramer’s arm, just as Kevin took mine, excused us and moved me into the kitchen.
“What were you doing with him?” he snapped.
“He was in our bedroom. While I was
showering,
” I hissed, pulling away from him and pouring myself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge. “Creep.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Probably just curious.”
I lowered the glass. “Do you go into people’s bedrooms without their permission? Out of
curiosity?
”
“Well, no, but…”
There wasn’t any way he could defend his boss. He’d been rude, and Kevin knew it. So, he tried diversionary tactics, slipping his arms around my waist and pulling me close.
“Forget about Kramer. Come out and enjoy the party, okay?”
I sighed and pasted on a smile. I should tell him the truth. “Kevin, by the way, I lost my job today.” But, I couldn’t do it. I really didn’t want him taking over my job search. I also didn’t want to disappoint him in front of his friends.
And I didn’t want his friends to think I was a loser.
I know, that’s crap. I shouldn’t care what they thought about me. And really, I didn’t. I cared what they thought about Kevin. I faced the fact a long time ago that Kevin can be rather shallow. Appearances mean a lot to him. The appearance of having a girlfriend who was now technically, if not yet effectively, unemployed wasn’t very flattering. Kevin had gone through a lot—okay, a little bit—of trouble to throw this party for me, and though he hadn’t invited any of my friends, he had invited his friends, which told me, in Kevin’s strange and sort of superficial way, he
wanted
me to be presentable to his friends and co-workers. I had to take him as he was.
God knows, Kevin was the best boyfriend I ever had. I’ve only had a few. There was Mo, my first real boyfriend, in college. He spent most of his time looking for the meaning of life in a cloud of pot smoke. At first, he seemed the perfect guy for me. He was socially opposed to marriage, which is the number one criteria for anyone I date. However, he also had no desire to ever come out of his drug-induced fog. He sought guidance by conversing with my Elvis portrait, and actually had a panic attack when I took it down to dust one day, thinking the end of the world was on its way because his “guru” disappeared. We broke up when he left me to move to Tibet to become a Dalai Lama groupie. I refused to join him. They don’t have beer and pizza in Tibet.
After Mo and college, I got my own apartment, worked at the radio station, waitressed and bought and sold Elvis stuff on early eBay to supplement my income. My next boyfriend, Terrance, was cute, studious, went to law school at night, let me do my own thing and wasn’t even considering marriage, since he had years of school left before he felt ready to settle down. Actually, he wanted nothing to do with monogamy either, and as opposed as I am to holy matrimony, I’m more vehemently opposed to sharing my boyfriend’s body with other women. He moved out when I found out April was living there while I was at work.
I had one more boyfriend before Kevin. Lance. He worked in finance, ran with me and was truly happy for me when they promoted me to “morning girl” at the station. Lance was great. Until the day he told me he loved me. I don’t do love. I know that sounds ridiculous to some people, but really, with the mother I have, who finds “true love” at every grocery store or inside every pair of Brooks Brothers slacks, who could blame me? I honestly don’t believe it exists. Why not just take what you can from relationships…and give what you have to give? Kevin and I have a total give-and-take relationship. He gives me stability, a nice place to live, someone to talk to. I give him an occasional home-cooked meal, as much sex as he wants—or can handle—and make sure he doesn’t become so stuffy that he suffocates. We do what works for us.
So, being the self-sacrificing, hungry-for-catered-hors d’oeuvres woman that I am, I went back out and enjoyed my party, making Kevin happy, which would prompt him to keep me happy (hopefully in bed, tonight), thus keeping at least one thing in my life normal.
Chris is a ladies’ man. They flock to him. They cling to him. They offer him their first-born children—or at least they offer to let him help
create
their first-born children. Chris tells them thanks, but no thanks; however, if they just want to get some practice in on the creation process, he’s more than willing. Normally this behavior in a guy would drive the feminist in me to drink. But Chris enjoys sex and I can’t blame him for that. I love sex. I, however, choose to have it with one guy at a time, in a monogamous relationship, since I can’t see the benefit in quantity over quality.
Katya’s reaction to failing the Kiss Test wasn’t a fluke. All women act like that around Chris. My
mother
acts like that around him, for crying out loud. Yet another reason to be very glad my mother lives in California. Not that I think Chris would ever fall for whatever bait she uses to trap men.
Frankly, I don’t understand that about Chris—the part where women drop at his feet in worship. I see where he could probably get away with being an underwear model. His obsession with sports keeps him in optimal shape. But the whole swooning girls thing is beyond my comprehension. Chris is just a guy, like any other guy. Maybe it’s that I don’t swoon over
anyone
which makes it seem so ridiculous when they’re swooning over my best friend.
Stepping up to the bar, I bumped Chris’s broad shoulder with my smaller one and slid onto the wooden stool beside him, immediately taking up my drink. “Thanks for the beer.”
“No problem.” He flashed me a smile and went back to scoping out the room for women. I’d asked him to meet me before our usual time so I could talk to him alone. We meet here most Friday nights, but usually with a gang comprised of our coworkers, friends and anyone else who loves sports bars and doesn’t want to hang out with the suit-and-tie crowd.
Ugh. That reminded me of last night and the “lovely” party Kevin had thrown for me. At least that’s what Sally Stick-Up-The-Ass had called it as she left at ten. How could ten o’ clock feel so late and yet still be so early? When you’re hanging out with the comatose and boring, I guess. I was a beer-and-pretzels kind of girl mixing with the champagne-and-pâté crowd.
“So,” I said to Chris, attempting to draw his attention away from a busty blonde down the bar. I understood his need to connect with the opposite sex, but not when it encroached on my best friend time. “I lost my job yesterday.”
“Huh?” He turned quickly to me. He could definitely be counted on to be a loyal friend, regardless of what prospects for sex were twenty feet away. “You’re kidding. You just got the award the day before.”
“A Korean group bought WKUP. They’re making it into a Korean Jazz station.”
“Shit. How long do you have?”
“Another week.”
“Anything lined up yet?” Chris lifted his beer to his lips, concern creasing his forehead. I have to admit, it felt good to have someone showing some concern. Though it had been entirely my own choice not to share this with Kevin yet, I was getting a bit tense keeping the news to myself.
“I haven’t had the chance to look yet. I’ll do some research this weekend and after work next week.” I didn’t bother to mention the only other country station within commuting distance was across the Hudson.
“Well, you could always come work for me.”
“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I can totally see myself selling jock straps and sports bras. There’s a reason I’m kept invisible at my job.”
“You’re not invisible. You do promotions all the time.” Chris raised a hand and ordered two more beers. The way this conversation was going, I’d need the second one. “We could put you in charge of answering phones in that little room at the top of the stairs. You’d get to use the loudspeaker. It’d feel just like the radio station. Maybe we’d even let you pick the music of the day.”
“Gee, thanks.” I went back to my beer and tried not to be depressed.
“So what does Kevin have to say about you getting canned?”
“I haven’t told him.” I cringed, waiting for the bomb to drop and wasn’t disappointed.
“What?” Chris stared at me like I’d grown another head.
“I haven’t had time.”
“It’s been more than twenty-four hours.”
“He threw me a party last night because of my award. What was I going to do, tell him in the middle of it? ‘Oh, by the way, I got fired today. Please pass the champagne.’?”
Chris frowned and looked suspicious. “I didn’t get invited to any party.”
“Think about that.”
Didn’t take much thought. “Oh, right. Perfect boyfriend doesn’t like me.”
“It’s not that he doesn’t like you. You just don’t fit his vision of an ideal friend. Heck,
I
don’t fit his vision of an ideal friend.” I told Chris the party story, starting with my shockingly inappropriately dressed arrival and ending with the pat on the head I’d received from one of the senior partners as he left for the evening. “You didn’t miss much.”
“Guess not.”
“So, anyway, I’m not telling Kevin yet. The minute I do, he’ll be analyzing, taking over, telling me what to do. I’m capable of finding my own job. I’m not a child and don’t need someone managing my life. I know that’s what he’ll do, so I’m exercising my right to choose, by choosing not to tell him yet.”
“Suit yourself. Still, I think you should be honest with him.”
“I will be honest with him…when the time comes. Right now I want to talk to Nancy from
Today’s Country
and see if there’s any way to do my interview early.”
“What are they going to think about you being let go?”
I concentrated really hard on the rim of my beer bottle. “I don’t think I’m going to tell them either.”
“Hello? Earth to Margo.” Chris waved his hand in front of my face until I smacked it away.
“I can’t tell them!” I said. “I won this award because of my job. If I tell them I suddenly got canned, what are they going to say? What if they take it away? It might be my only chance at getting another job.”
“It’s not your only chance at getting another job. You’re good at what you do.”
“Yeah, I’m good at
country
music. I’m not going to get a job somewhere else just because I go in and bat my eyelashes.”
“That’s for sure,” Chris muttered under his breath, a crack of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “It’ll have to be your big mouth that gets you a job.”
“That, or the award on my résumé,” I said, ignoring his teasing. I’d gotten very good at that over the years. “If I tell
Today’s Country
I don’t have a job, that’ll come out in the interview. All the country stations read that magazine, and how will that look? Are they going to hire the girl who couldn’t keep her job, even
with
a Best Country DJ award?” The particular facts wouldn’t matter. People focused on the worst. Extenuating circumstances, like format changes to Korean Jazz music, were patently ignored. “I need a clean interview. I’ll confess after it comes out in print if I have to.”
“I don’t know. Things like that tend to come back and bite you in the ass later.”
I sighed. “Leave me with some hope, would you? Hopefully, I’ll already have my ass in a chair at a new job by the time any biting happens.”
“So when’s the interview?”
“Next month.” I told him the date. First cover photos taken at the magazine’s studio in Nashville, then an interview with Nancy Noble in L.A., where she’d be interviewing Tim McGraw on the set of his upcoming movie. Maybe I’d get to meet him. He was one country star I’d never interviewed myself.
“Speaking of next month,” Chris continued, “your brother was in the store today, putting a bigger hard drive in our server.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t go blind in the sunlight?” My brother never ventured out of his apartment. Rob managed to do his job—some kind of computer consulting—almost entirely from his home office. He worked nearly twenty-four hours a day, rarely slept more than a few hours before awakening with some solution to a problem or a brilliant new idea that took him back to his computer again. He came out only in emergencies, so Chris had performed a miracle convincing Rob to stray into the great big world to do something as simple as change a hard drive. “What does that have to do with next month?” I asked.
“He said your mom’s getting married again next month.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You going?”
“In her dreams.”
My sarcasm wasn’t lost on Chris, and he grinned. “I’m thinking of going.”
I nearly dropped my bottle. “You’re kidding.”
He shrugged his black T-shirt-clad shoulders, catching the attention of a brunette who stepped up behind him. I raised a warning eyebrow at her, and she glared in return before searching for another target. I needed some attention tonight, so tough luck for Chris. What he never had, he couldn’t miss. There’d be no Kiss Test administered on my watch.
“She invites me to every wedding,” he continued. “I’m assuming I’ll get an invitation to this one. I have business out there, so I thought I’d combine the two.”
“You don’t have to go to the wedding.”
“Hey, you may not like your mom, but I do.”
I huffed out a breath. “I don’t dislike my mother. I just don’t approve of her getting married for the—” I sarcastically ticked off husbands on my fingers for effect, and ended by raising a sneaker-clad foot in the air. “
Eleventh
time.”
“Who’s counting?”
“Me.”
Slumping down in my stool, I took a long draw from my beer. I’d completely forgotten my mother’s next marriage today. It had been a nice reprieve—despite the fact it had been replaced by thoughts of my unemployment—so I wasn’t too thrilled Chris not only brought it up again, but condoned it.
“You should cut her some slack.” Chris tossed some pretzels in his mouth.
“And you should cut
me
some slack. Your mother isn’t working on the Guinness World Record for most marriages. My mother changes men like I change bed sheets.”
“Don’t be so hard on her. She’s a nice lady.”
“You didn’t live with her. When you came around, she paid attention to you.” When it came to her own kids, my mother was too busy trying to keep the attention of whatever man she currently had on her hook. I shook my head, sitting up straighter, determined not to defend my feelings about my mother. We needed to change the subject. “So, what kind of business do you have in L.A.?”
“Just business.”
Ah, a mystery,
I thought, leaning over the counter, trying to appear nonchalant. I’d played this game with Chris for years. He was secretive; I was nosy. He didn’t like discussing plans before they actually panned out. I didn’t even know he and Chip were opening a sporting goods store until I got the grand-opening invitation. This was either an inherent part of Chris’s personality or he just knew it drove me crazy not to know things. The trick was to take him by surprise in order to retrieve information. He was like a vault. It took the fine touch of a safecracker to tease the lock open.
I tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear and set in for sleuthing. “Surfboard buying?”
“Nah.” He took a swig of beer. “We get those from Australia.”
“Hmmm. Bodyboards?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, those high-tech roller blades I saw on CNN the other night? Those were great. You should carry them in the store. I might even be convinced to get a pair, just to alternate with running or something.”
“On their way.”
“So what is it already?” I prodded, irritated that he hadn’t taken my bait. I’d either become rusty from not playing this game in a long time, or he’d improved. “It’s not like you go to California every day on business.” So much for subtle lock-picking.
“It’s just business, I told you.” He shrugged and grinned, knowing my frustration level was sky-high and perfectly willing to string me along.
I frowned at my beer. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t really care. Have fun at the wedding. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“You could come with. I think Rob’s going to have me pick up a ticket for him. I could get yours at the same time.”
“Not a chance. I’m going to Nashville for the photos, hopping to L.A. for one day for the interview and then I’m coming home to a new job. The times don’t mesh. And, if they did, I wouldn’t go to my mother’s wedding. I’d go on vacation.”
“Where would you go?”
Where? I’d never taken a vacation just for pleasure before. I’d been to California for a few of my mother’s weddings—at least the ones that hadn’t been sprung on me after the fact. I’d traveled around the country, usually to interview country music stars for the station or to attend awards shows.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never really thought of it. Maybe Graceland. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Well, gee, there’s a surprise.” Chris caught the eye of the bartender and ordered us two more beers. I raised an eyebrow. Okay, it was a
three
beer night. That’s why New Yorkers invented buses and subways—so all us drinkers didn’t crash our cars all over the city. I deserved it after the week I’d had.