Yankee Doodle Dixie (7 page)

Natalie’s face contorts into a grimace. “Ohhhh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She nervously nods her head up and down. Here she thought she was coming over to say hi to an old friend and now she must feel as uncomfortable as a portly girl lying out with a bunch of size fours at the beach.

“I’m sorry for crying,” I stutter in between embarrassing sobs.

“Don’t be silly. It’s okay. Is there a way I can help you?”

“There’s nothing you can do, Natalie, but I appreciate it.” I’m nervously rubbing the leather on the steering wheel when something reminds me of how well connected she and her husband are in town and it gives me an idea. “Actually, there might be something.” I look in my rearview mirror and notice the mascara smudges under my eyes. “Oh look at me. I’m frightful.”

Natalie reaches over and gently pushes my face away from the mirror. “No you are not. Now tell me what I can do.”

I fumble around for a Kleenex and all I can find is a dirty McDonald’s napkin lodged in between the seats. It’s been stepped on and is full of grime but without a better option, I spit onto a corner and gently pat the mascara away from under my eyes. “I need to work,” I say through sniffles, turning my head toward her. “As soon as possible. You and Tim know everyone in town. If you hear of any job openings will you please let me know?”

“Of course I will. I don’t know of any right offhand but I’ll think about it.”

“Preferably somewhere fun. I mean, I don’t mind working. Honestly. I’ve just run a restaurant all by myself. Well, actually, I had a partner but that’s another story. With all that’s gone on, I can’t help but wish I could just work at a place where I would feel excited about getting up in the morning.”

“What’s your degree in? Remind me.”

“Communications.”

“Oh sure. Ole Miss?”

I nod my head.

“Tim works in TV. You know WZCQ down in Midtown? He’s the sales manager there.”

“I’d forgotten that,” I say, a glimmer of hope returning.

“It houses FM 99 and AM 59, too. Would you like him to check to see if there are any openings?” she says, with genuine interest.

“Yes! That would be great.”

“Okay, what’s the best number to reach you on?”

We exchange cell phone numbers and promise to get together in the next week or two.

“We’ll find you a job, sweetie. Don’t you worry,” she says.

I hug her once more and watch as she walks to her car. Why can’t there be more Natalie Walkers and less Cissy Greens in this city? For gosh sakes.

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, no more than two hours after leaving Natalie, my phone rings. I’m driving back to Kissie’s after slipping into a Kroger closer to her house. I grab my cell, in hopes of seeing a certain Vermonter’s number, but am disappointed when the area code reads “901”—Memphis. I answer anyway. “Hello.”

“Hi Leelee, it’s Tim Walker. How are you, girl?”

“Hi Tim, I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m great. Doing fine. Natalie says you need a job.” He’s down to business but friendly.

“I do. I
really
do.”

“They need an assistant over on the FM side here at ZCQ. You’d be answering phones, handing out prizes—you know, the items that people call in to win on the radio?”

“Sure. I won a prize on the radio once. But it was a long time ago.”

“You’d do a lot of that and some administrative work. Plus you’d be assisting the program director and the promotions director. Sound like something you might be interested in?”

“Definitely,” I reply, hoping my desperation doesn’t sound too unprofessional.

“I don’t know how much the pay is, but I do know it’s the kind of place where you can work hard and move up in the company.”

“That sounds great, thank you so much, Tim.”

“No problem. Glad to help you.”

Tim told me to call an Edward Maxwell to set up an interview. I jot down his phone number on a piece of scratch paper I find in the console. “I’ll call him when we hang up,” I say.

“Okie doke. Hope it works out. Lemme know.”

“I sure will. Thanks so much, Tim.”

“My pleasure.”

After hanging up with Tim I almost want to scream I’m so happy. I’m confident I could be wonderful at that kind of work. I have a real love for music and to be among radio and music personalities sounds like a dream job. WZCQ is always throwing rooftop parties at the Peabody Hotel and their promotions van seems to be everywhere—car dealerships, Memphis in May, charity events. My mood lifts just thinking about the job. I hang up from Tim and call Mr. Maxwell right away.

After talking with him, I agree to come in for an interview. I’m intrigued to meet him; during the phone conversation he sounded a bit strange, arrogant almost. After working for Helga, I’m determined not to have another boss who makes my life miserable. That said, lord knows I need a job, so I really can’t be too choosy.

Ed tells me that he needs a copy of my résumé, which I decide to drop off first thing in the morning. I could email it but I don’t want to chance it ending up in his spam folder. It’s six years old. I know what I’ll be doing till the wee hours of the morning.

*   *   *

Wednesday afternoon I walk in the front door of WZCQ for my interview, oh my goodness five minutes late, and I feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety. After checking in with Jane, the receptionist who I had met earlier when I dropped off my résumé, I take a seat on one of the outdated couches in the lobby. A man wearing dark makeup walks by and says hello with a deep, familiar voice. It’s Stuart Southard, the weatherman on channel 12. A regular Memphis celebrity. I get a little warm in the cheeks and involuntarily smile; I can’t help but be a wee bit starstruck.

“Ms. Satterfield?” Jane says, after I’ve been seated for ten minutes or so. “You can go back now. Straight down the hall to the left and you’ll run right into the FM 99 offices. Good luck!” If the size of her smile could determine my chances of getting the job, I’d be a shoo-in.

“Thank you.” I grab my purse and the folder containing an extra copy of my résumé, hot off the presses, and head down the hall, my mind ablaze. I’m already fretting about how much this job might pay, combined with doubts about my alimony arrangement with Baker. I’m still not so sure I made a good decision, opting for a quick solution with less compensation rather than a long, painful negotiation with a bigger settlement. If Daddy were alive, he would have made sure I hired the finest lawyer in town and had run Baker across county lines. Since that wasn’t the case, I’m living with the fact that I have to be away from Sarah and Issie all day long because of money.

As I’m wandering around shyly, not knowing where I’m headed, a rather cute-looking guy stops me. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you. I’m here to see Edward Maxwell. I have an interview at one.” I glance at my watch and see it’s one fifteen. “Actually, I’ve been waiting in the lobby for a while. I was here right at a couple minutes past.”

He shrugs his shoulders before a well-rehearsed smile spreads across his face. “Hi, I’m Paul.” I’d know his voice anywhere. He’s the afternoon deejay at FM 99.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“I’ll get Edward for you.” He disappears down another hall and leaves me standing in a small area with a coffeemaker and fridge. It’s not really a break room; it seems to be more of a reception area. I sit down on one of the chairs with a black plastic seat and steel frame and glance around the room. The walls are lined with gold and platinum records stacked on top of each other and running all the way down the hall. I recognize Bon Jovi’s gorgeous face from across the room and can’t resist the urge to walk over and inspect it.

Presented to WZCQ FM 99 to Commemorate RIAA Certified Sales of More Than 500,000 Copies of the Mercury Records Album
Slippery When Wet
.

Each plaque says the same thing but with a different artist and record. Bonnie Raitt’s
Nick of Time,
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’
Full Moon Fever,
Don Henley’s
The End of the Innocence,
Kim Carnes’s
Mistaken Identity,
Bette Midler’s
Beaches
. Mariah Carey’s
Mariah Carey
—they all bring back a flurry of memories and without realizing it, I’ve traveled quite a ways down the hall inspecting them. The sound of a man’s voice startles me away from thoughts of the past.

“Miss Satterfield?”

I whip my head around.

“Hi. Edward Maxwell.” He smiles, sort of, and keeps his hands at his side.

Smiling back, I instinctively offer mine. “Hi Edward. Nice to meet you.”

After a weak shake he says, “Come on back,” and turns down another hall, which is lined with even more gold records and award plaques. Edward doesn’t walk alongside me; instead he’s keeping pace in front. We pass a large window that lends a full view of the broadcast room and as I stroll down the hall of a radio station that has been around since the forties, I’m struck by how rich the music scene truly is in Memphis, Tennessee. I suppose, having grown up here, I’ve taken it for granted all these years. Beale Street was the birth of the blues, for goodness sake. And between B.B. King, Stax Records, Sun Studio, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis, Memphis has as much to brag about as Los Angeles or even New York for that matter. Why in the world we lost the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to Cleveland, Ohio, is still a mystery to me.

Once Edward reaches his office door he heads on in front of me. When I finally arrive he gestures toward a chair in front of his desk and asks me to take a seat. “Pretty cool, huh?” he says, as he’s walking behind his desk.

“Excuse me?”

“The gold records. The platinum records. All the awards.”

“Oh. Yes! Wow. Y’all have so many.”

After sitting in his chair, he scoots himself all the way up so he can rest his elbows on the desk. “That’s what happens when you’re number one. No lonely number there.”

I tilt my head a little to the side.

“Three Dog Night?”

“Oh! Sure. ‘One Is the Loneliest Number.’”

“If you hadn’t known that one, this would have gone to the bottom of the pile.” He holds up my résumé, which is in the center of his desk. “You’ve passed the first test.”

“That’s a relief,” I say, and mean it.

Edward combs his short but full beard and peers down at my résumé. “You went to Ole Miss?” He looks up with a blank expression on his face. “I’ve heard that’s a big party school.”

“Well, sure. It had its moments.”
That’s an odd question.
“But I didn’t do all that much partying.” Okay, I lied.

The combing of his beard continues. “How fast do you type?”

“I think about forty words per minute. I took typing in college and I’m actually pretty good at it.”

“This job would be answering the phone calls that come into the station. You’d be assisting me and the promotion director, who you’ll meet before you leave.” Every time he lists a job responsibility, he holds up another finger. “You’d distribute the prizes to the contest winners.”
One finger
. “You’d coordinate with traffic and make sure they have all the info the jocks need.”
Two fingers
.

I look a bit confused at the term “traffic.”

“The traffic department generates a daily log that lists everything from the songs that will be played during a certain shift, to the ads that will air, to the station promo spots, to the live ads the jocks read. That kind of thing. In short, the jocks need a log that tells them exactly what’s going on during the day. They need to know precisely what time to give away a certain prize.” He drops his voice to a slightly elevated whisper. “Jocks are basically idiots. We have to give them the ABCs of everything. Tell them what they need to keep the contests straight.”

That’s rude,
I wish I could say.

“You’d be sending out FedEx packages.” More listing on his fingers, we’re at three fingers and a thumb now. “Plus you’d be helping me with my letters and stuff. Do you have a problem with getting coffee?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Lie number two.

“Just kidding.” He breaks into a frightful smile, his full cherry-red lips have several wrinkles, resembling sun-dried tomatoes in between his mustache and beard.

I have to force a grin.

“Does the job sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“Absolutely. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.” I lean in toward him. “I’m really good with people and I’m honest.” Well, I may have lied about not partying much in school and not minding getting coffee, but basically I am very honest.

“Okay, let’s give it a chance. I’ll send you upstairs to HR and you can talk to Janice about benefits. We have the usual. Health, dental, and life as an option. 401(k) matching after you’re vested—that’s five years, I think.”

“Honestly? You’re offering me the job, already?” I say, without thinking. Uh-oh, I hope I didn’t sound too eager.

“Careful, this trial period is part two of the test.”

“What’s part two?”

“How quick you are. You don’t look like a blonde to me.”

I practically have to bite the sides of mouth to force out another grin.

“I’m assuming a redhead can add some fire to the job. I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself.”

What a total weirdo. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I do a very good job.”

“The job pays thirteen an hour. That’s $27,040 a year if you work a full forty-hour week…” I tune him out as he goes on to discuss vacation days and sick time and personal leave and dress code. All I can focus on is that I have a job offer.

Okay. I’ll take it. But shouldn’t I be negotiating my pay? Isn’t that what educated people do? Yes, of course it is. I’ll play hard-to-get and try to act like they’d be lucky to have me.
Just say it. Ask for more money. Do it. DO IT.

“You said the job pays thirteen an hour, right?”

“I did.”

“Actually, thirteen dollars an hour…” I’m scratching my head. “Thirteen dollars an hour is…”

“All I’m going to pay. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh! I was just hesitating because I wanted to tell you how nice that is. Thank you, Edward. I’m thrilled to get that kind of salary.”
Way to go, Leelee—that showed him. Lord, Sarah would have negotiated better.