When they hooked up later that evening, she would find out.
18
“Welcome to the Ritz Harper Excursion. I am your hostess for the week, Michelle Davis. You may have seen me on Fox News, but now I'm on the radio, filling in for my girl, Ritz Harper. We hope she gets well and back on the air real soon. We're going to do something called Open Mic Monday, where you guys can call up and talk about anything on your mind. We can talk about the war in Iraq, this gully president of ours, the economy, and oh yeah, we can talk about some celebrities. I know quite a few, so we can dish the dirt if you want to. The number to call is 1-888-555-RITZ.”
Michelle Davis felt very comfortable, more comfortable than she thought she would. Radio was different from television. Television was so scripted. The producers told you what to say, how to say it, where to stand. There was hair, makeup, and clothing concerns. Everything was about projecting a certain image of authority and perfection. Fox was one of the best at image shaping. They had created a star in Sean Hannity, a limited personality with an even more limited intellect. But they paid a superior person to sit with him each night and make him look good and give him credibility, and it had paid off. Hannity was a cash cow for the network.
Bill O'Reilly, another talking head who had severe limitations, was given a format that was perfect for his brash, no-nonsense style. He came off like a news version of John Wayne. People loved him. They were grooming Michelle to be a combination Oprah/Christiane Amanpour— serious journalist with a real-people feel.
Radio had never been on Michelle's radar. She was a rising star in a much bigger game. The starting salary in radio in a major market might be six figures, depending on the size of the station. In television, you could easily be looking at seven figures. Radio personality Glenn Beck jumped to television back in 2006 and saw a big seven-figure contract that called for hiring a couple of his radio producers, too. All of this for a one-hour show on an offshoot station. It wasn't even CNN, but their stepchild, Headline News.
Michelle Davis had the buzz. She was the next “It” girl. And now she was filling in for the most talked-about radio personality in the world— Ritz Harper. She was going to make the most of the opportunity. At the very least, she wasn't going to embarrass herself. And she was determined to have some fun.
“Okay, let's go to our first caller. Mike, you're calling from Detroit on our affiliate WCHB. What's on your mind today?”
“Hey, sexy. I love watching you on Fox, you fox!”
“Why, thank you, fine sir. But I know you didn't call just to say that.”
“No, you're right, but I had to get that out. So do you believe that Ritz got what was coming to her?”
“Ooooh. Well, what do you mean?”
“Do you think she had it coming? For all the reckless stuff she does on the air, do you believe that her shooting was just a matter of time?”
Michelle squirmed in her seat just a bit.
“Now, I don't believe that anyone has something like that coming,” she said. “My daddy taught me that people fight and hit and stuff when they can't think. So whoever shot Ritz is just dumb. But there is a larger issue to be discussed, and something I'm going to toss back to you, the audience— and thank you for your call, Mike [that was the cue for Aaron to hang up on the caller]— do you guys think we need to talk about people, put their business on Front Street? Do you guys really care about Britney Spears— is that front-page news? Or Christie Brinkley's husband? And why do we care about who's screwing whom? To tell you the truth, sometimes I just don't want to hear it.
“I mean, look at Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown. I read in the Daily News that they split up because Bobby has taken up with the Video Vixen, Karrine Steffans, also known as ‘Superhead.'
“All I can say is, Whitney, honey, you have pipes that are a gift from God. I know you will be back. And please don't take that sorry-ass husband of yours back. Let the cut be clean and permanent. That's your prerogative, baby! We love you!”
The phone lines lit up. Ruff was listening from the office, and he liked what he heard. It was different— very different— from what the listeners of WHOT were used to hearing.
Michelle Davis. Ruff thought that she was just another blown-dry blowhard from TV Land. But that little riff she just did was very clever. Ruff listened.
Michelle continued:
“Tonight, I don't just want to talk about celebrity gossip crap and what famous star is sticking what body part in what orifice of some other famous star. Who cares?
“I want to talk about how you can get rich. I want to talk about owning homes and having power. Any of you folks ever hear of a man named Tony Brown? Probably not, but I'll tell you about him.
“Tony Brown said that the only color that really matters in this country is not black, it is not white. It is green— the color of money. Think about that. Yeah, we all have to love our fellow man, and do good works, and help the poor, and all the rest.
“But we also have to know where our next meal is coming from. We also have to know that we can cover the rent this month. If you can't do that, then you can't do anything. You gotta learn to walk before you can run.
“Ya'll saw Katrina. I'm trying to make sure that something like that never happens to me or mine. I also want to talk about where to find some good men and some good friends, because it seems like we forgot how to do that.
“I want to talk about respecting our elders. When did it become okay to cuss an elder out? But I hear it all the time in the streets. And when did it become okay for folks to be calling each other nigga in the streets? Didn't people die so we wouldn't have to be called that? Now we're throwing it around like we're saying, ‘What's up, brotha?' Come on, now, we can do better than that, can't we?”
Jamie was the call screener. Normally, she had to weed out the whack jobs who should get on the air from the whack jobs who shouldn't. Now she was actually getting some intelligent callers from all over the country who wanted to get in on the conversation. Jamie was actually having fun.
“Okay, we have Malachi from Milwaukee, it's Open Mic Monday on the Ritz Harper Excursion. I know it's a little different trip today, but what do you want to talk about?”
“First, sister, I want to thank you. I'm really feeling you. I just tuned in for the first time by accident and caught what you were saying, and I want you to know, you're right on! We have to start working on things that will build us up as a community. There is a lot going on in the world right now, and the last thing we need to focus on is what's happening with Lil' Kim, or some other rapper or actor. Who cares?!
“We're in World War Three. How am I going to keep my family safe? Have you seen the gas prices? How am I going to save money or make money in this environment? That's what we need to talk about!”
“Thank you, Malachi,” said Michelle. “And I agree with you about World War Three. It may not be something folks want to talk about, but I agree. It is getting real hectic out there. And if and when one of those allah akbar types decides to really bring it over here— you think September 11 was something, imagine living in Beirut or Iraq or Afghanistan or Israel or Darfur, where stuff like that is happening every other day— will you still care if Trina and Missy Elliott are still an item, or Kimora Lee and Russell, or Jay-Z and Beyoncé ? And what about Serena? Does it matter to you that she really wants to be an actress instead of the number-one female tennis player in the world, or whether she really prefers white men over black men? I say wish them all well. Let's move on!
“When that stuff hits the fan, they won't be targeting the president and his crew, and they damn sure won't send a memo out to black folks telling us to not go to a particular place on a particular day because they are going to bomb it. We are all in this together. It's time we wake up and get serious about our lives.”
Michelle knew coming in that this fill-in spot was a risk for her. It wouldn't jeopardize her television career, but it wouldn't help it, either, if she bombed. She had deci
ded that she wasn't going to do “Ritz Radio.” She was going to do it the way she wanted to do it. She respected Ritz's hustle. She respected her climb to the top. But that wasn't Michelle's flow.
She looked at the phone lines and they were all lit up, like little stars in the sky. She smiled. It was working. “Hello, Betty from the Bronx!” she said.
When Michelle had first met with Ruff, she told him that she wanted to do the show her way and he had said, “No problem.” And she was doing it. She could tell, however, that Ritz's producer, Chas, wasn't too happy. He hadn't said two words to her. He had booked two guests for the show and was basically staying out of the way. Aaron, the engineer, seemed bored. There wasn't much chance for him to use his sound effects, which had made him so much a part of Ritz's show without even saying a word. But she could tell that Jamie was ecstatic.
“Do you need anything, Miss Davis?” Jamie asked during the break.
“No, thank you, sweetie. I didn't know what to expect, so I brought my own water.” She took a swig from her Poland Spring sports bottle. She was so glad that she didn't have to worry about smudging her lipstick. It felt good to wear sweats, throw on a scarf, and still be at work. She got a tingle when she thought: No one can see me. Knowing that— being able to forget the makeup, and the hair, and the smile— set her free.
“Okay. I just want you to know that I think you're doing a wonderful job,” Jamie said.
“You think?” Michelle asked. “That's really kind of you. I have to admit, I was really nervous. You know, Ritz has a certain kind of audience. And I didn't know how they would accept me.”
“Well, look at the phone lines— they're all lit up,” Jamie said. “And everyone wants to talk about what you're talking about.”
The next three hours and forty-five minutes seemed to breeze by. People called in and wanted to talk about everything from Israel, to what to do about their retirement packages, to reality television. A few people did want to talk about Ritz Harper and how much they missed her, but they were quick to tell Michelle how much they were enjoying her, too.
She handled the guests with ease. The first was Thomas Lopez-Pierre, a guy who started a social society called The Harlem Club. Men had to pay a fee of twenty-five hundred dollars to join, and Lopez-Pierre claimed that all members were wealthy lawyers, investment bankers, and entrepreneurs.
Their goal was to meet and greet attractive women of a certain class. So the club had women submit photos— full-length, head-to-toe, preferably in swimsuits— and a bio. The women had to be single, under the age of forty, with a degree and no children. A committee screened the pictures, and if they were selected, the women didn't have to pay a fee to join.
The way Michelle Davis attacked Thomas Lopez-Pierre should be in a textbook about how to conduct an interview. She dissected him like a heart surgeon and did it all with a smile. By the end of the interview, she hadn't gotten Lopez-Pierre to cry uncle, but she had certainly exposed him. It was fun for Michelle and the audience. Even Lopez-Pierre enjoyed it, which seemed a bit odd to Michelle.
“You made me look so bad,” he said as he was leaving. “I love that! Do you know that actually gets more women to join the club? I don't know what it is about you women, but the worse you're treated, the more you seem to love a man.”
“I respect your honesty,” Michelle said, chuckling with him. “And you know what— if a woman is dumb enough to fall for your crap, she deserves it. But please leave now. You are making me slightly nauseous.”
Aaron escorted Thomas out. Michelle and Jamie just looked at each other and started cracking up.
“Do you think he's for real?” Jamie asked.
“Hell no,” Michelle said. “He's completely full of shit. But I like him. Because he knows he's full of shit. He's just seeing how much of the shit he can get away with. Apparently, it's a lot. And it doesn't hurt that he's foine.”
“Oh, you noticed? You were so busy busting his ass on the air, I didn't think you noticed.”
“A sister ain't blind,” Michelle said. “I noticed. I ain't blind and I ain't dumb, either. There ain't enough fine in the world to overlook that kind of behavior. Hell no!”
“I heard that!” cried Jamie. She gave Michelle a high five.
Michelle was feeling really good about the experience. In television there was so much backstabbing and backbiting that you could never let down your guard. You had to always be professional and never really be yourself. Someone was always watching, critiquing, and looking to throw darts. You had to have on heavy armor and be in defense mode at all times. It felt good for Michelle to be able to let her hair down and be real.
Little did she know that she needed heavy armor here, too— perhaps heavier than she could imagine.
19
Madalyn and Cecil had gone to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Tracee was in the waiting area outside of Ritz's room, reading. Tracee was at Ritz's beck and call, but Ritz hadn't beckoned so far. The nurses were on their toes, but Ritz would rather have Tracee help her to the bathroom, help her eat, and other personal stuff like that.
Tracee had her head buried in a book when the door opened.
It was Randolph. He had taken a break from his duties and decided to see if Ritz was up for a visitor.
“Hi…”
“I'm Tracee. I don't think I told you that yesterday.”
“No, I'm sorry for being rude and not asking. I was a little nervous,” Randolph said. “I only met Miss Harper once and I felt like I might be overstepping my bounds by coming by.
But when I heard she was shot and then found out she was on the very floor I was working on, I wanted to stop by and let her know that I was praying for her.”
“I'm sure she will love to hear that,” Tracee said. “Let me go in and see if she's up.”
Tracee cracked the door to see that Ritz was indeed up, and she was watching CNN's Morning Show.
“Hey, Ritzy. You have a visitor.”
Ritz's smile turned into a grimace.
“I don't want to fucking see anybody! Do you see what I look like?” snarled Ritz. She had finally looked in the mirror. While the swelling had gone down considerably and the bruises around her eye were fading, she still was a long way away from the fabulous “Ritz Harper.”
“Who is it?”
“Randolph? He said he fixed your Jacuzzi.”
“Tall, chocolate, Morris Chestnut-looking brother?”
“Yeah,” Tracee said. “That's him.”
“Oh, fuck no! He's the last person I want to see in this condition. That reminds me— I need to get some makeup and a wig, pronto. If motherfuckers are going to just be dropping by, I need to have some sort of defense. Tell him I'm not up to seeing anyone just yet. Tell him he can come by in a couple of days.”
“Okay. Hey, were you and this guy trying to start something?”
“I was, for sure,” Ritz said, and broke into a smile. “But he said something about saving himself for marriage or some shit. But I know I can break his ass down. You know how I do. Just give me a couple of weeks of rehab and I'll be back to my old self. I can't wait.”
Shoot! Off-limits! Tracee thought. But it didn't matter. Tracee wasn't running after any man. If he or anybody wanted her, they would have to do the pursuing. And if Ritz wanted him, Tracee couldn't.
“Are you sure you don't want to see him? He doesn't seem like the type to care about how you look.”
“I don't give a fuck what he cares about,” Ritz shot back. “I care about how I look. Look at my hair, for crying out loud! Where is my fucking wig? Where is my pocketbook? Where is my left tit? I swear, I am gonna fucking sue somebody!!”
“Okay. Okay,” Tracee said, and walked out. Randolph was sitting, thumbing through one of Tracee's books. It was Joel Osteen's Your Best Life Now.
“This is a great book,” Randolph said. “I watch him every chance I get. But how does he know how to wrap up his sermon at exactly nine twenty-seven A.M., so they have three mi
nutes left for commercials? He must have a gift!”
“Yeah, I'm almost finished with his book. I am really enjoying him. I haven't watched him much on television. I don't watch much TV.”
“Me either, but when I do, it's Joel, Creflo, a few others. Do you go to church?”
“I actually live in Florida. I was only in town to hang out with Ritz for her big Grammy debut,” Tracee said. “Since I've been here, I've gone to Faith Temple. I went on Sunday. I may go back this Sunday. Pastor Lakes is very on point.”
“Isn't he that minister who was involved in a gay relationship or something?” Randolph asked.
“Yep. That's him. I'm not going to sit here and defend him. I'll just say that the sermon he preached on Sunday eliminated all doubt from my mind that he is truly a man of God. That's all I need to know. I don't know a single person who hasn't done something they wish they hadn't or made a mistake in their life. I know I made my fair share and probably will make many more before my life is over. They say you know a tree by the fruit that it bears. Pastor Lakes's fruit is plentiful.”
“If you don't mind and if you are definitely going, I'd like to go to church with you one Sunday,” Randolph said. He took a business card out his pocket. “The number on the bottom is my cell. Call me if you're going.”
Randolph had become so engrossed with Tracee, he almost forgot why he was there.
“Oh, how's Ritz? Is she up to some company?”
“Uh, not really,” Tracee said. “She's still a little out of it. Maybe you can come back in a couple of days.”
“Do you mind if I come back tomorrow?”
“Um, uh, Ritz won't be ready to see anyone for a couple of days.”
“Can I come back tomorrow to see you?” Randolph said.
Tracee felt a warmth flush from the back of her neck to her cheeks. She didn't know what to say. Of course, she wanted to see him tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. But Ritz wanted him. She had to stand down.
Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? Page 9