The roar of the dryer stopped, and Kia sauntered in from the bathroom, her shoulder-length ink-black hair fanning out around her shoulders, creating a halo around her petite almond-toned face. She plopped down on the edge of her bed and stared at her friend. “I have this great guy that I’m dying for you to meet. He’s the new account rep at the ad agency.”
“Kia, please—the last guy you hooked me up with had a mama complex and thought that a woman’s role in his life was to take care of him. I’m not trying to take care of a grown man. And that other guy actually had the nerve to tell me that too much education was a dangerous thing and couldn’t understand why a ‘beautiful woman like me’ would want to waste my time with all those degrees.” She sucked her teeth. “So if you’re my friend like you claim to be, don’t do me any more favors.”
“You know what your problem is?” Kia went on, totally un-perturbed. “You’re too picky.”
“Picky! Is it too much to ask that a man have a grain of common sense, some decency, and want more from me than just what’s between my legs? That getting over isn’t his middle name, and he doesn’t feel threatened by the fact that I spent eight years in college, and people call me Doctor Lane, not Ms.? I worked hard to get where I am, to have what I’ve acquired. And I’m not going to pretend for the sake of the fragile male ego that I’m some shrinking violet who’s just dying to have his babies.”
“Yeah, that’s all good, sister-friend. But look at you. You have a fly condo in Georgetown, a Mercedes worth more than my yearly salary, a wardrobe that would embarrass Ivana Trump, and three degrees. And not to borrow a cliché, but all that isn’t worth anything when you have no one to share it with,” she ended dramatically with a hand across her brow.
Summer bit back a smile. She wouldn’t give Kia the satisfaction of letting her know just how right she was. Tick-tock. Maybe she was too hard on the men she met. Maybe she was too analytical, always skulking around in the corners of their minds, looking for the glitches in their personalities, their hidden phobias. Like her grandmother used to say, “Look hard enough for something, you’re bound to find it.” Invariably she always did.
But Lord knows, she just didn’t want to wind up like her parents, trapped in a continual tug of hate and unhappiness, sticking it out only because it was the right thing to do, even though they’d discovered years earlier that they weren’t meant for each other. And for that she blamed herself. She knew they stayed together because of her, waiting for her to be old enough to deal with their breakup. But the reality was, their staying together did more damage to her than if they’d separated years earlier.
So she’d gone into a profession where she believed she could fix things, make them right—help people to see what they were too blind to see on their own.
But how blind was she about the reality of her own life?
She snuck a peek at Kia, who was busy giving her hair the standard one hundred strokes. And Kia was happy, actually happy. She did what she wanted, enjoyed her life to the fullest. So maybe Kia didn’t have a Mercedes, or a condo and three degrees, but she got more pleasure out of her life than anything Summer could prescribe.
She sighed as she watched Kia prepare for her date, humming to Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman.” Maybe she should start thinking about making some changes in her life.
Kia’s phone rang, and she heard her friend’s voice drop to that seductive low, and she just knew it was a man on the other end. She heard her girlish giggles and tried to recall the last time she’d actually giggled with a man.
Couldn’t remember.
“Sure you don’t wanna come?” Kia asked, suddenly standing over her.
Summer blinked and looked up. She forced a faint smile. “No. Thanks. Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She fastened the belt on her silk robe. “You said that the last fifteen, twenty times I asked.”
“And I meant it all those times.”
Kia shook her head and padded to her overstuffed closet.
Summer hauled herself up to a sitting position, then stood. “I’m gonna head on home. Talk to you during the week.”
“Yeah, you say that all the time too. If I didn’t call and practically drag your behind out of that house beautiful sometimes, we’d never get together.”
Summer felt a mild stab of guilt, but it didn’t last long. Kia was a master at it, some quirk in her personality Summer had concluded, and she’d learned long ago that the best tactic was to ignore her. She picked up her purse from the foot of the lounge chair and got her jacket from the hall closet.
Kia followed her to the door. Summer turned, giving her friend a long hug.
“Have a great time tonight.”
“Oh, I will. No doubt about that. Otherwise what’s the point?” She grinned. “Still wish you were coming, girl.” She braced her hand against the door frame.
“No, that’s okay.”
“Yeah, I know, another time.” Kia pursed her lips and put her free hand on her hip. “Sure hope there’s an eligible somebody at that station, ’cause, girl, I swear you don’t go anywhere else to find him.”
“Maybe I’m not looking, Kia. Maybe I like my life the way it is—my independence.”
“Yeah, okay, but you’re gonna be a I’m-not-looking-at-my-life independent old maid.” She wagged her finger. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”
Summer’s lightly glossed mouth curved up on one side.
“Trust me, I won’t.” She turned, then tossed an “Enjoy” over her shoulder, before heading downstairs from the third-floor walk-up.
Driving home, Summer envisioned what awaited her when she arrived. Great furniture, some expensive artwork, a great view of Washington. Maybe some music if she decided to turn on her thousand-dollar-plus stereo system, a microwave dinner, and herself.
That was it.
Suddenly she didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to walk into emptiness. But there was no place else for her to go.
For five years her private practice had been her refuge. She’d hidden behind her expert analysis and advice, never really having to offer anything of herself. At the station she could hide behind the faceless entity she’d become to her thousands of listeners, never having to connect with the countless callers.
“Yeah, girl, go ahead with your b-a-a-d analyzing self,” she said out loud. “Got it all figured out, huh? Now what are you gonna do about it? Take a pill and call me in the morning,” she mumbled, pulling into her driveway. She stepped out of the car and looked up at the darkened windows.
“There’s no place like home”
Tre’s head was pounding. He blinked against the blinding light that attacked him from the bedroom window, rolled over, and was momentarily mystified by the bare behind he’d bumped into. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the marching band started up in a direct path right between his eyes.
Slowly his night came back to him. After he’d left his sister’s house, he’d decided to hang out for a while at one of the jazz clubs in Georgetown. They had a live band that was slamming. By the time he thought about checking the hour, it was almost 2:00 a.m. He’d consumed four gin and tonics and had convinced Carol—an old flame who’d come into the club unescorted—that they shouldn’t let the evening end there.
Without putting up much of a fuss, she agreed, and now here they were—a heartbeat away from hiding their morning breath. Why did he keep doing this to himself?
He groaned, and the body next to his wiggled a bit closer. Gingerly he peered at his guest, but all he could see was a mass of curly auburn hair that peeked out from the top of the quilt like spiral macaroni.
He turned his head and checked the digital clock: 7:15 a.m. If his memory hadn’t abandoned him totally, he had a 9:00 a.m. meeting with the owner and a staff meeting at 11:00 a.m.
He tapped Carol lightly on the shoulder. She moaned. He tapped again—this time she jumped up as if she’d been shocked.
Red hair was everywhere
. Literally. He saw several wayward wiry curls lying on the pillow she’d just vacated. He almost wanted to pick them up and hand them to her—maybe they fastened back on her head, some kind of way. But he thought better of it. No sense in starting the day off on the wrong foot.
She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, as if she, too, were trying to figure out what was going on.
“Uh, I have to get ready for work. Can I drop you somewhere?”
Carol ran a hand across her makeup-smudged face. “I must look a sight,” she mumbled.
He’d withhold a response. That was one of those trick comments that women used to see if they could catch you off guard. Yeah. He was hip to that one.
“Listen, I’m gonna take a quick shower. Or you can go first.” He checked his watch as if to emphasize the need for expediency. “I really gotta get moving.”
“I’ll straighten up in here while you shower,” she offered. She turned and spotted the AWOL curls perched on the pillow like candy at some fancy hotel. She snatched them up and dared a glance at him.
Tre sort of shrugged, half smiled, and raised one eyebrow all at the same time. “Be back in a few,” he said and hurried off into the bathroom.
Closing the door securely behind him, he pressed his back against it and shut his eyes. A vision of Carol and all the other countless women danced before him, congealing into one big blur.
Was this what his life had come to?
Summer had spent a restless night. Images of her as a shriveled-up old woman set out to pasture had dominated her dreams. Sometimes she was in a faded green muumuu, sometimes it was pink, but every time she was alone. And if she looked toward the horizon, just above the smooth sloping hilltops, she’d see Kia skipping along with a trail of men behind her, like the pied pipetress of D.C., or something.
She splashed cold water on her face, then stared at her reflection in the mirror. What would she tell a patient if they’d described that dream?
“In my professional opinion, Ms. So-’n-So, you need to get a life.” She stuck out her tongue at her image and proceeded to vigorously brush her teeth and hopefully get herself in the frame of mind for the monthly staff meeting.
All the usual suspects were in what passed for a conference room when Tre arrived for the staff meeting, following his brief one with the station’s owner, Stan Howard.
Stan was hunched over a mound of papers in his usual seat at the head of the wobbly six-foot table, furiously puffing on a cigarette, although he’d banned smoking in the building a year earlier. Danny D was slouched in a corner chair, bobbing his head to whatever was blasting through his headphones. The distant beat could be heard at least three feet away. Paul Douglass, the station manager, who should have been fired ages ago as far as Tre was concerned, was looking bleary-eyed in a seat next to Danny. Jordan Michaels, who listeners said sounded like the legendary radio DJ Frankie Crocker, and who vaguely resembled him, was at the refreshment table pouring a cup of coffee. Leslie, who looked surprisingly feminine today—must be the earrings, Tre thought absently—sat on the right-hand side of Stan.
And then there was the lovely Dr. Lane, who stood out in the crowd like a candle in a blackout. Impeccable as always, and reserved as usual, she wore—some designer something, he was sure—a pearl-gray suit that looked like it was made just for her. She barely looked up from the notes she was taking when he entered the room. And for some reason the sting of her dismissal bothered him more than usual.
Probably using us as case studies, he silently grumbled, and pulled up a chair closest to Stan.
“Good,” Stan said, the instant Tre sat down. “Now that we’re all here, except for the morning shift that is, we can get started.”
Stan went into a monolog about the budget, how well the station was doing, and upcoming contracts. He praised the hosts of his evening programs for keeping the ratings up and expressed his strong belief that in another year, WKQR would be able to take a nice healthy chunk of the market share.
Tre had heard all of this during his early morning sit-down with Stan, so he was only pretending to pay attention. What he was really doing was taking—on the down-low—glances in Summer’s direction.
On the surface she seemed to be into what Stan was saying, nodding her head at all the appropriate points, taking those damned notes. But looking at her, really looking, he could tell she wasn’t the least bit interested in what was being said.
It was in her eyes, the way she didn’t actually look at you. He wondered if that was a technique she’d mastered in dealing with her patients in order to maintain some sort of objectivity, or was it simply her personality: distant and unreachable? What would it take to light a fire in Summer Lane?
“Tre, you want to pick it up from here?” Stan asked, turning the meeting over to Tre.
Momentarily jostled from his musings, he made a short show of straightening his tie, which he wore only for these shindigs, and reshuffled the papers in front of him in an attempt to buy himself a couple of minutes to collect his thoughts.
He cleared his throat, and all eyes turned in his direction.
“Stan and I met earlier this morning to discuss doing something a little different for the holidays, a way to boost the ratings.”
Everyone seated around the table leaned forward a bit, knowing that when ratings went up, it was often reflected in their paychecks.
“It may sound like New Year’s is a long way off, but it’s only a little over three months away. What we decided to do was air live on New Year’s Eve from the jazz club Blues Alley on Wisconsin Avenue.”
Everybody started talking at once. The room bubbled with excitement. Even Summer seemed a bit more animated. He held up his hand. The group quieted by degrees.
“This is the deal. We plan to run live from ten to eleven forty-five. Then at your regular time, Summer, eleven fifty-five, you’re going to come on with the countdown and some soulful advice for couples in the new year.” The group chuckled, and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she blushed. “Everyone’s gonna have their fifteen minutes of fame,” he continued. “What we want to do is get all of our hosts to put together a ten-minute playlist of the top hits for the year for your segment.”
Again the group began talking all at once, the excitement pumping through the air like a string of greatest hits.
Tre smiled, seeing the enthusiasm of the team. It’s what had propelled WKQR from near obscurity to number four in the ratings since he’d taken over as program director. The station had needed a new surge of energy, some reorganization, and some sense of what the listening audience wanted to hear. He met the needs of the station and the audience.
Since he’d come on board a little more than three years earlier, the sound of the station had evolved from all gospel and talk to an eclectic blend of R & B, reggae, talk radio, and jazz. There was something for everyone. His only holdout had been bringing Summer onto the program lineup. Stan insisted that the station needed a “help” segment and had originally hoped to get Dr. Sloane from George Washington University to fill the ninety minutes. But when he declined, Tre couldn’t have been happier. He’d wanted to add a classic R & B segment similar to 98.7 KISS FM in New York, which was spiraling off the ratings chart.
Then along came Summer, highly recommended by Dr. Sloane. He wouldn’t have given the show a snowball’s chance in hell, but she’d gotten in there and pulled it off. ’Round Midnight was their most listened-to show, according to Arbitron, the national ratings bureau.
He still couldn’t figure it out. Why would anyone want to call in and discuss their business over the radio? Guess it was the same bizarre mentality behind those nuts who showed up for the television talk shows.
“How soon will you need our playlist?” Jordan Michaels asked, derailing his thoughts.
“As soon as you can start getting it together. I’ll need to time everything out. Leslie, you and I will work on that part.”
She nodded.
“Also as part o
f the promo, we’ll be selling tapes of the show. So put your best out there.” He looked around. “Any more questions, suggestions?”
Everyone at the table looked at each other, then at Tre, shaking their heads.
“Good. I’m done. Stan?”
“That’s it for me, people. Keep up the good work.” He stood and the staff began to file out.
Tre gathered his notes and stood towering over Stan’s white-haired, perfectly cropped natural. Stan was a small man in height and girth, but he carried his compact frame with authority. Often Tre was reminded of a black Napoleon whenever Stan Howard entered the room.
“I think that went well,” Stan said, slipping into the suit jacket he’d draped on the back of the one good chair in the room.
“Yeah. Too bad we didn’t videotape our fabulous duet. We could just run the tape for the morning crew this evening.”
Stan chuckled. “See ya later.”
Tre followed shortly after and, since he didn’t have to be back at the station until six, he decided to take a walk around the corner and have an early lunch at Houlihans, a favorite local bar and restaurant. He was likely to find someone he knew hanging out.
Stepping into the semidark, almost classy interior, Tre adjusted his vision as he slipped out of his brown leather jacket and was quickly shown to a table, just far enough away from the door to avoid the flow of traffic, but close enough to see every face that came in.
He ordered a burger, medium well, and a side of fries. Loud murmurings of his sister, Diane’s, warnings about his eating habits bounced around in his head. “And a Diet Coke,” he said to the waitress, handing back the menu, his way of appeasing his sister.
Tre settled against the red leather cushion back of his seat and took a long, languid look around, sizing folks up along the way.
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