by Phil Stern
“Thank you, Bobby.” Grabbing the box, the woman simply raced off, leaving both the eggs and turkey. I slipped into another line, carefully bagging my own groceries.
The next morning I was called into a meeting with my brand-new general manager.
“What the fuck were you thinking!” she yelled. About five years older than myself, she’d been promoted to GM just two weeks ago. Previous to her one-year stint as local sales manager for the five-station radio cluster, she’d been a saleswoman for Channel Three television. Her experience managing talk radio was zero.
“Henry Bilt!” she continued, “is an institution in this community! An institution! You do not, under any circumstances, attack Henry Bilt!”
“I didn’t attack him…”
“Yes you did! You said someone old enough to be your grandfather had no business being on the air!” The general manager sat back, eyes blazing.
“That’s not what I said…”
“There’s a reason they call Channel Three the station that Henry Bilt!” the general manager ranted on. “Do you know why they say that?”
A moment of silence went by. Clearly, some response was necessary. “Because he’s an institution?” I sighed, idly wondering if I could get out of the lease I’d signed just two days before.
“Absolutely! An institution!”
The GM also claimed I’d called the young news babe a whore, which of course was nonsense. In reality, she’d taken so many calls from listeners that morning, with both positive and negative reaction, she’d lost all touch with what had actually transpired on the air. She then announced the general manager of Channel Three was expecting my “apology” that very morning. I was sent out to call him forthwith.
So I called and simply introduced myself. The Channel Three guy then droned on for twenty minutes about “community standards” and “codes of behavior,” clearly implying I was a major fuck-up. Finally he stopped for breath. “Well, do you have anything to say to me about all this?” he demanded.
“No,” I cheerily replied, pointedly not apologizing. “But please, continue. I’m learning a lot.”
There was a very pregnant pause, it suddenly dawning on the guy that I wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. So we agreed I would to go over to Channel Three that evening, personally inspect the new set, and meet everyone involved.
That was some scene, let me tell you. After a perfunctory greeting from the Channel Three general manager, I was passed off to some promotions flunky who led me around the newsroom. Everyone, from the reporters and writers to camera people and even interns, made a point of turning their back on me and stalking off. My guide was beside herself, trailing off mid-introduction time and time again, mumbling that so-and-so must be very busy.
Finally Henry Bilt was spied in the corner eating a sandwich. In person he looked even older, his ancient suit comically out of style. The promotions flunky beamed, proudly declaring, “Oh, let me introduce you to Mr. Bilt!” She might have hoped him too old and infirm to scamper off like everyone else.
Before I could stop her, the bimbo dashed over to the startled septuagenarian. “Mr. Bilt!” she breathlessly announced, theatrically waving in my direction. “I’d like to introduce Steve Levine, the new host at WPGZ!”
Bilt stared up at me, stunned. I smiled and extended my hand, saying how pleased I was to meet him. For several seconds no one moved or spoke. He didn’t take my hand.
“Mr. Bilt?” my guide prodded. “Don’t you want to say something?”
Without a word Bilt got up and went into the bathroom. I took this as my cue to cut the tour short, claiming some prior engagement. I never saw the blonde news babe.
You know what the funny thing really was? About six months down the road Channel Three was sold to a national media company, whose very first act was to fire Henry Bilt. The yokels might call him an institution, but corporate knew an overpriced, outdated dinosaur when they saw one. Channel Three didn’t lose a single advertiser when Bilt left. In the wake of his departure, the ratings actually trended up.
But that was later on. After leaving Channel Three that night I went back to the supermarket. Once again, Bobby was on duty as a bagger, although this time a guy yelled at him to shut the fuck up and pack his groceries without any “bullshit commentary.”
As Bobby ran off, crying, I tried quietly explaining to the asshole Bobby’s obviously retarded condition, suggesting he give the kid a break. The asshole threatened to punch me. As things escalated the store manager called the police, and soon I was explaining to a cop what happened.
“You mean this guy was shouting at Bobby?” the beefy cop asked, giving the asshole his best southern lawman stare.
The guy backed down and left. However a Channel Three news crew now rushed in, having somehow been tipped to the situation. So I was forced to give an interview, explaining my intercession on Bobby’s behalf. Throughout it all Bobby stood next to me, grinning like an idiot.
“What the fuck were you thinking!” my general manager screamed the next day. “Why on earth were you trying to pick up some retarded boy!” Again the complaint callers, and their wacky theories, were more important to the GM than what actually happened.
My show was wildly successful. The callers were young and intelligent, people thronged a few personal appearances. The station picked up two new advertisers specifically wanting to appear on my show.
None of that mattered, though. The gig lasted two months, the GM claiming it all wasn’t “working out” the Friday I was fired. I found out later she became infuriated upon giving an address at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon that day. She’d wanted to talk about her own rise to fame, but all the audience questions were about me.
Very depressed about the whole thing, I moodily flipped on CNN the night of my firing to catch the latest special on Bobby. Following the Channel Three television story with me two months before Bobby had become the nation’s darling, heralded far and wide as the epitome of “functional disability.” Today’s news was that Bobby was being given the title of Functional Disability Spokesperson for a national advocacy group, with an annual salary of $125,000.
So while Bobby achieved fame and fortune I was left in my new apartment, in an alien, southern city, wondering how I was going to pay the rent next month.
You know what? Life is what you make of it, and it isn’t always fair. But the people I worked for in radio should have treated me better. I put myself on the line for them time and time again, and in retrospect, they gave me nothing in return.
SOPHIA DANTON
I heard from a girlfriend of mine last week. She’s engaged to be married for the second time.
Of course I was excited and said all the right things. Since I was the maid of honor at her first wedding five years ago, I carefully asked if she needed me to reprise that role.
“Oh, no, we’re not having any kind of big ceremony or anything,” Sandy giggled. “Actually, we’re just getting hitched at town hall, with a small reception afterward. Obviously, your invited!” Sandy lived in Kansas City, while I live in Philadelphia. I told her I’d check my calendar.
There’s a certain cookie-cutter quality to the mid-30's marriage. Usually both people have been married before. They often meet on the internet, and in many cases haven’t even known one another for that long. I cautiously mentioned this to Sandy.
“Well, look, you’re right. We’ve only been going out for six months, but…I don’t know,” Sandy sighed. “Tom loves me. He even sent me flowers at work last week! He’s not fat, and he has a good job.”
I’d heard it before. My friends meet some guy also growing old at an alarming rate. They crave a certain comfort and security level. Kids soon follow, followed by a premature retirement to become full-time mothers. But is this love? I don’t know.
I’m a national magazine writer, a career woman. I cherish my independence, but as the years slip by it also creates a widening gulf from my contemporaries. I don’t have children…y
et. I think I’d like to be a mother. Yes, my biological clock is pounding rather loudly.
But is the internet-age, impersonal marriage the answer? Maybe it is. Hell, it’s better than what my brother fell into.
Michael, a stockbroker, is two years older than I am. He and his wife, Reny, met ten years ago in Manhattan. Reny is from one of those former Soviet republics no one’s ever heard of. Back then she still wore traditional clothing and would only eat cuisine from back home.
No one in my family can quite figure out why Michael married Reny. One Christmas time Michael simply stood up and announced “I’m marrying my friend Reny.” Not “the love of my life,” or even “the person closest to me in the world.” Just “my friend” Reny. As usual she simply smiled and nodded, not saying much of anything.
To be honest, I was never sure what to make of Michael’s private life. He was a good-looking 30-year-old stockbroker. Other guys in his position were dating lingerie models like it was going out of style. But my brother was marrying a not-very-attractive, older foreign woman who kind of spoke English. She was in the United States taking classes, though I suspect she really just wanted to meet someone like my brother.
The ceremony took place in the woods, everyone wearing these strange Roman-type togas while waving large, fake butterflies and exhorting the “Spirit Of The Trees” to bless the happy couple. No, it wasn’t a cultural thing. The ceremony had been proposed by Michael’s friend Eugene, his best man. An interior decorator, Eugene and Michael had been nearly inseparable since grade school.
Now look, I know what you’re thinking. All I can tell you is that Michael and Reny’s “honeymoon” was a weekend in a cabin, after which my brother and Eugene went to the Caribbean for two weeks. This was explained as a means of giving Reny time to “set up house” in the happy couple’s new home.
“Isn’t that odd?” my mother whispered. We were standing in a department store, helping Reny pick out bed linens and such. My new sister-in-law had just shuffled out of earshot. “Wouldn’t you think a man would want to spend time with his new wife?”
“Well, I don’t know, Mom.” I pretended to inspect some toilet-seat covers. “You know how these things are.”
Now she visibly brightened. “Maybe Michael’s just being thoughtful! After all, there is a lot of pressure on a young bride, now isn’t there?”
“Sure.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Absolutely.”
“Yes! Michael is sacrificing this time with her so she’ll be more comfortable!” Apparently, the matter was settled. “That’s what I love about Michael. He’s always thinking of other people!”
Returning a week later, Michael and Reny went to church with my mother. That afternoon Mom called, clearly upset.
“Sophia! I must talk to you!”
“What’s the matter?”
There was a longish pause. “In the car today,” she haltingly began, “your brother announced that he and Reny wouldn’t be having any children.”
“Oh.”
“Michael also said that he and Reny have decided not to engage in marital relations, in order to keep their union pure and holy.” In the background I could hear Mom banging around the kitchen, a sure sign of distress. “Sophia, what do you make of this?”
“Maybe they’re trying to save money on birth control?” I mean, what the hell would you have said?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mom stiffly replied, hanging up the phone without another word. We never discussed Michael’s sex life again.
Anyway, that was nine years ago. The happy couple, still childless and presumably holy, live in a palatial New Jersey mansion. Reny heads back home for two months each year to visit family, during which time Eugene moves in to keep Michael company. A few weeks ago, shortly after my sister-in-law’s return from abroad, a story took me out to Bergen County. Michael insisted I stop by for dinner.
The Reny that greeted me at the door was not the same meek girl my brother had first married. Gone was the traditional garb, replaced by expensive clothing, a gold necklace, and a hundred-dollar styling job.
“Sophia. How nice to see you.” She smiled thinly. “Do come in.”
“Thank you.” I stepped through the door.
“Oh, no.” Stopping abruptly, she turned to stare. “Please remove your shoes. We do not track dirt into the house.”
“Of course.” I pulled off my pumps, following her into the living room.
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you a drink,” my sister-in-law announced, settling on the edge of a brand-new sofa. “We do not poison our bodies with alcohol.”
“I see.” If I’d had a brandy flask in my purse, I might have pulled it out and taken a big swig right in front of her. Instead, I nodded at the richly appointed room. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Oh, yes. I keep a clean house for my husband.”
Clean? At a minimum, there was fifty thousand dollars worth of stuff within eyesight. Sofas, chairs, a huge dining table, glass chandelier, paintings. The works and then some. “Michael must be doing very well,” I carefully offered.
“Oh, yes. But I do not concern myself with such things.” A very practiced, off-hand shrug. “I just want to make Michael happy.”
“So where is my brother?”
“He’ll be home soon. He is playing tennis with Eugene,” Reny said. “I’m so glad Michael has such a good friend. I am pleased for him.”
This is where being a reporter can get you in trouble. Just as I was formulating a dozen ill-advised questions, Michael himself came charging through the door.
“Sophia! How good to see you.” A quick peck on my check, followed by an even quicker one for Reny. “My wife. Is dinner ready?”
“The caterers are in the kitchen as we speak, my husband,” she coolly answered. “I will tell the staff to serve our meal directly.”
“Caterers?” Michael’s smile noticeably dimmed. “But why…I mean, we didn’t discuss…”
“My husband. Please! Let me run my own household as I see fit!” Peremptorily turning on her naked heel, Reny strode off towards the kitchen.
Michael turned back to me with a frustrated sigh. “So. Sophie. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“So am I.” Smiling, I touched my brother’s arm.
As it turned out, Reny wasn’t kidding about “the staff.” Tuxedo-clad waiters soon began serving a lavish meal, my sister-in-law peremptorily clapping her hands for the next course. I had thought it was a big deal to hire the kind of mom-and-pop caterers who simply prepared a meal and then quietly slipped out the back door for the family to enjoy. This was something approaching a formal diplomatic function. I half-expected Henry Kissinger to pop out of some back room to lecture us on the state of Arab-Israeli relations.
“I certainly didn’t mean to put the two of you to such trouble,” I objected.
“It is nothing,” Reny shrugged. “My husband and I enjoy entertaining.”
“But dear,” my brother suddenly offered. “You should have asked me before hiring caterers.”
There was a sudden chill in the air, Reny fixing Michael with a cold stare. “My husband, I would not shame our household! Your guests expect hospitality. As your wife, it is my job to provide it.”
Several moments went by. “Sophia,” Michael began, turning to me with a taunt smile. “Tell us about the story you’re working on.”
It was a piece about environmental conservation and climate change. Actually, in some circles I was considered a minor authority on these topics, even appearing on cable news networks and other programs.
Still, you should have seen the look of utter distaste my sister-in-law inflicted on me. “Yes, yes, that is all very good,” she rather rudely interrupted. “But Sophia, my sister, let us not talk of such things at table.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No.” Reny raised an eyebrow. “But it is not important. And our food grows cold.”
For the next fifteen mi
nutes, as our main courses were served, my sister-in-law regaled us with detailed descriptions of their plush furnishings, including where she had bought them and what celebrities or neighbors had similar appointments. Michael soon began tightly gripping his silverware, often stabbing at his food.
But this was the comfortable portion of the night’s discourse. Soon, Reny began talking of American culture. “There is so much sex everywhere. Sex, sex, sex! It is disgusting! And the way these American girls wear makeup,” she chided, motioning a waiter to refill her water goblet. “Back home, such things are not allowed. They have proper values.”
“And what values are those?” Smiling, I held Reny’s gaze. Michael began fussing about, trying to attract my attention, but I’d had enough.
“Well…” Drawing herself up, Reny rose to the challenge. “They are all on drugs and sell their bodies for liquor!”
“Is that really what you think all American girls do?”
“Sophia, please! I have two eyes with which to see!”
“American girls are thoughtful, and independent, and want to lead meaningful lives,” I continued. “They have many opportunities, and yes, some make poor choices. But to dismiss them all as young whores is both short-sighted and very unfair.”
Reny pointedly turned around, again looking for the waiter.
“And it also ignores the fact that many people around the world dream of the freedoms commonly enjoyed by American women.” Smiling, I pushed my plate away. “That’s why many of them, including yourself, come here to start new lives.”
Like an owl, Reny’s head whipped back. “Please, Sophie! Don’t you think I know about you? Michael has told me much!”
“Now wait a minute…” my brother began.
“Yes! We all know you long to have a husband, but no man will have you!” Eyes blazing, Reny slowly nodded. “Where I am from, this would not happen!”
Taking a deep breath, I leaned forward. “Reny, you are mistaken.”
“Please!”
“I’m not sure what Michael told you…” Pausing, I glanced in his direction. “But I’m very happy with my life. I have a career, and a home, and a good income.”
