Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  “Hi, I’m Carla! I’m the new overnight co-host!” I chirped. They didn’t seem impressed, even when I walked to each of them and shook their hands.

  “Why are you here so early?” one boy asked.

  “Dante doesn’t usually get here until about a half hour before,” the other one added.

  “Well, I’m not Dante,” I snapped.

  The kids shrugged, and turn their attention back to their monitors.

  Annoyed, I walked into the control room to greet Rusty.

  “Hey, girl! You ready for tonight?” Rusty greeted me with a big hug.

  “I am...I just hope my co-host is,” I replied. “I haven’t heard from him all week.”

  “Reeeeeeally?” The color left Rusty’s face.

  “That’s Dante,” I chuckled.

  “Well, I’ve been talking to him. I’m sure he’s ready,” Rusty tried to assure me.

  “Are you sure?” I retorted.

  “I- I don’t, I don’t know,” Rusty stammered.

  I softened my tone. “Well that’s why I’m here early, I’m hoping he comes in soon so we can go over a few things.”

  Rusty arched his eyebrow. “Well, Dante usually comes in—”

  “I know when he usually comes in,” I interrupted, getting snippy again. “But I’m hoping he takes the time out of his terribly busy schedule to come in early for the sake of the show.”

  Rusty shrugged and uneasily walked out of the control room. I silently screamed as I followed suit.

  I settled at an empty cubicle in the newsroom and arranged the notes and articles I’d collected during the week around the desk. I started jotting down points I wanted to bring up, while every so often checking the time and the door.

  Finally, at about a quarter to two, as I started to clean up my workstation, the White Knight of Sports Radio galloped into the newsroom. The once-listless interns sprang up to attention.

  “Dante, my man!” one exclaimed, slapping Dante five.

  “What’s up, my dude?” the other added, following suit.

  “Oh, you know how it is...another night, another show,” Dante boasted.

  “Yeah, dog!” Rusty suddenly appeared behind him, giving him a quick slap on the shoulder and shaking his hand. “You ready to do this?”

  “Always, bro!” Dante replied.

  I snarled at this pathetic display of “bro-hood” unfolding in front of me. It was usually easy for me to be one of the boys (sometimes easier than being one of the girls), but how was I going to be able to immerse myself with this (idiotic) fraternity?

  “Where is she?” Dante muttered to Rusty.

  I didn’t give Rusty the time to answer. “I’m right here,” I stated, rising out of my chair.

  Dante slapped his hands together and meandered towards me. His minions leaned their chins on top of their cubicles, waiting with bated breath to hear what their Master would say next. “Doing your homework, I see.” Dante laughed, motioning towards the pile of papers I was cradling in my arms.

  “One of us has to.”

  “I don’t need any of that crap. It’s all up here,” Dante replied, tapping his index finger on his forehead.

  “Let’s hope. I don’t want to spend half the show bailing you out.”

  “Don’t worry about me, young Carla. So how do you want to start the show?”

  I motioned my head towards the large digital clock. “You want to have this conversation NOW, ten minutes to air?”

  “When did you want to discuss it, on Tuesday when we had no idea what would be going on?” Dante pointed out.

  “Well, no, but it would have been nice to be in communication throughout the week to talk about different things,” I replied.

  “You have a phone, Carla. You could have used it to call me.”

  “Well, you have working internet, Dante. You could have e-mailed me...BACK! Unless, did you forget to pay your bill?”

  “Whatever,” Dante rolled his eyes. “Let’s just have a good show. I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants guy anyway, you know that. Just follow my lead.” Before I could answer, he walked towards the studio doors.

  “Follow YOUR lead?” I muttered, shuffling behind him.

  Wearing a big smile, Dante held open the door and ushered me inside the studio, which was outfitted with three posts that each contained a microphone, headphones, console and an outdated computer. Dante plopped down in front of the center mic, where the main host usually sits. Not bothering to argue seating arrangements, and not wanting to occupy the same chair Ruby did during her show (since it surely had the malocchio on it), I settled in on Dante’s left. I quietly arranged my show notes while doing my best to ignore him.

  “Two minutes until show time, guys,” Rusty’s voice boomed on the studio speakers.

  Dante yawned, breezily placed the headphones over his ears, and threw his feet up on the desk.

  Meanwhile, I was anything but casual. My heart was beating so fast, I was surprised it didn’t leap out of my chest and hit Dante in the face. My shaky hands picked up the headphones as if they were made from fragile glass. I gulped. This was the last act before the start of a new chapter of my life! I took a deep breath, and...

  “Stop being so dramatic and just put them on,” Dante quipped.

  “What?!” I exclaimed, accidentally dropping the headphones on the desk.

  “I know you. ‘This all becomes real once I put these on. All my wishes are about to come true. Pinch me, I must be dreaming!’” Dante screeched in a high pitched voice, flailing his hands in the air.

  I picked the headphones up and threw them on my head. “Shut up. I don’t sound like that.”

  “One minute!” Rusty yelled in our ears. I winced, and leaned over to my volume knob and turned down the sound.

  “Yeah you do,” Dante laughed. “Who knows you better than me?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Dante frowned.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  “Don’t give me that look. What did you expect to happen when you attacked my character and accused me of such blatant lies?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind you tried to get me fired.” Dante chuckled smugly.

  Our horns were officially locked. “I did NOT try to get you fired!”

  “Ten seconds!”

  “Yes you did, Carla,” Dante replied calmly. “But for the sake of the show, I have chosen to put it behind me. Why can’t you do the same? It might make you a lot less bitter in life.”

  “Five, four, three...”

  “I am NOT bitter!” I shrieked.

  “I don’t understand why you just can’t forgive and forget,” Dante persisted.

  “Because I’m not a saint, nor do I have DEMENTIA!”

  “And we’re on!”

  I froze. I felt as though I was just sucked into a tornado vortex. Here we were, at the start of our first show, and I was a sweaty, panting, raving lunatic with no thought except that I wanted to murder my co-host. What riled me up more was that Dante looked to be the textbook definition of cool, calm and collected.

  “This is W-S-P-S and you are listening to Dante Ezra in the overnight,” he began. “Now, we have a crap load to get to, but first, we have to meet our new friend to the program, although she is definitely no stranger to the W-S-P-S family. She serves as the esteemed producer for “The Tommy Max and Ruby Smith Show,” and she’ll also be co-hosting the weekend shows with me. I know we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Ladies and gentlemen, Carla D’Agostino!”

  “Thank you for that warm introduction, Dante. But can you say ‘crap load’ on the air?” I teased.

  “We’re on in the middle of the night. Who do you think is listening?”

  “Well for starters, the entire town of Honey Crest, New Jersey,” I replied sweetly. I moved the microphone closer to my lips. “What Dante failed to mention, folks, is that we’re childhood friends who grew up not only in the same town but on the same street!”

  “Where you s
till live,” Dante made sure to point out with a smile.

  “And where you still visit on a daily basis for your mother to do your laundry, feed you and give you a bath,” I shot back.

  “Hey, you can’t go wrong with Mama’s home cooking,” Dante recovered.

  “So if you hear us fighting like brother and sister, it’s because, in a former life, we were,” I finished.

  Dante scowled. I, on the other hand, was all smiles. The panic from a few minutes before had been washed away by a supreme adrenaline rush.

  “Anyway, we will do our best to make Bear country, and the rest of the metropolitan area, proud,” Dante replied.

  “So Dante, what do we have on tap for tonight? And keep it to non-alcoholic items, please.”

  “Always. This is a dry show.”

  “Not as far as one of us is concerned,” I cracked.

  We continued to trade barbs while we transitioned the show to full-on sports talk. About fifteen minutes later, we stopped for a quick commercial break.

  Dante’s intense blue eyes connected with mine. “Are you having fun?”

  “I am having a freakin’ BLAST!” I laughed. “Are you having fun?”

  “Oh yeah, I always love getting verbally abused in front of thousands of people.”

  I shook him off. “Oh stop, it’s all in good fun.”

  Rusty burst into the control room. “The phone lines are lighting up, people are loving you two!”

  “Why?” Dante sniffed.

  My ears perked to attention. “Already?” Historically, the graveyard shift shows posted the lowest ratings for the station, for obvious reasons. When I produced the overnights, I used to have to practically pay my guy friends to call in to fill up the time.

  “Wait a second...” I narrowed my eyes. “Do all these people happen to be from a certain small town in New Jersey?”

  “The calls are coming from all over.”

  Dante and I looked at each other, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t know, but whatever you guys are doing, keep it up!” Rusty bellowed, running out of the room.

  I turned to Dante and shrugged. “I guess people like the verbal abuse.”

  “Who knows Carla, with all the guys clamoring to speak to you, maybe you can actually score a date,” Dante taunted.

  I ripped a piece of paper from my notepad, crumpled it up into a ball, and threw it at him. He tried dodging it, but it hit him square in the face. We both laughed, and put our headphones back on for Round 2.

  ■ ■ ■

  I skipped to my car after the show. I was rejuvenated! Born again! Untouchable! Take that, Honey Crest High School Class of 2007! The phones had not stopped ringing all night, with most of the callers paying us (well, me) some sort of acknowledgment:

  Smith from Connecticut: “I wish I had a woman around who can tolerate sports. Carla, can you speak to my wife? She always gives me a hard time about my football Sundays.”

  Anthony from Staten Island: “She’s a fireball, Dante. Are you sure you can handle her?”

  John from Hoboken: “How do you think the Jets will rebuild their defense this off season? But not you Dante, I want to hear from the girl.”

  After we wrapped, a part of me wanted to give Dante a huge hug in celebration, but I knew I couldn’t – the boundaries I firmly set wouldn’t allow that. Yet, the energy from our friendship’s death helped morph this weird dynamic that listeners apparently were into, which at this point in my life, was my only concern.

  I was feeling like Supergirl...until I pulled out of the parking garage and noticed the sun’s early rays peeking through the plum sky. It was a little after six in the morning, and reality hit that I hadn’t slept in almost 24 hours. I knew there would mercifully be no traffic at this time, but still, it would be a loooooooong ride home.

  Forty minutes later, I dragged my heels inside my house. I couldn’t keep my eyes open at this point, and all I wanted to do was hit my bed with a vengeance...so imagine how annoyed I was to find my entire family, including Gwen, sitting at the kitchen table that was set with our finest china and glassware.

  “Breakfast!” Mom announced the obvious.

  “C’mon,” I groaned, but my protests went ignored.

  “You did such a great job, I couldn’t wait to celebrate,” Mom boasted, pulling my arms towards the table.

  “Why couldn’t you wait?” I grumbled.

  “Jimmy made his brown sugar and walnut pancakes, Dad made scrambled eggs and bacon, and Gwen brought these delicious bagels!” Mom grabbed a sesame seed bagel from the heaping pile that sat in a glass bowl, and started to generously spread cream cheese on its halves. “I know I’m going to hate myself because of the carbs, but who cares? It’s my baby’s celebration!” She finished fixing the bagel and grabbed a glass pitcher. “Orange juice?”

  “Mom, I appreciate all this,” I said, watching my father place a plate of sizzling bacon on the table that admittedly smelled delicious. “But I want to go to bed. I’ve done two shows and haven’t slept in-”

  “You can have a little breakfast,” Mom insisted. “Gwen woke up early on her Saturday morning to come here, the least you could do is be appreciative.”

  I glanced at Gwen, who mouthed “sorry” to me.

  “Mom, Gwen doesn’t care-”

  “Eat,” Mom ordered, dumping a large spoonful of eggs on my plate.

  I was too shot to fight with her. “Pass me the bacon,” I mumbled.

  “Of course, honey.” Mom replied sweetly, as if our exchange ten seconds ago never happened. “So tell us, how was it to be on the radio?”

  “How do you think it was? It was great,” I said through a mouthful of food.

  “Did you and Dante get along?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me. Did it sound like we did?”

  “No,” Jimmy chimed in.

  Gwen stifled a laugh with her napkin. “Jimmy!” She slapped my brother playfully on his abdomen and turned to me. “Don’t listen to him; he wasn’t even up for the show.”

  I gave him a tired smile. “Off the air, we tolerated each other the best we could. But on the air...”

  “Yeah?” Mom probed.

  “Jimmy was right, we didn’t really get along, but for whatever reason, it worked.”

  “Harry and the Leatherneck made millions by yelling at each other every day for twenty years,” Dad pointed out.

  “Well then, keep fighting!” Mom roared. “You don’t need friends. Maybe then I can finally retire!”

  Comments continued to fly by, but I was too out of it to fully grasp what they were. Finally, I was excused.

  “Carla, you have such heavy bags under your eyes! You must go to bed,” Mom ordered.

  “You’re just noticing this now?” I chuckled.

  “Yes. Go upstairs. Now.”

  I nodded “thank you” to everyone and practically crawled to my bedroom. It was good to know that no matter how much fame and fortune I might reach in my career, I could always come home and be reminded that all I really am in life is Nancy D’Agostino’s little girl...and now apparently, her future meal ticket.

  20

  Day 279

  “W-S-P-S, what would you like to talk about?...What?...Did you just ask me what color underwear I’m wearing? Are you serious?”

  Click.

  Despite my weekend shows being an added burden to my schedule, they were an island vacation compared to what I endured Monday through Friday. (It didn’t hurt that I also happened to love the gig.) The life of a radio producer was ninety-five percent aggravation, five percent satisfaction, and zero percent glory. All day long your phone was ringing with weirdos, and while you were dealing with them, you needed to have one eye on the show and one eye monitoring the wire for any breaking stories. In the middle of this chaos, you had to nurture the delicate egos of your radio hosts by keeping them well-informed and comfortable at all times. (In my case, that included making sure the thermostat in the studio read seventy-two degrees at
all times, and fetching lukewarm water with lemon at the top of every hour. Guess who that was for.)

  And my mother wanted to know why I’m too exhausted to go to the gym after work; she wouldn’t last here half a day!

  “W-S-P-S, what would you like to talk about?...Yankees winning streak, great. What is your name?”

  As I was typing up the caller’s information, I heard the control room door swing open. I cradled the receiver between my neck and shoulder as I turned around to see who it was. I almost dropped the phone when I saw my boss Dan “The Man” Durkin wearing on ominous look.

  “Come to my office, please,” Dan barked.

  “Now?” I mouthed.

  “As soon as you hang up,” he ordered and walked out of the room.

  I turned my attention back to the caller. “Okay, Chris, I’m going to put you on hold for just a few moments, okay? Thanks for calling!”

  Doing my best Spiderman impression, I slowly scaled the hallway leading to Dan’s office. Even though Dante and I were doing very well with our show, I continued to have this nightmare scenario in the back of my mind—Dan popping up out of nowhere to pull the rug from under my feet. Was this it?

  When I entered Dan’s office, I saw my answer sitting on the puffy, black leather couch: Dante Ezra, my former friend, current foe, and co-host ... looking as confused and concerned as I was.

  Oh geez. If perennially cool-as-a-cucumber Dante was worried about this meeting, what the hell was I supposed to feel like? My chest tightened as I plopped down next to Dante. We looked at each other, and our eyes exchanged an unspoken “Uh oh…”

  Well, this was it, my nightmare come true. The one thing that got me out of bed in the morning was about to be taken away. Overall, it had been a good run; I had no regrets. I didn’t think the beginning would meet the end so quickly, but I had to agree with whoever complained to Dan--our show was too much fire, and not enough substance. In the days, weeks, and years to come, I would analyze every word from my on-air stint and extract the lessons. They would serve me well in my next endeavor, perhaps as host of the local mental ward’s closed-circuited radio station.