by Lucy Kevin
“Of course not!” I said, secretly relieved that she wasn’t going to be listening. I didn’t think I could stand for her to ridicule my attempts at talk radio, which, I had already accepted, were bound to suck as I learned the craft. “In the three years I’ve known you, you have somehow managed to get all of the unit requirements in for your major without ever signing up for a class that starts before 11 a.m. You’re a wonder to us all.”
“A girl needs her beauty sleep,” she murmured and I giggled.
“Some more than others,” I said. Diane shot me a dirty look, but I knew she knew I was kidding, because, honestly, you don’t get a whole lot more gorgeous than Diane.
No strands of hair are ever out of place, she is always at the height of fashion, and the in-crowd glams onto her like credit cards to Bloomingdales. As a perfect vision of loveliness and sexuality all crammed into one package, I had seen her use her looks to her advantage time and time again. She could play any character: Sleek-and-glamorous; Dumb-blond-bimbo; Savvy-businesswoman-in-glasses.
But underneath her façade of the hour, she was also the most honest person I had ever met. Take, for instance, the day we were talking about what we’d do with $100,000 dollars and she said, right off the bat, “I’d buy jewelry.” No apologies, no “Oh, I’d start a foundation for the homeless,” or any of that bullshit that other people would be feeding you. Just big diamonds. Plain and simple. Who else has the balls to admit to being so shallow?
Part of the reason why Diane had virtually no concept of money being hard to come by was because her parents were of the ultra rich set in Scottsdale, Arizona. I got the sense from the stories she told about them that she had never really had much to do with her folks. Like, her string of nannies had been as close as she ever got to having an actual mother.
Sometimes I even got the sense that she was envious of my relationship with my mother, because even though we bugged the shit out of each other, at least my mom was involved in my life.
Too involved, for my liking, but I guess it really depends which side of the fence you’re on, doesn’t it?
Diane rummaged around on the makeup strewn counter, finally picking up a jet black compact, breaking into my ruminations. “Can’t you get them to give you a different time?”
“Duh. Why didn’t I think of that?” I said, smacking myself on the forehead. “I’ll just march up to the station director and say, ‘I know I’ve never done this before, but everyone else on your station is crap, so can I have the peak hours after 5 p.m.?’”
“That’s what I’d do,” Diane said matter-of-factly.
I sighed and pointed out the obvious. “That’s because you’re you. And he’d be so blinded by your blonde bombshell-ness that you’d probably get away with it. He’d just laugh in my face and tell me to fuck off.”
“So what are you going to talk about for three whole hours every single day?”
I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant about it. “Oh, I’ve got lots of ideas.”
Diane finished with her makeup and went into the bedroom to slip on some shoes, so she didn’t press me for more details.
Which was good, because, frankly, I didn’t have one single idea for my show.
Not one!
And this was me we’re talking about. The girl who never shuts up.
Clearly, I was in big trouble.
*
At first I tried listening to the radio station, figuring that I might pick up some tips from the students that had some DJ-ing experience under their belt. Fat chance!
Straight off the bat I realized that my initial impressions about college radio had been dead on. Nobody listens to college radio and for good reason.
It sucks. Truly, it’s awful. During those three weeks I listened to as much college radio as I could stand. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stand much. I felt like I was listening to my teeth being pulled out, hour after hour. I had my work cut out for me.
Bill’s show, thank god, was a highlight among them all, as I actually found myself laughing out loud from time to time during his broadcasts.
To round out my education, and to balance out all of the amateur garbage I was hearing, I hunted out the syndicated talk-hosts on my AM station. Dr. Laura, Howard Stern, Michael Savage. I learned something very important from the pros: The most successful radio personalities are one hundred percent true to who they are as people when they are on the air. Even when they rub people the wrong way, as all of them do every single day, they are compelling. So compelling, in fact, millions of people tune in to listen to them.
If I wanted people to listen to my show I was going to have to be special. Out of the ordinary. Completely frank about subjects that other people were skirting around. I wanted to tackle topics that really pissed me off, knowing that even if my opinion angered my listeners, at least when they were done listening they’d know that they’d been given a good time.
The question that kept me awake those weeks before my first show was simple: Did I have anything to say? What if I got to the studio and had no opinions?
Rationally, I knew that was impossible. I was practically the most opinionated person in the whole world. But I was so nervous about going on the air by myself for three whole hours, five days a week that I was totally freaking out. We’re talking way outside the rational zone.
With fourteen days to go until my on-air debut, after watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the billionth time and saying goodnight to Diane and then tossing and turning in bed until 2 a.m., I finally gave up on sleep and threw on some clothes. I didn’t want to go to a coffee shop or diner and be around tons of keyed up people—all of whom had something to talk about with each other, when I was the original blank canvas, god dammit—I just needed a place to think. It had been strangely dry and sunny for the past few days, so I grabbed a blanket and headed out to the large square between my apartment building and three others. Surprisingly, even in the middle of the night there were plenty of students hanging out on the grass, all of us soaking up the dry weather for as long as it lasted.
I laid my blanket close to the front door of my building. Who knew what kind of creeps were out this time of night?
There were several couples making out under the stars and some guy was playing guitar. He was surrounded by a bunch of women, all looking at him with that rapturous gaze girls always give rock-stars.
He had longish hair, falling just below his ears, and a sharp nose. He played beautifully. If I closed my eyes, I would have been lulled to sleep, were it not for the way his female court giggled over his every word.
I was enjoying watching the girls try to get his attention. So much so, that I began to forget my worries altogether. I love people watching and while I’m doing it, I always think I’m invisible. But I guess I wasn’t, because I suddenly realized his eyes were burning a hole through me.
His attention kind of thrilled me and gave me the creeps all at the same time. But after fifteen minutes of his focus and unwavering interest, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I grabbed my blanket and went back inside. Crawling back under the covers I tried to get his eyes out of my head, but I couldn’t.
By the time midnight rolled around the next night, I was sick of sitting around pretending to study—and I had been haunted by visions of the fire-eyed guitar playing stranger all the previous night—so I decided to run through some energy by hoofing it over to the radio station to see what was going on. It was just about time for Bill’s show and I was hoping he would let me listen in. I was heading out of the front door of my building when I noticed the mystery man leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.
I was sort of stunned by his presence and instead of just walking past him my traitorous mouth opened and said, “Oh! You startled me.”
He didn’t say anything, just took another drag of his cigarette. The thing is, although his mouth was shut he was doing a really nice job of talking to me with that eye-burning thing again.
I should have walked away, b
ut I’ve never been good at doing what I’m supposed to do. Instead I said, “Do you live here?”
He threw his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out with his faded black boots.
“No.”
His obvious reticence helped kick some good sense back into my head. Forget it. Why was I trying to have a conversation with someone that I didn’t even want to be talking to?
Somewhat sarcastically I said, “Neat. Gotta go.”
And then I walked away, hoping he wouldn’t follow me, which was a total lie, because more than anything I wanted him to rush after me, begging to know my name, desperate for any smidgeon of information that he could get about me.
But he didn’t follow me.
Or beg, for that matter.
Damn him.
*
I was unaccountably bummed by the time I got to the studio. Bill was in the control room and when I tapped on the window his face lit up, motioning for me to come in. He was saying, “Do you realize, folks, that 90% of all college students who have sex don’t use condoms!”
He looked at me and I rolled my eyes as if to say: Of course I always do, don’t look at me!
But what I was really thinking was how his topic didn’t impact my life at all. After all, I was the virgin wonder.
Most of the people I knew had been having sex since they were sixteen. Not me. Neither, amazingly enough had Diane or Seth, my other best friend.
In fact, the three of us had been lounging around the previous Saturday night, guzzling Corona Lights, mouthing off about how lame we were.
Me: “We suck. Why can’t any of us get laid?”
Diane: “We’re too hot, that’s why.”
Seth: “My dick is too big. Gay men are afraid of big dicks.”
Diane (really drunk, by the way): “I crave big dicks.”
Me: “Me too.”
Seth: “Bring on the big dicks!”
Me (did I mention that I was drunk too?): “I bet I’d get some if my tits were bigger.”
Diane: “I love your tits. They’re hot.”
Me: “Thanks. Yours are hot too.”
Diane: “Maybe we should all do each other in a three way.”
Seth: “I can’t do you guys. My dick’s too big.”
Diane: “Are you sure you’re really gay? Or are you just afraid to do us?”
Me: “Yeah, ‘cause we’re hot!”
Seth (standing up on the coffee table and yelling): “I AM GAY!”
Me: “Cool.”
Diane: “Yeah, right on. Get us new beers while you’re up.”
Apart from intimate conversations like these with my best friends, I didn’t feel like I had let the world at large know I was still a virgin, so whenever the topic of sex came up with anyone else I did something out of character: I kept my mouth shut.
Bill continued to make his solitary rant to the unknown KUW listening populace. “I, for one, would like to know what is so damn hard about unrolling a condom? It sure as hell is easier than having to deal with AIDS, isn’t it?” He let out a sigh. “OK, somebody, anybody, tell me why you don’t like condoms. Make me understand. Who knows, maybe I’ll write a letter to Trojan with all sorts of suggestions for how they can improve their products.”
I noted the blank phone lines. Didn’t seem like Bill was having that great of a night thus far.
That made two of us.
*
As the days went by I noticed Mr. Fire-Eyes, as I had started to officially think of him, more and more. At some point I found out that he lived in the building directly across the lawn from mine and that pretty much, without exception, every chick within a five-apartment radius was in love with him.
Whenever I came back from a late night class he was standing outside the front door of his building, smoking. He never did anything that should have made me think I was special to him—no particular smile or declaration, in fact I still didn’t even know his name and I’m sure he didn’t know mine—but nonetheless I always got the sense that he was waiting to see me.
We might have continued on like this forever—with him always staring and me pretending to never look, even though I was hypersensitive to his presence and was totally looking whenever he wasn’t looking—until one night during dinner with Diane.
We were sitting at our little round dining table eating artichokes when she said, “Hey Georgia, what’s up with that guy who’s always watching you?”
I stopped mid artichoke leaf-slurp. “Which guy?”
She rolled her eyes. “Hello. Don’t act like you don’t know. The one who thinks he’s James Dean.” She paused to dip and delicately scrape a leaf with her perfectly white, even teeth. Swallowing, she looked back up at me. “He’s always smoking. Long hair. Wanna-be rocker with his guitar. I think he lives in Alpha Sig.”
“Oh him,” I said, trying to act all blasé about it. “Honestly, I have no idea what his deal is.”
Diane shrugged and got back to her artichoke. But now that the whole thing was out in the open I was dying to talk about it.
“So,” I said slowly as I pulled another firm leaf off and dipped it, “What makes you think he’s watching me, anyway?”
“Cause I’ve seen him do it a bunch of times. That’s why.”
I stopped dipping. This sounded promising. I mean, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him noticing me.
“Like when?”
“Like yesterday when we were at Café Café reading and all of a sudden I got this feeling that I was being watched and then I looked up and saw him in line getting coffee.”
It wasn’t until she said that he was watching her that I admitted the pathetic truth to myself: I had actually harbored some kind of romantic hope about this guy. Only, I wasn’t the only one he liked to stare at. Probably now that he had seen Diane in all of her tall, blonde glory he would forget about me completely.
It wasn’t that I was surprised by Mr. Fire-Eyes preferring Diane to me—most men would probably choose a voluptuous blond over an average height, average weight, average-in-every-way-brunette any day, no fault of theirs—but I was still a little bit crushed.
“See,” I said. “He was staring at you too. He must just be like that, or something. You know, creepy. Starey.”
“Get a grip, Georgia. He wasn’t looking at me. He was devouring you.”
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief, although secretly I liked that idea of being devoured across a crowded room.
Then she smiled and added, “It was pretty cool, actually. I keep hoping someone will look at me like that one day.”
I was shocked by her statement. “As if half of the male population on campus being in love with you isn’t enough already,” I said, somewhat sarcastically, somewhat enviously.
Diane shook her head. “Sure, people look,” she said, flipping her shiny hair over her shoulder. “But they look at me like they just want to bone me,” she said matter of factly. “I’m just another pretty face that they want to stick their little penises into.”
I have to admit, I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to this new insight on Diane’s part. Was she right? Did men only look at her because they wanted to have sex with her? And, could a man ever look at an attractive woman without immediately wanting sex?
I scooted back from the table and grabbed some chocolate cake out of the fridge. The way this conversation was going we needed some chocolate and quick.
I sat back down, but before I could delve further into a deep philosophical discussion regarding men and sex with Diane, she said, “Whatever. We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about your stalker rocker guy. So, really, what are you going to do about him?”
“What do you mean? What am I going to do about what exactly?” I said with a mouth full of cake. Some crumbles fell out of my mouth onto the table. I wiped them into my hand.
“You should really learn to take smaller bites, Georgia,” she said tsking with disapproval at my god-awful table manners. “Anyway, I was think
ing that you should go talk to him.”
“You mean just walk up to him and say, ‘Hi. My friend says you stare at me a lot. What’s your deal? Do you want to screw, or something?’”
She rolled her eyes again. “Wow. That was touching. No, of course not. You have to be a little sneaky about it. Ya know, catch him off guard.”
I nodded sagely. “Oh, I get your drift now. I should run up behind him and yell, ‘Boo’! Okay, now that I’ve got your attention do you want to screw?”
“Sometimes,” Diane said with more than a little impatience creeping into her voice, “you are very annoying.”
“Me? Annoying?” I said, giving her my most innocent look.
But Diane was blessed with an impressively one-track mind. “I think we should go to the exotic erotic party at his co-op on Saturday night.”
“The party where people walk around wrapped in saran wrap and nothing else?”
“Uh huh,” she said.
“The party where that guy got arrested last year when the tin foil fell off?”
Diane shuddered with distaste. “Yuck. Hopefully they got a restraining order against him.”
“I’m not sure that party is exactly my speed,” I said, trying not to betray the utter fear in my heart at actually attending what I had heard was as close as you could get to an orgy without actually going to an orgy. Needless to say, my comfort level around random nearly-naked strangers was on the low side.
“Who knows. Maybe we can find out which room is his and you can surprise him in his bed!”
It was time to put a stop to the train she was on. “Don’t even think about! I’m not going to the exotic erotic and I am definitely not going to get into some guy’s bed that I don’t even know.”
She got up from the table, put her dishes in the sink, and over her shoulder she said, “Unless you want to, that is.”
She walked away and I was left staring at the half eaten piece of cake in front of me, wishing I hadn’t shoved so much of it into my mouth.
