Dear Nessa, the first one read. Love your show. But would it kill you to play some Beatles?
She got one of these every week. She shook the paper in Otto’s direction. “Why don’t -people understand that there are no Beatles deep cuts? That every song they ever did has been played and overplayed and dissected like the Zapruder film? Do -people seriously not understand that?”
The hostilities between them had cooled somewhat, but they were nowhere near friends. Still she needed to talk sometimes.
Otto held up a finger, then continued to type. She tried not to read what he was writing, but she suspected it was The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
“Maybe they’re just messing with you,” he said. “Everybody knows you hate the Beatles.”
“I don’t hate the Beatles,” she said. “All I said was that they were not a rock band. They were a pop band. That’s all I said. And they’re the most overplayed band in history, which isn’t saying much since every sixties and seventies band has been overplayed to the point of—-”
“We know. We know. That’s the whole basis of your shtick. That’s the whole reason you got this show.” He pushed up his glasses and focused on her, deadpan.
“That’s not the only reason,” she said, stung. “I also happen to have a pretty vast knowledge of—-”
“Right. Anyway. I don’t want to have this same conversation over and over again. It’s boring as hell.”
She was only four years older than he, but the chasm was wide. She felt like a fossil, saying things like, “In my day . . .” But she had to remind herself that he was a jealous brat, a kid whose parents had paid for his college. Nessa had had to do everything herself with no support. But she’d already told him that. Telling him more than once would make her sound like she cared what he thought.
She slit open the next envelope and out tumbled a photo of a guy in a Speedo. She promptly threw the letter and photo away without even reading it because she knew what it was going to say. Any time there was a photo, it was a proposal.
The next envelope enclosed a handwritten letter. Dear Nessa, it said. You have the best deep--cuts show I’ve ever heard. I wondered if you could scrounge up some music from an Australian band that was popular over there in the seventies called the Saturday Night Club.
She made a note of the band name on her iPad, then did a quick search of her music file database. There it was. She’d play a song called “Burns” and give a shout--out to the letter--writer on air.
The next envelope had a letter gushing compliments, along with a flash drive and a request for her to plug the guy’s band during her show. She set a reminder on the iPad so she’d remember to listen to the contents of the flash drive and decide whether she would do as he asked. She didn’t mind promoting good music, but if money or gifts were sent, she promptly returned them with a brief bio of Allan Freed from history--of--rock.com for their information and edification: “ ‘Payola’ is a contraction of the words pay and Victrola (LP record player), and entered the English language via the record business. The first court case involving payola was in 1960. On May 9, Alan Freed was indicted for accepting $2,500 which he claimed was a token of gratitude and did not affect airplay.”
Nessa glanced at the large clock on the wall: eleven thirty--eight. She grabbed a water bottle from the break room fridge, scooped up the rest of the envelopes, and went into the studio. The smell hit her as soon as she got into the room—-male BO. She groaned. Dale must have worked a shift, because every time he did, the studio chair reeked.
Otto actually laughed. “I’ll take it,” he said. “I’m not as sensitive as you are.”
They switched chairs.
“Why don’t they do something about that?” she said.
“The general manager is one of those ‘really nice guys’ who doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings,” Otto said. “I guess he got everyone together and said, ‘Let’s not forget to shower before we come in.’ But everyone knows it’s Dale.”
“Why doesn’t the program director do it, then?”
“He’s a coward too.”
“You know what?” Nessa said. “I’m just going to buy my own chair and haul it in here every week.”
“Or you could do the show standing up,” Otto said.
She shrugged and sat in the uncontaminated chair. Otto busied himself turning on the board, doing a sound check, making sure all the machines were in working order like he always did.