Chapter 2

Bells.  Billy B heard bells tinkling as he gazed into nowhere, and as he turned, Cassie held up one of those annoying little teacup-sized bells between her fingers, and in her most annoying Cheech and Chong voice, "Class, oh, classsss...SHHHUUUUTTTT UUUUPPPP! Please come to order and return to your seats! It’s time for our milk and cookies!"  Her derisive grin developed into a toothy smile. As was his habit, he’d fallen asleep at his desk while waiting for Stats to give him his two-minute warning.  Just once, couldn’t Cassie stay in her own damn office? Good Christ, woman, do you have to take this executive producer gig so seriously?  

"OK, Teach, gonna make me stay after school so you can tinkle MY bells?" 

"No," she replied, "but I'd be more than willing to smack them with a gong hammer if that would please you!  Behave, Nimrod, or it's to the woodshed with you! I think I hear The Pit calling you... be a good boy and try not to say anything today that will get me a visit from the ambulance-chasers, okay?"

Bill grinned at the remark, took his feet off his desk and gazed at his nemesis, holding his hands in front of his body, altar-boy style as if praying, and bowed deeply from the waist. Bill enjoyed Cassie's company.  Not only could she hold her own intellectually with most anyone on the planet- you pick the subject- but she was also personable, extremely efficient, and cute as all hell!  Bill’s long-standing policy of never engaging in office romances prevented him asking her out---not that Cassie had ever acted interested--- so she would remain one of the guys, at least to him.

“In fact, I’ll make you a deal, Billy.  If I don’t get any complaints after today’s show, I’ll force Stats to be your straight man for a week.”

"Careful… don’t use the word ‘straight’ around Stats… he’s apt to think you’re trading him to the other team." he muttered, strolling off towards The Pit.  Essentially, The Pit was an ordinary broadcast booth, complete with state-of-the-art recording equipment, microphones, engineering gear, etc. The room gained its moniker from the aroma normally emanating from within-- that indescribable combination of body odor, burning electrical components, stale coffee, cigar smoke, and the occasional fart produced as counterpoint to a particularly asinine comment from a caller.  It permeated the air in much the same way a Labrador Retriever’s scent could be picked up by another dog on every tree and post during a morning stroll- a discouraging reminder of his presence for anyone who might attempt to invade his domain, Oh, yea, I'm bad. No amount of room deodorizer seemed to help.  The office petty cash/coffee fund lay in ruins, as Cassie tried everything from her cutesy stand-up canisters, to Lysol, to pine-scent Raid... all to no avail. This Satanic scent would be present when dinosaurs reclaim the planet, it would outlive the cockroach. Bill came to think of it as an old friend. If you’ve ever been somewhere and gotten a whiff of something that evokes memories of some long-forgotten room or unforgettable place- Aunt Lucy's kitchen, Jeannie Riley’s underwear drawer or whatever- and that ambience fills you with a nostalgic feeling in the pit of your stomach, then you understand how Bill felt when he entered The Pit. It wasn't that it was a great smell, but it was his smell.

‘Stats’ Sizemore, like most background talent whom Billy B had encountered during his tenures at his various venues, more or less blended into the wallpaper, with one glaring exception: Stats claimed to be an agnostic priest.  A computer geek of the first order, he'd received a first-rate education at Loyola, but somehow the Jesuit influence didn't take, at least not in any constructive way. The giant data bank inside Stats' head selectively formatted the part about God being the creator of the universe and the ruler over all humanity. Now, this is not to say that Stats could be considered evil, mean, or anything more virulent than mildly objectionable from time to time-- actually, quite the contrary was true.  Wise, ebullient, worldly, even kind, he simply couldn't convince himself that an omniscient, omnipresent Creator would stand idly by and witness man’s dastardly acts without lifting one of His magnificent fingers and smiting the perpetrators of ugliness, casting them all into those pits of iniquity Stats recalled so vividly from his experiences with the clergy during his formative years. That didn't stop him, however, from learning enough about the priesthood and all its attendant trappings to be able to complete the Mass (and practically any other liturgical function short of exorcism) in both English and Latin. Once he’d harangued Billy for fifteen minutes with a critique of a just-completed show—in French—and then acted annoyed when Bill merely sat staring vacuously into the distance. After a perceptible pause, Stats would duck just in time to avoid the size-twelve out-of-control spinning sneaker, produce his Cheshire cat grin and give Billy the finger. Then, having established the upper hand, Stats completed the performance by slowly raising his right hand, fingers pointing at the heavens, and with great pomp and ceremony, making the Sign of the Cross in mid-air, stating for all to hear, "Nomini Patrius, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctus, Amen... even you, Shit-for-brains!"  I win again, Billy, deal with it.

Sports, as defined in this market, consisted of football, basketball, baseball and hockey. Either professional or NCAA would suffice, as long as the topic was, at least tangentially, dealt with the events of the last fortnight.  Billy B didn't enjoy fielding questions and/or comments about out-of-season sports, however.  He also didn't appreciate being used as a clearing-house for those callers who wanted an opinion about a few players they might want to include on their fantasy team rosters. Billy felt that the ‘hot stove’ approach to gambling was contrived and abominable, and he resented being used to foster callers' opinions, in order to make a buck. Woe be to the caller who got through Stats screening merely to change the subject to bowling or NASCAR, too. Billy didn't consider either one a sport, for much the same reason. You could become proficient in either one without the necessity of being an athlete.  He felt the same way about golf, but to a lesser extent, due to his love of the game. He looked at golf the same way he looked at sex- pleasurable though it may be, it didn't lend itself to on-air conversation. To be a good caller, you need to show some attitude, but don't start spouting the obvious ‘homer’ by-lines. That would get you the dump-button quicker than most any other comment. If you happen to be a teenager or woman (of any age) you would be well advised to be sure you know what you're talking about before you call asking for Billy B's take on things, because if he gets the scent of a rookie on the other end of the line, the results could get bloody. Contentedly, Billy B donned his headphones and stared at the fat Cohiba sitting next to the ashtray.  Just a quick sniff... Billy admired the cigar with the red ribbon and card stating, From a secret admirer before admonishing his cohort, “Stats, I’ll thank you to keep your dick-skinners off my cigar, too”.

Stats: "O, mon capitan, the lovely Rebecca awaits you on line 3, with Big Dog and Smeggy awaiting you with bated breath.  I'm kicking some Clapton in 5...4...3...2..."

BillyB (singing):  "I just shot the sherifffffff...   Okay, the lovely and talented Rebecca of Sunnynookie Farm has taken some of her precious time to grace us with a little wisdom.  Lay it on me, o petite one, what kinda’ sugar you got for your daddy this morning?"

Rebecca:   "Mornin’, Billy. ‘Sunnynookie’ Farm? You’re off your game, dude. Let me guess... didn’t get none again last night?  What is that, about six months now, Billy?”

BillyB: “That’s right, keep dissin' the host. Honey, I’ve had wet dreams I’ve looked forward to more than your calls.  But, I kid you, my little flower... in so far as you know, at least.”

Rebecca:   “Why can't you get behind the Bulls a little?  I enjoy your show most of the time, even though you won't send me a picture.  Please send me one so I can put a face to your voice.  Then maybe listening to you wouldn’t be a three Midol experience."

BillyB: "Hold it, hold it! Whoaaaaaa... back up the bus, Gus. Listen, Becky baby, I ain't your shrink, so don't lay that on me.  I got no control, know what I'm sayin’? Trust me, though, I possess a face made for radio. A picture of me, inspiring as it may be, would only bring your life into total ruin, knowing you can’t have me. Tell you what... why don’t you send me a picture of you? Stats has a cat, I think... he could line his litter box with it."

Rebecca:   "Billy, why do you give me grief?  It isn't enough that the Bulls don't cover the spread, but you diss me every time I call, too? How much can a girl take?"

BillyB: "Stats, put Miss Farm on hold and send her an autographed picture of the ATM machine in Palatine, because apparently that's as close as she's gonna be able to get to it! Oh, and by the way, whoever is giving you your advice about parlaying your wagers probably should be evaluated before you decide whether or not to pick up his option. As usual, dear, it's been real.  Dog, grab some lumber, you're up."

Big Dog:  "What's up, B?"

BillyB: "I just told you, Dog- you are!  Or should we say, were.  Jeez Louise!  Smeggy, your turn, you gonna talk to me or do you just want to try to ruin my career like everyone else?"

Smeggy:  "Yo, William, you got an edge this morning. What happened, you and Stats do shooters all night?"

BillyB: "Yea, that's it, Smeggy, I've got no life at all, and I spend all my nights listening to Stats quote Kahlil Gibran as I contentedly become part of the furniture. Now, since I've shared an intimate moment with you, and we are obviously now buds- no, wait- soul mates... how about sharing with us the derivation of your beautiful name, Smeggy.  Is that Lithuanian, or what?"

Smeggy:  "No, actually, it's short for my fraternity name, Smegma, but I only use that on formal occasions, and then, only with people who I’ve really, really bonded with."

BillyB: "Quick, Stats, enlighten us to the meaning of that name; it's latin, isn't it?"

Stats: "Uh... yeah, it is... but, are you sure you really want to know? Let's just say it may not be exactly what your audience wants to ponder for the next eight hours while they're gazing into a deep-fat fryer at the Golden Arches- or for that matter, no matter what they're doing!"

BillyB: "Here, quick, Stats, print out the meaning on my screen... Oh, my God, Smeggy, you are the new King of the Lowlifes! Your mother must be so proud!"

Smeggy (laughing): "Well, actually she doesn't have too much to do with me these days, considering she died 6 years ago!"

BillyB: "And I forgot to send a card... Condolences, my friend."

Smeggy:  "Thanks, man... Anyway, moving right along, I know there are others waiting, who do you like Sunday in Denver? The Chiefs are really on a roll, and it's a pick-em’ game, but the Donkeys are always tough at home."

BillyB:"Well, you can look at that game in a lot of different ways, as Stats has done, but the one glaring issue that stands out in my mind is that the book in Vegas is saying to take the over, and you don't have to give up any points to take the Broncos, that coupled with the fact that they're undefeated at home the past two seasons, so I don't see how you can even look at the Chiefs, honestly. You know Cutler can put up points, and I think their defense is good enough to hold down Brodie Croyle. This is a no-brainer in my estimation."

Smeggy:  "That's why you da’ man!"

BillyB: "Yea, yea, yea... come tell my bookie that, will ya?  Just kidding, folks...all of you out there who are running for the phone right now 'Hello, WFAN general manager? I just heard one of your on-air personalities talking about making bets with a bookie! Get that jerk off the air!'  Well, save your breath, it won't do you any good. He's deathly afraid of me and the power I wield within the industry... and if any of you out there believe that, call me off the air and I'll give you some nice stock tips!  I'm kidding, I'm kidding...relax, Stats...Ladies and gentlemen, you should see Stats right now- he's inside the booth waving and flailing like the booth is on fire and he's locked in!  Grow up, for God's sake!  All right, Tony in Vegas, you're on deck, hang tight, we'll be right back- and listen, Tony, come up with something today other than that recording of Howard Cosell, will you?   Work on it, man, you got about 2 minutes....

Billy took off his headset, "God, Stats, say a prayer for me, will ya? This is gonna be a long shift. Lead me in with some Stones, or U-2 or Kiss or something, will you, please, I'll beg... and while I'm on the subject, where in the hell did you get that CD of Lawrence Welk? You know, the men in the white coats are gonna come get you... get some help, buddy.  See that doctor, you'll feel better, I promise."

Precisely at that moment, Stats made a move that even Billy had never seen before. He grabbed a hand-mike, dropped his pants, pressed his bare ass (with mike hanging down) up against the window, and said, "Hey, Billy, remind you of anything you saw on your date last night?"

Billy dropped his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth, covering his eyes ... "Why me, Lord? I’ve tried to counsel the lad. Ten thousand comedians out of work and you’re trying to be funny!"  At this, Stats bowed deeply from the waist and gave Billy the count-down signal; 5... 4... 3...   Suddenly, the air was filled with the dulcit tones of The Irish Rovers singing Danny Boy.

BillyB:   "There you are, folks, for your dining and dancing pleasure...who is that, Stats? Oh, yea, the Irish Rovers. Folks, thank you for tuning in for an hour with the culturally challenged. Talk to me, Tony..."

Mortie:  “This isn’t Tony, ass-wipe... it’s Mortie, a name you’d do well to remember.”

BillyB:  “What happened to Tony, Stats?  Am I going to have to come in there and show you how to use that damn machine again? Well, be that as it may, go ahead, Mortie, I can’t wait for your thirty seconds of wisdom unlike anything the world has ever before witnessed.  You’re on the clock.”

Mortie:  "Should I say something like ‘Top of the morning’?"

Billy:   "Yea, I'm expecting Cardinal Cushing and the governing body of the Irish Republican Army to join us within this segment. Oh, wait... Stats has just informed me that they just cancelled, the rotten bastards... Mortie, think we should go ahead and talk, anyway?"

Mortie:  "Gee, Billy, I don't know... I think I've lost the will to live..."

Billy:  "Hey, my friend, I know just how you feel, but Stats just informed me that suicide is against my newly-found religious vocation, so I guess I'll just have to tough out what is hopefully the next 50 or 60 years, and try to make some sense of my life."

Mortie:  "Technically speaking, is being a DJ really considered being alive?"

Billy:   "Way to go, Mortie, you just managed to blow it. I was almost ready to admit that I could tolerate your call. I suppose that you're probably, oh, what, a doctor or lawyer?  A CEO or some other captain of industry, maybe?"

Mortie:  "Well, yea, sorta...."

Billy:  "Sorta?"

Mortie:  "Yea, I market a line of clothing...mostly footwear... I specialize in cement."

Billy: "Whoa...back up the truck, Buck... Billy does all the jokes around here! You got anything you want to talk about which is even marginally associated with the wide, wide, world of sports, or did you just call up to try to lead me around by the sack? Let me tell you, Mortie, you coming on the air and trying to act bad... you ain’t impressing me! If you think you're auditioning for StarSearch or American Idol or some damn thing, that ship done sailed!"           

Mortie:  “Oh, you’ll find out all you need to know about ships sailing... and soon, too. Enjoy the cigar I sent you, Billy.” 

Billy:  "Oh, was that you, Mortie?  Well, I think I’ll have to take back all that stuff I’ve been writing on the urinal wall at El Publico’s. Do me a favor, will you, Jag-off?  Call Hitler... I hear they’re still auditioning for vacancies in Der Fuhrer’s Fool’s Brigade!”

Billy threw the headphones off and eyes blazing, looked for his suddenly absent friend.  "Stats... you're getting slow on the dump-button again, what the hell’s going on, in there, did you fall asleep? Did Cassie send you to kill my career or what?"

Stats gazed out of the booth, his brown eyes fixed and staring, cigar smoke turning the air inside the booth an off-color gray. Billy opened the door to the glass enclosure. "Stats?"

Billy B's friend couldn't answer, as he'd suddenly assumed room temperature. His lifeless body slumped slightly, yet still upright as if held in place by invisible stays formed at his sides. The still-lit cigar rolled out of his fingers onto the desk, its pungent aroma contributing to the starkness of the scene. Billy B placed his fingertips on the young engineer’s carotid, hoping against hope to find a pulse. He did not.