Drama Is Her Middle Name by Wendy Williams Page A

and stab you in the front—if that’s
what he was going to do. Ritz always knew where she stood
with him, and he never lied to her.
    Their relationship didn’t progress beyond mutual admiration. Ritz had a rule about crossing lines with her bosses. Ruff
was from the rules-were-made-to-be-broken school. He would
break all of the rules for Ritz, but she would have to make the
first move—which she was not inclined to do. Until she did
come around, Ruff was relegated to chief cheerleader and
mentor and, of course, boss.
    It was one in the afternoon, an hour before Ritz’s debut in
her new slot. Ruff made sure she had everything she needed
and everything she wanted—including Chas. She had convinced Ruff that she needed a producer to take her to the top.
Chas didn’t have the typical radio experience, but Ruff hired
him anyway.
    â€œI trust you, Ritz,” he said. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m
bouncing both of your asses out of here! Don’t fuck this up.”
    She sat on the toilet of the handicapped stall in the station’s bathroom. She was nauseous and didn’t want anyone
to see her looking anything but confident. Her hands were
sweating and for perhaps the first time in her adult life Ritz
was scared.
    â€œWhat if?” was the question that kept swirling around her
head. “What if I
do
fuck this up?”
    She felt completely alone. Ritz didn’t have Tracee to lean
on. She wasn’t speaking to her Aunt Madalyn. She couldn’t
dare tell Ruff about her fears. She could talk to Chas, but he
would tell her what she already knew: “Girl, you better suck
this up. You only have one chance to make a good first impression, and this is your chance!”
    Ritz gluped down some Maalox that she had in her bag just
in case, splashed her face with cold water, reapplied her
makeup, and got ready for the debut of the
Ritz Harper Excursion: One Trip You Will Never Forget!
She and Chas came up
with that one in a brainstorming session over the weekend.
He coached her on how she would present her show with
drama and pomp. He even lined up some explosive guests for
her debut week. Everything was planned to the letter. But
there was still that little voice inside of Ritz, that little voice
of doubt.
    Ritz’s first hour on the air went smoothly. She started off
chatting with her new listeners and talking about how excited she was to be there with them. She invited them to call
in. Ritz loved talking to “her people,” as she referred to the
loyal listeners of her night crew. She was determined to create the same family-style environment in the afternoons, as
well.
    â€œYou’re on with Ritz, who’s this?”
    â€œBitch, who the fuck do you think you are!” It was Delilah
Summers. Ritz was thankful for the seven-second delay and
even more thankful for Aaron, the engineer who was a
holdover from Dr. Mark’s show. He was a pro and not only
quick on the bleep button, but also smart. He left in the FCCACCEPTABLE “bitch” and only bleeped out the “fuck,” so the audience could get the full dramatic effect.
    â€œDelilah?” Ritz said in the sweetest voice she could muster.
“Girl, long time no speak! How are you! What can I do for
you?”
    â€œOh, you’ve done enough, bitch!” Delilah’s speech was
slurring, and it was clear that she was under the influence of
alcohol. “I ought to come down to that station and fuck you
up. Better yet, I wouldn’t dirty my hands on your shanky ass!
Bitch!”
    It was quite a departure from the usually well-spoken perfect diction that defined Delilah Summers. She sounded like
the straight-up from Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, chick that she
really was. Like Tina Turner, Eartha Kitt, Maya Angelou, and
even Madonna, Delilah Summers had found a way to erase
all ethnicity from her vernacular and delivery. She was the