toward the studio. Although we were both late, neither of us seemed to be in a hurry.
“So, Terri, would it be okay if I called you sometime? Maybe we could do lunch?”
She paused, then reached inside her purse. I was hoping she was looking for something to write her number on.
“Here, take this.” She handed me a card. It read THE GENESIS FOUNDATION .
“What is this?”
“It’s the number of my foundation. I run a shelter for battered women.”
“And?”
“I would appreciate it if you would mention it every now and then during your show. We need all the donations we can get.”
“So, what about your personal number?”
“Mr. Payne, I don’t
do
celebrities. That includes ball players, entertainers, producers, and especially radio personalities.”
“And why is that?”
“Because women throw coochie at them like Frisbees! And like most dogs, they try to catch all of it.” She pretended like she was snatching objects out of the air. “Have a nice day, Mr. Payne.” Then she walked away.
“There are exceptions to every rule, you know,” I yelled at her.
I was disappointed by not getting her number, but I could understand her point. Dating a man in the entertainment industry could be rough on a woman. To this day, I don’t know how Carmen put up with it for as long as she did. When we met I was eighteen years old and working as an intern. Every week I had VIP passes to night clubs, concerts, and sporting events. The women were always eager to get to know me. Sometimes they wanted free tickets or to be introduced to the jocks. But many of them just wanted to have sex so they could brag to their friends that they screwed someone who worked at a radio station. We use to call them “radio ’hos.”
After I picked my ego up from the floor, I walked down to the studio and pressed the button for the receptionist. Terri must have had some kind of access code, because she entered without any delay.
“WBMX, may I help you?” a soft professional voice inquired.
“Yes, this is Julian Payne. I’m here to see Mr. Harris.”
She buzzed the door and I walked in. Right away I was impressed. The foyer was brightly lit with metal-framed posters of the radio jocks hanging on the walls. My picture was the last one on the end. I could smell the newness of the highly buffed hardwood floors and the freshly painted ceilings and walls. Even the receptionist fit in perfectly. She was a young black woman with a bright smile. She wore a peach blouse that accentuated her caramel complexion. She wore locks and had a wrap on her head that reminded me of Erykah Badu’s.
“This is a long way from WTLK,” I said, loud enough for her to hear.
“We’re glad to have you aboard, Mr. Payne.” She extended her hand. “I’m Janet Jackson.”
“Yeah, and I’m Tito,” I laughed.
“I’m serious, my name is Janet Jackson. You wanna see my driver’s license?”
“No, I’ll take your word for it,” I told her. “Look, Janet, would you happen to know the woman who just came in?”
“You mean Dr. Ross. Yeah, I know her. She’s been working here at the station for about two years.”
“Is she single?”
“Mr. Payne, let me save you some time and energy. You
do not
want to mess around with that sistah!”
“Why, is she married?”
“No.”
“Is she involved?”
“No.”
“Is she a lesbian?”
“No!”
“Is she a man? ’Cause if she is, that’s the best damn operation I’ve ever seen!”
“No, she’s not a man,” Janet laughed. “You are so stupid.”
“Then what’s the deal? I’d like to get to know her. She’s beautiful! And she has a quality that most women lack nowadays.”
“And what’s that?”
“Class!”
“Well,
Mr.
Payne, I’ll tell you another quality she has that most women lack nowadays and that’s
high
self-esteem and
low
tolerance for game playing.”
“What is it with you Texas women? You presume that every man is either a playa or a dog?”
“Because nine
“So, Terri, would it be okay if I called you sometime? Maybe we could do lunch?”
She paused, then reached inside her purse. I was hoping she was looking for something to write her number on.
“Here, take this.” She handed me a card. It read THE GENESIS FOUNDATION .
“What is this?”
“It’s the number of my foundation. I run a shelter for battered women.”
“And?”
“I would appreciate it if you would mention it every now and then during your show. We need all the donations we can get.”
“So, what about your personal number?”
“Mr. Payne, I don’t
do
celebrities. That includes ball players, entertainers, producers, and especially radio personalities.”
“And why is that?”
“Because women throw coochie at them like Frisbees! And like most dogs, they try to catch all of it.” She pretended like she was snatching objects out of the air. “Have a nice day, Mr. Payne.” Then she walked away.
“There are exceptions to every rule, you know,” I yelled at her.
I was disappointed by not getting her number, but I could understand her point. Dating a man in the entertainment industry could be rough on a woman. To this day, I don’t know how Carmen put up with it for as long as she did. When we met I was eighteen years old and working as an intern. Every week I had VIP passes to night clubs, concerts, and sporting events. The women were always eager to get to know me. Sometimes they wanted free tickets or to be introduced to the jocks. But many of them just wanted to have sex so they could brag to their friends that they screwed someone who worked at a radio station. We use to call them “radio ’hos.”
After I picked my ego up from the floor, I walked down to the studio and pressed the button for the receptionist. Terri must have had some kind of access code, because she entered without any delay.
“WBMX, may I help you?” a soft professional voice inquired.
“Yes, this is Julian Payne. I’m here to see Mr. Harris.”
She buzzed the door and I walked in. Right away I was impressed. The foyer was brightly lit with metal-framed posters of the radio jocks hanging on the walls. My picture was the last one on the end. I could smell the newness of the highly buffed hardwood floors and the freshly painted ceilings and walls. Even the receptionist fit in perfectly. She was a young black woman with a bright smile. She wore a peach blouse that accentuated her caramel complexion. She wore locks and had a wrap on her head that reminded me of Erykah Badu’s.
“This is a long way from WTLK,” I said, loud enough for her to hear.
“We’re glad to have you aboard, Mr. Payne.” She extended her hand. “I’m Janet Jackson.”
“Yeah, and I’m Tito,” I laughed.
“I’m serious, my name is Janet Jackson. You wanna see my driver’s license?”
“No, I’ll take your word for it,” I told her. “Look, Janet, would you happen to know the woman who just came in?”
“You mean Dr. Ross. Yeah, I know her. She’s been working here at the station for about two years.”
“Is she single?”
“Mr. Payne, let me save you some time and energy. You
do not
want to mess around with that sistah!”
“Why, is she married?”
“No.”
“Is she involved?”
“No.”
“Is she a lesbian?”
“No!”
“Is she a man? ’Cause if she is, that’s the best damn operation I’ve ever seen!”
“No, she’s not a man,” Janet laughed. “You are so stupid.”
“Then what’s the deal? I’d like to get to know her. She’s beautiful! And she has a quality that most women lack nowadays.”
“And what’s that?”
“Class!”
“Well,
Mr.
Payne, I’ll tell you another quality she has that most women lack nowadays and that’s
high
self-esteem and
low
tolerance for game playing.”
“What is it with you Texas women? You presume that every man is either a playa or a dog?”
“Because nine
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