Hardsell

Chapter One

June 14, 1976 - Wichita, Kansas

Monday morning was only six and a half hours old when the alarm on my night stand went off like a klaxon. You’d think as many times as I’ve sent that son-of-a-bitch flying across the room like a ninety-five mile an hour fastball it would have given up the ghost by now, but apparently I own the only clock radio ever made in China that lasted longer than week.

With my baby blues still glued shut, I rolled over and searched for my smokes on the night stand using the Braille method; blindly slapping its top like a conga player with a bad sense of rhythm. While I didn’t find the cigarettes, I did succeed in whacking the ashtray, which promptly executed a half gainer and launched its entire contents onto my face, pillow, and mattress like a miniature Mount Vesuvius.

So now, I'm sitting bolt upright in bed, and that dysfunctional conga player inside me is doing an encore as I slap Marlboro butts and ashes out of my hair, eyes, and mouth while barking a blistering combination of expletives.

God-fucking-damn-it-cock-bite-mother-fucker-shit-bastard! You get the idea.

When the dust finally settled, I was sitting on the edge of the bed naked, covered with cigarette ashes, and dying for something to wash the taste from my mouth. Anything. That's when I saw the open can of Coke on the night stand. I'm thinking, Yeah, it’ll be piss-warm, and flat as a pancake, but at least it’s wet.

I raised the can to my lips, tipped it back, and took a big, long hit. That's when the first cigarette butt floated into my mouth. Instinctively I tried not to swallow it, but it had gone past the point of no return. As I began to experience the miracle of peristalsis, the gagging started.

Hand over my mouth and tears streaming down my face, I raced to the bathroom like OJ running for the Avis counter. I slammed up the seat, leaned my head down, and began driving the porcelain bus into the fast lane. A couple of power heaves later, I managed to secure from General Quarters and made a mental note as I stood up; I gotta start cleaning this fucking toilet at least once a year whether it needs it or not.

I showered, shaved, and plodded into the kitchen where I polished off a couple bowls of Frosted Mini something’s while perusing the morning paper. I was immediately struck by a half-page ad for KDUD Radio that was comprised of three, identical images, each in a different color, and all out of register by a sixteenth of an inch.

"What-the-hell-is-this? I say in disbelief. Is the Daily Tattler just a wee bit out of register or was this supposed to be a 3-D ad?" I say that in all sincerity because during the six years I’ve worked at KDUD I’ve learned anything's possible. I'm Mike Reed, Production Director. My co-workers refer to me affectionately as Mister Happy.

I put down the paper and turned on the 1933 Philco tombstone radio sitting on the counter. Bought it for a hundred bucks at an auction. It takes a few seconds for the tubes to warm up, and the speaker crackles a little, but the sound is still fabulous. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear episodes of The Whistler and The Shadow and Lum & Abner. After ol' Sparky gets his 110 volt fix, the kitchen is filled with Sam and Dave’s I’m a Soul Man. I sing along as I make myself a flopper.

For the ignoratii, a flopper is a nifty, little handful of breakfast I concocted one morning when I couldn't find any clean dishes in my kitchen. I fried an egg, schmeered it with mayo, stuffed it between a couple of buttered toaster-waffles, and then douched the whole thing with maple syrup. I honestly believe it could be the greatest fucking breakfast sandwich of all time. I call them floppers because that’s what they eventually do: they flop over in your hand because they get so soggy. If you ask me, they’re real guy-food. A little on the messy side — but hey, so is good sex and you never hear us bitch about that.

So there I am, holding my flopper in my hand, reading the copy in that abortion of a print ad in my ballsiest voice. Listen for the-phrase-that-pays, weekday mornings with Dick Webster on 1330 All Hit KDUD. You could win a thousand dollars cash! Yeah, right. And a pig might fly out of your ass, too. Our General Manager, Bob Berkowitz, might give you the time of day or give you a piece of his mind, but he’d let the tower fall over before he’d ever give cash to a listener.

I stuffed the last of my flopper into my mouth, and was headed to the sink for a quick hose down, when the phone rang. It was seven-ten AM. It’s never a good thing when the phone rings this early. It’s usually the copy writer or continuity director calling to let me know they’re ... "cough — sick today — cough, cough — and can't make it in today — cough. That’s radio speak for I’m blowin’ you off today. Deal with it."

I crossed my fingers and answered the phone in my perkiest voice. KDUD’s gonna make me rich!

"As if," replied the female voice on the other end. "Put down the hash pipe and listen to me." It was our copy writer, Judy D’Angelo. Thirty-something and delightfully Ruben-esque, I know when Judy dies she’s goin’ to heaven 'cause she’s already done her time in hell. She’s been spanking out spots at KDUD since before I came on board, and if anybody can write an ad that'll make a listener rush out in a buying frenzy it’s J.D. She gets it. She sees through all the Sales Department’s bullshit, politics, and excuses, and she really hates it when they waste her time with incomplete or illegible information, especially when they dump on her at the last minute. Judy’s mantra is, Why is there never enough time to do something right, but always enough time to do it over?

You might want to roll in a little early today, Mr. Happy, she said. We got a bit of a situation here.

Chapter Two

I walked out the door of my apartment building into an absolutely glorious Monday morning. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the air smelled so clean and fresh I don't think it had ever been breathed before. It would have been a very pleasant start to the week if it hadn’t been for Judy's call earlier. Why does it always seem like the shit hits my fan on Mondays? Don't get me wrong, I love Mondays. I thank God for Mondays. Without 'em I'd just keep throwing back dry Southern Comfort Manhattans all weekend, and partying until I coded. To me, Mondays are God’s way of saying, Thank you for flying Southern Comfort Airlines. The local time is later than you think. Please remain seated until the world comes to a complete stop.

My apartment complex sits on the southern end of Riverside Park near the Arkansas River and gives its residents an outstanding view of downtown Wichita. Well, some of them get an outstanding view. For those of us burrowing in garden level apartments, the panorama is something less than breath-taking. In fact, when you look out my apartment window, all you see is the front end of my neighbor’s ’74 Chevy Malibu Classic. However, there is one small benefit to this dog’s-eye perspective on the world: it’s an excellent vantage point for leg men like myself. I’m proud to say I can identify every woman in my building solely by seeing her from the waist down.

I climbed into the Reed-mobile, and ten minutes later was in the station parking lot. KDUD’s studios are located downtown in a block of nineteenth-century buildings that were redeveloped by one of the city’s more successful lawyers and his wife.

On the first floor is a huge, glassed-in rotunda that houses control rooms for KDUD AM, FM, and the newsroom that's shared by both stations. The studios are enclosed by big, glass windows that allow people on the air to have eye contact with each other. It's a little like working in a fish bowl. In one corner of the rotunda is a wrought iron, spiral staircase leading up to the administrative, sales, programming, traffic, and accounting offices on the second floor. The production room is up there, too. In the opposite corner of the rotunda is a door leading to a foyer just inside the side street entrance. There’s also a grand staircase that runs up to the second floor, and then on to the vacant third floor that we use for storage and smoking the occasional joint.

As I walked into the rotunda I saw our News Director, Dave Simmons, on the air. He motioned me inside.

"It’s expected the ordinance will pass at the next city commission meeting, and will be on the ballot in the spring primary. Traffic with George Summers and your five-day forecast right after this."

He flipped off the mic, slipped off his cans, and gave me a shit-eating grin. "Soooo ... it appears our sales honcho is having a bit of a bad day, eh?"

Really?

"Yeah. From what I hear, the bus for wacky-town is about to pull out and Earl’s got a one way ticket. He flipped the mic back on.

"KDUD news-time eight oh five … Now here’s traffic and weather with George Summers, a service of Buckman Savings and Loan."

Yeah, it’s been a real shit-storm upstairs for the last hour, he said. People yelling, running around, pounding on doors. Sure like to know what the hell’s goin' on.

I shouldered the newsroom door open. I’ll let you know.

When I get upstairs, I see a knot of employees at the far end of the hallway milling around the sales manager's door. The closer I get, the louder they get. I walked up behind Judy D’Angelo and gave her a nudge.

"Is that Earl yelling in there?"

She nodded. Um-hmm.

Jesus, you weren’t kidding about a situation.

Earl Buttkiss is KDUD’s Sales Manager. Between you and me, he’s lasted a lot longer than I thought he would. I figured six months — a year tops — and he’d be toast. One more pinstriped carcass washed up on the beach of broadcasting. You get so you can spot ‘em after a while. They’re usually geeky little suckers with a disgustingly positive attitude about everything. People like Earl Buttkiss never have problems; they have opportunities. Makes me sick. They join every freakin’ club, association, or fraternal group they can find because, "Hey! You never know. Might mean a sale sometime!" Yeah. And a pig might fly out of your ass, too.

Earl was one of these gung-ho suits that GM's turn loose on a sales department just to build a fire under them. Doesn’t matter if they don’t need a fire built under them, they do it anyway because they know that selling is a numbers game: the more you motivate salespeople, the more calls they’ll make; the more calls they make, the more pitches they make; and the more often they pitch, the more often they close.

The sound of heavy boots clomping down the hallway drew my attention to a pair of ax-wielding fire fighters heading in our direction. They wore full gear and didn't look particularly happy about being here. The gaggle of employees in front of Earl’s door stepped back like somebody had farted.

Okay, people, everybody move back, said the larger of the two. He reminded me of Pancho Villa. He had this bushy, black, walrus of a mustache, two big coils of rope crisscrossing his chest, and wore a wide-brimmed firefighter’s helmet. All he was missing was a pair of pistolas.

After a nod from Pancho Villa, fire fighter number two steps up to the door and bangs on it with his axe. "Hey! You in there! he shouted. If you don’t unlock this door and come out here we’re comin' in after you!"

Silence.

I ain’t kiddin', pal.

More silence.

Pancho Villa exhaled heavily and shot his compadre a tired look. That's enough, Buck. It’s show time. He traced an imaginary X on the door with his finger and stepped back.

Buck spat into his palms, wrapped his mitts around the axe handle, and with a swing that would have impressed Joe DiMaggio, vaporized the oak door in one, thunderous crash, jam and all.

The wood splinters and sheetrock