I inhale deeply, reach for my cool-guy-in-charge voice and flip on my mike. “And we’re back,” I say. “You’re listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ Our topic tonight is fathers. Over two thousand years ago, the Roman poet Horace said, ‘Rarely are sons similar to their fathers. Most are worse. A few are better.’ Something to ponder. Our lines are open. Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email us at charlied@nationtv.com.
“Our first caller is Evan. So, Evan, what’s on your dad’s wish list this Father’s Day weekend?”
Evan Burgh’s voice is high, pompous and tight with anger.
“Read the papers, Charlie D,” he says. “My father is purchasing his own gift. This Sunday, he’s marrying Misty de Vol. Ms. de Vol calls herself a model, but for the past three years she’s worked for the Five Star Escort Service. She’s a hooker.”
“A gift that keeps on giving,” I say.
“A gift that keeps on taking.” Evan’s voice is acid. “And he’s marrying her on Father’s Day-one more way to stick the knife into me.” Somewhere out in radio-land, loser1121 is testing the blade of a real knife and making plans to use it. Generally, I give callers some time to settle in, but Evan is a maggot, and I’ve already had enough.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “Evan, why did you call in tonight?”
There is a crispness to Evan’s pronunciation, as if he is showing the rest of us how to speak the language.
“Because I want the world to know my father is an ass,” he says. “He’s eighty-three years old. What in the name of God is he going to do with a twenty-five-year-old sex worker?”
“Come on, Evan,” I say. “Somewhere along the line, Dad must have talked to you about what consenting adults do behind closed doors.”
Evan’s snicker is ugly.
“Thanks to the media, I know only too well what my father and Ms. de Vol do behind closed doors. The tabloids have been graphic in describing the smorgasbord of sexual delights Ms. de Vol offers her customers.”
“And you think your father is marrying Ms. de Vol simply to gratify himself.”
“I don’t give a damn why he’s marrying her. I’m just curious about the mental capability of a man who signs a prenuptial agreement with a whore, guaranteeing her ten million dollars for every year of their marriage. Until she met my father, Ms. de Vol’s rate was eight hundred dollars an hour with a two-hour minimum. From eight hundred an hour to ten million a year. That’s quite a pay hike for a prostitute.”
“Your father is a billionaire,” I say. “It’ll take the newlyweds years to run through all that money.”
“You’re missing the point,” Evan says. His voice is icy with contempt.
I grit my teeth.
“Maybe I am missing the point,” I say. “Why don’t you help me out, Evan? When I listen to you, what I hear is a preening turd with millions of dollars, and more on the way when Daddy dies, complaining because his father has found some pleasure in life. If there’s more, tell me. If there’s not, take Dad out for a beer, air your differences privately and let me get on with what you’re paying me to do-help people with real problems get through the night.”
“You work for me, Charlie. You do what I tell you to do.” He spits out the words.
I slam my fist into my palm but remain silent. Nova’s back is rigid with tension. Since Evan came on the line, she’s been watching me, waiting for a signal. Now I give it. I draw my finger across my throat in the slashing sign that indicates it’s time to cut off the caller.
“Fire me,” I say. “And Evan, if you call in again, you’re going to have to go to the end of the line and wait your turn. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ has a policy of zero tolerance for bullies.”
“You’ll regret this,” he says.
“There’s a lot I regret,” I say, “but telling you to take a hike will never be in my top ten. Now here’s a tune for you, Evan-the Beach Boys with ‘I’m Bugged At My Ol’ Man.’”
As the Beach Boys sing about a boy who comes home a little late and is confronted by a dad who grounds him, sells his surfboard, cuts off his hair while he’s sleeping, pulls his phone out of the wall and rips up his clothes, I find myself hoping that Evan is still listening. Henry Burgh may be marrying a hooker, but at least he didn’t sell his son’s surfboard.
CHAPTER FIVE
When I see the name of the next caller, I want to give Fate a standing ovation. Britney is a regular. She’s that rarest of adolescents: a teenager whose life is uncomplicated. Brit sent me her school picture, and she’s a beauty. She’s also smarter than she lets on. And-the cherry on the cheesecake-she’s surrounded by people who love her. She calls in to “The World According to Charlie D” because she likes to hear her voice on the radio. We take her calls because her understanding of others is surprisingly solid.
“Hey, wild child,” I say. “What’s on your mind tonight?”
Britney’s laugh is a waterfall. “Oh, Charlie, I love it when you call me ‘wild child’-as if I ever did anything really wild or even semi-wild. Anyway, I know you’re mad at Evan. He’s your boss-right? All that stuff about firing you? It’s not going to happen. Evan’s just upset, and I know why. Nobody likes to think about their parents actually doing it. It’s just too gross.”
I gaze down at the newspaper photo of the political Rising Star and his tightly wound wife. Hard to imagine those two doin’ the crazy. Just as well, because their kids already look as if they’re ready to spontaneously combust.
Britney is rattling away.
“It must be supergross for Evan because his dad is, like, eighty-three. But all the same, if his dad has found a girl who’s willing to…you know…do it with him, I think it’s great.”
I relax.
“Ah, Brit, you’re such a romantic.”
Her voice grows serious.
“I may be a romantic, but I’m not stupid. I know what an escort is. But if the old gentleman wants to pay a lady to make him happy, why not? It’s always like that with girls and guys. It’s up to the girl to decide. If a guy takes me to like a really stellar classic concert- like, say, Rihanna-he’s going to expect something. It’s up to me to decide whether he gets it. Guys know this and girls know it. What’s the difference? Coming across for Rihanna-which I absolutely would not do, incidentally-or coming across for ten million dollars a year…which is really a lot…” For a moment, the possibilities of a check with all those zeroes mesmerizes Brit. Her voice trails off.
I bring her back to earth.
“So you’re cool with Evan’s father marrying Misty.”
“Absolutely. My grandma always says, ‘There are no pockets in a shroud,’ and she’s right.” Britney’s voice grows solemn. “I would just like to say that I wish Henry and Misty every happiness.”
“You’re a good person, Britney,” I say, and I mean it.
Time to move back into Charlie-D mode.