The Jack Devereaux Show
Synopsis
Top rated radio talk-show host Jack Devereaux is cracking under the strain. His life is a series what he calls God-tricks, synchronistic events that begin to unravel by way of cassette recordings for his psychoanalyst. The tapes reflect on the events that led to him being taken off the air.
Fate or God-tricks dictate a lifelong path for Jack from the day he was born, the day his father was shot dead in a robbery. His mother struggles to put him through college but he drops out in favour of a career in radio. It was another of those God-tricks that put Jack behind the microphone and catapults him from the mid-west to New York. As the story unfolds, it becomes apparent that the life of a top rated radio man is even more outrageous than the shock-jock format of his show. There is everything from the esoteric to the downright raunchy, murder and money laundering in the life and programme of Jack Devereaux.
CHAPTER 1
"Hi, my name's Jack Devereaux, welcome to the show." Sorry, force of habit - put a microphone in front of me - it just comes naturally. There's one difference this time, I don't have an audience, unless you count Bernstein's secretary. Adeline, dear, sweet, frumpy Adeline, she has the unfortunate task of listening to my ramblings then committing them to paper. Michael J. Bernstein, my psychoanalyst, has been given three months to straighten me out or my career is dead. Everyone said I was cracking up, I didn't think so. I felt perfectly normal, just under a lot of pressure that's all. Doctor Bernstein said I should write everything down, the way it happened. I hate writing; it's such a drag, that's why I'm dictating. Dear sweet Adeline is gonna hear about things she never knew existed - get her rocks off on some really juicy stuff. I know her type very well, she's my typical late night listener; single, mid-forties, stays up late reading romantic novels believing she could write better. Listen-up Adeline, I'm gonna give you the material; you've just got to sort out the plot.
I'm sequestered in this hotel on 51st overlooking the 17th precinct. Those damn sirens keep me awake all night. Bernstein says I'll get used to them and won't even hear them after a few nights. Well Doc. I still hear them. I've had the TV taken out, I’ve quit reading newspapers and man do I feel isolated - cut off and alone.
No one knows I'm here - except Bernstein - so I don't get phone calls. Talk about intensive therapy, I've been seeing him twice a day since Monday. It's now Friday and my first appointment is at eight this morning - three hours away. Guess I'll just keep on counting the Yellow Cabs. There are seventeen thousand of those suckers cruising the streets of this city. No I didn't believe it either, that's why I'm counting. I worked out this equation based on the total mileage of paved roads in Manhattan and the percentage of cabs that pass any - oh forget it. See? That's one of my problems, thoughts and images flashing by, everything's scattered. It never used to be this way. I was so focused, on top of everything then I get this obsessional thing - totally irrational. I hear voices inside my head saying 'Go-for-it Jack. Don't back off man.' Right now, I can hear Frank Sinatra, 'You're A number one, top of the heap.' Not anymore - I was though, and it was great. What a trip, a little old country boy like me - king of the late night chat shows. New York does that, shoots you to the top in seconds like those high speed elevators in the Empire State building. The trip down is a hell of a lot faster when someone opens the window and gives you a push. Believe me, I was pushed. My problem is; no one saw it happen. Sure I'm obsessed; I'm obsessed with clearing up this whole mess - finding out who gave me the shove.
So far I haven't recorded a thing for Bernstein. I've got to give him something this morning or he’ll think I’m not cooperating. It's ironic, Jack Devereaux, the best paid voice in town, paying a hundred bucks an hour to have someone listen to me talk.
OK Doc., here we go - tape one, side one. 5:30 am Friday morning. Yup, another sleepless night. It's not just the sirens; it's my mind - scrambled, like you've just turned on the TV and get all 57 channels at the same time. Hey! That gives me an idea. I'll design a machine where you attach a couple of electrodes to your head and play your thoughts back through a monitor. That way you could fine tune the set to show the image you want, and then record it on a VCR. You could even tape your dreams - I know how you guys love to analyse dreams. Just imagine your patients handing over a video of last nights dreams, wouldn't that be wild? It's not that crazy doc. Bet you didn't know I majored in electronics did you?
OK, let’s get serious here. I'm looking back at my forty years on this planet, thinking - if there really is a God, then he's got a wicked sense of humour. It would always happen when I was feeling really great, you know, on top of the world. That's when I'd get a 'gotcha' from God. God-tricks, that's what I call them. He had this little game-plan all worked out for me. Kick-off was when I was born, 3.30 pm, February 15th, 1955. The pre-game show was a blast - my father was shot dead just as I was about to make my debut. Deprivation is my middle name.
My Dad, Jack Devereaux senior, owned a small appliance store in Toledo, Ohio. Business was quiet; he hadn't seen a customer since lunch time. He gets a call from his next door neighbour to say Mom had been rushed to hospital; I was arriving earlier than expected. You know, I often wonder what must have been going through the old man’s mind at that time. He must have been worried about Mom. Maybe he was real excited about the birth of their first baby. I know he was trying to find someone to look after the store so he could go to the hospital. When you're running a one man operation, you're scared to leave in case you miss that big sale. I reckon he decided that Mom was more important than business because when they found him behind the counter, he was wearing his coat, scarf and ear muffs. A grocery clerk from next door heard screaming tyres and went to investigate. He found my dad with a large monkey wrench still clenched in his hand. A single gunshot had blown half his head away. They kept the news from Mom till after I was born and she'd rested up. They said she took it remarkably well.
They never did find the killer. The police assumed the motive was robbery though nothing was taken. I found out about it when I was eight years old. I came across some old press clippings from the Toledo Blade. Jesus, how I wish I hadn't made Mom give me all the details - kids can be so innocently cruel. Doc’ I really love my father, weird isn't it? I never knew him but I loved him.
Shit! ..... I've just turned the machine off. Can't let Adeline hear me sobbing. Why do I weep for a father who died before I was born?
"Good morning Mr. Devereaux. Doctor Bernstein just called, traffic is real bad, and he’s running a little late. Can I fix you some coffee while you wait?" Just my luck, a shrink who lives forty miles out of town and commutes by car every day. What kind of life is that?
"No thanks, I've had too much already. Look I've brought my first cassette, perhaps you could start typing it up before the doctor gets here?" It will be a damn sight more interesting than reading your stupid horoscope. Jesus, can't secretaries think for themselves? "Did he say how late he'd be?"
"He should be here any minute now; he was in line at the car park when he phoned." I sat down with a copy of Psychology Today and got as far as the index.
"Jack, so sorry I'm late. Come on through. I'll just grab some coffee to wash down this doughnut and we can start right away."
"Christ Bernstein, it's no wonder you're fat. Why is it, every shrink in New York is small fat and Jewish?"
"Does that give you a problem Jack?"
"Now don't go reading anything into that Bernstein. It was just an observation - a typical talk-show-host remark."
"Traffic was lousy and apart from that, I had a late start. Bernice has the flu'. I was making her comfortable before leaving. Such a pity, we were going to the theatre this evening. Say, why don't you come with me instead? There's a brilliant group at Carnegie, Irish musicians. They play this new age stuff, harps and all that. It would be good to get you out of that hotel for the night - how about it Jack? The music would be very relaxing - in fact, I'd like you to listen to some of their tapes - very therapeutic."
"Not my taste, give me a good rock band any day."
"Your mind is kinda stuck in that sixties groove isn't it Jack? Perhaps that should be your project when you go back to the hotel. Start the tape recorder and re-live those first days in radio. You did say it was one of your God-tricks that got you started. Who knows? You might even discover that the person you say is trying to destroy you, is from that period."
Tape 2, Side 1. When I think about it now, getting started on radio probably was the next big God-trick in my life. I'd been in college about a year, Mom had placed the proceeds from the sale of Devereaux Electrics into a savings account for my education. I know life hadn't been easy for her after dad died and she really needed that money. We went without a lot of stuff as I grew up. I resented that at the time, but not now. Electronics must have been in my genes; I managed to fix our toaster when I was only nine. Didn't ever doubt what I was gonna do when I got out of school, I wanted to design and build better appliances. Market them myself when I re-opened Devereaux Electrics.
College life was OK, but my meagre allowance didn't buy the kind of lifestyle peer pressure demanded. Not owning a car meant that social life was restricted to the amenities on campus - not very inspiring. Most of the guys in college either waited tables or stacked supermarket shelves to make extra bucks. I pumped gas at the Sohio station down the road from campus - I hated it. I was always scanning the classifieds, looking for something better. I saw that one of the local radio stations were advertising for an engineer, just a weekend shift. I had all the qualifications and the pay was better. I loved the job, it only required about ten minutes work each hour, logging transmitter readings and generally keeping an eye on the equipment. The rest of my time was spent at the reception desk where I could spread out my text books and use the receptionist's word processor to type up my notes.
The transition from engineering to broadcasting happened one Saturday morning. Pete Edwards was due on air at ten, but he'd telephoned to say he was a little `hung-over' and would be around fifteen minutes late getting to the station. Dave Kowalski, the early morning man was going nuts - he was due to open a new store at the shopping mall at 10:30. No way was he going to miss this gig. The fee for showing up was the same as a week’s pay at the station. He pleaded with me to cover for him; all I had to do was roll a couple of records after the news. That would give Pete enough time to take over. No one would've known the difference. He even offered me a case of beer. Dave made it sound easy enough and I wouldn't need to talk on air. I line up a few tracks and sit down at the studio console. The Eagles were just checking out from the Hotel California as I glanced at the clock - 10:15 and still no sign of Pete. I'd already played four tracks back to back, that was too many, the station never segued more than two. The old man was bound to be listening. A panic attack was imminent - I called Pete. His wife told me he'd left thirty minutes ago - plenty of time to get to the station. Now I was really panicking - come to think of it, this was the first time I ever had that now all-too-common feeling - impending doom - the whole world closing in on me. I can remember laughing to myself when I picked up the programme log. My hands were sweating so much I smudged the print. The log showed that a commercial break was overdue, it included reading a live advert'. That copy is printed on my mind, forever, I'll never forget it.
"Its 10:20 and you're listening to the solid gold show sponsored by Shalamars Sandwich Bars. With four convenient locations in town, Shalamars can serve you with over fifty varieties of delicious sandwich fillings. So before you set off for the big ball game this afternoon, stop by Shalamars and stock up on their super subs and sandwiches. Now more Solid Gold from Shalamars."
Now for a guy who'd never uttered a word on air before, I thought it sounded pretty good and no goof-ups. Maybe that's because I found it easy to impersonate the stereotyped happy-smiley DJ voice. I suppose knowing no one could see me or would recognise my voice; made it easier. It was very out of character for someone who was basically shy - almost introvert. I was the sort of guy who sat in corners at parties and talked about the latest computer technology. I didn't get many dates. Then there was Judy Dreyer, captain of the varsity basket ball team - wow what a body. I used to fantasise about her all the time. She never knew how much she helped me that first day. I was thinking about Judy as 'Venus in Blue Jeans' was fading and can remember thinking how great it would be if she were listening. I tried imagining the microphone to be Judy, I snuggled up to it and smiled;
"That was Bobby Vinton on 99 FM. Hey ya' wanna know something? You're the best thing that ever happened to me - Gladys Knight - sing your song baby." It felt comfortable and I used the same technique with the next song. I began to picture Judy curled up in bed listening to me, and my voice oozing out of the radio tracing lines all over her body - really turning her on. She'd be most impressed with my new-found fame. I even thought I should call her after the show; ask for a date, how could she refuse?
Saturday Solid Gold was one of the stations most popular features and it was the kind of music I enjoyed even though a lot of the songs were hits before I was born. Pete always made the show sound exciting with his stupid gags and sound effects - the kids loved it. There was no way I could do the show like Pete; I'd screw up for sure, so I played it straight. Everything was going smoothly till about 10:30, the studio hot-line flashed. I panic again, it had to be the boss.
"Police department here, I hate to tell you this but we've just thrown one of your guys in the slammer." I knew it had to be Pete. The cop confirmed it.
"He ran a red light downtown doing about sixty, got hit broadside by a dump truck, the car's a write-off but Pete's OK. One of our traffic cops was there when it happened - and wait till you hear this, Pete asked for a ride to the radio station because he was running late for his show! The jerk should've kept his mouth shut, his breath reeked! We had to pull him in."
Stunned, I put the phone down and stared blankly at the control desk not knowing what to do next. To my left was the cart rack: six machines for playing the music, commercials and jingles. On my right were the turntables, we still used them occasionally; most of the music was on cartridge though. In the mid-seventies, we didn't have CD's. In front of me was the desk itself with six sets of faders - above them three little VU meters which showed the station’s output. I was staring at those little dials thinking something was wrong - it sure was. The needles were laying flat to the left. No output. Dead air! The last record had finished and I had nothing cued up to play. I punched up Pete's personal jingle and a station I.D. That gave me about twelve seconds to slot another cart in the machine. It didn't matter what song - anything but dead air. My hands were trembling as I slotted the cart into the machine. The gap was minimal but it seemed like hours before Harvey and the Moonglows were `doo-wopping' all over the studio. Man, my guts were `doo-wopping' all over the chair. I knew I couldn't go on. I had to find someone to do the show - Jeff McCauly, the programme director. As I reached for the phone, the hot-line flashed again: it was the call I'd been dreading;
"This is Dean Stillman, who the hell are you and just what IS going on there?"
"Sir, I'm Jack Devereaux, the weekend engineer. Pete's had an accident, I'm sorry if that's a problem, but you see I've never done a ...."
"Son, you've got a show to do." Interrupted Stillman : "Alexa Shalamar is a personal friend of mine as well as being one of our best clients. We can't let her down." I tried to explain that I wasn't a DJ - Stillman wasn't listening; "Cut the crap kid, just play the music - and don't forget to plug Shalamars." The phone went dead, I took a deep breath and hit the mic' key; and, oh boy, you can't imagine how bad I sounded.
"And now I'd like to play the Bee Gees - Jive Talking." I fired up the cart and turned off the mic'. What a nerd; weak, wimpish. Then I thought, "oh my God, what if Judy really is listening?" I began to imagine her again, sitting there in front of me, urging me on. It helped. When I introduced the next track, I was damn near kissing the microphone.
"Here's a guy with a great voice - Dr. Hook, When You're In Love With A Beautiful Woman," I paused, "it's hard." Turning off the mic' I thought, yeah, and it's getting harder every second. Judy Dreyer, if only you knew what you are missing.
I was surprised at how calm I now felt. In reality I should have been a nervous wreck. Some of the jocks used to say that driving the desk for a radio station, especially when you were the only one in the building; you got this tremendous feeling of responsibility. It made you feel important, you were providing an essential service to the community as well as being an entertainer. I was beginning to pick up on that feeling, but I also realised that the audience was very fickle. If there was dead air for more than five seconds you lost the listener, and if it happened once too often - you lost your job.
I was back in control again, the music flowed and I was really getting into the whole thing. There was this answer phone machine beside me, it had been busy all morning with listeners calling in their favourite tracks. I'd turned off the monitor so I could concentrate but now thought I should listen to the calls:
"Hi, whoever you are, I like your voice. Would you play Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and say it's just for me - Marnie."
"Hello, my name is Sandy. Would you play the Beatles - All You Need is Love?"
"Hey man, what had happened to Pete? Can you pick up the phone and talk? Well OK, just play Riders on the Storm. Say it's for all the guys down at Casey's car wash."
There was no let-up in the call rate. It was going better than I expected. Most of the callers wanted to know what happened to Pete so I offered his apologies;
"Pete Edwards can't be with us today, he was involved in a traffic accident on the way to the station. I'm happy to report that he's OK and will be back on the show next week." I figured that by telling them about the accident, I might gain a little sympathy; instead of the onslaught I expected from Pete's fans. They didn't seem to care, the calls were positive and the requests kept coming. There was no problem finding the records, there were 1500 carts in the rack behind me. They were stacked according to the year, colour coded and sorted by artist. I could be playing the song within seconds of hearing the request. Pete Edwards tended to ignore the phones and play what he wanted. He'd just say they were requests - believing the listeners wouldn't know the difference. I thought it would add something if I personalised the show by mentioning the names of callers;
"Hi Sandy, here's the song you wanted, - All You Need is Love, the Beatles. Hey that's one of my favourite bands too. Sandy, you've got good taste." The phone was ringing off the wall;
"I wanna hear the Doobie Brothers. Sorry to hear about Pete. Say man, what's your name? I like your voice, it's real sexy. How long have you been on this station?"
"Are you British, you sound like a limey, where are you from?" That call sparked some happy memories for me. A lot of people think I'm from England. I suppose my Mom's cultured accent rubbed off on me. She was born and raised in Hampstead, London. She met my dad at the end of the war. They corresponded for years then he proposed and they got married in Toledo. Well back to the show.
The calls were a real ego boost, my confidence building with every one. Next thing, as I played the Monster Mash, I slipped into my Boris Karloff impression. The guys in college thought I did a great Boris voice. The listeners couldn't tell if it was me or Bobby Pickett doing the number. I started getting real zany, then just before the 11 o'clock news, the hot-line flashed again.
"This is Dean Stillman. Cut the comedy kid. You ain't no boss jock and there's no room on my radio station for that kinda show." My euphoria was zapped instantly, what a bummer. I played the last hour pretty straight, hardly talking at all. I handed over to the news room at noon for their coverage of the big game. If you think about it Doc., that should have been the end of my radio career.
Later, after lunch, I was expecting the chief engineer to walk in and take over - it was that cloud of impending doom again. I couldn't even concentrate on my text books. There I was, sitting with my feet up on the reception desk, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, this guy looking like a Texas oil baron, storms in. I fall off the chair in shock.
"Stillman's the name and who might you be, son?" There was this Dolly Parton look-alike hanging on his arm and when I introduce myself, she rushes over, hand extended;
"Young man, it sure is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Alexa Shalamar and you've created quite a stir in our little old community today. The kids in the sandwich ...." Stillman pulled her away, shook my hand then told me to be at his office at ten on Monday. Now here's the twist to the story Doc.. Poor old Pete got 30 days, and I was asked to do the Solid Gold Show every Saturday. My immediate reaction was to say no, but Stillman said Alexa would increase her sponsorship if I did the show. Ego's a strange thing isn't it Doc? Not only did I say yes but I made it conditional - I had to have complete freedom to do the show my way - he agreed! See what I mean about God-tricks now Doc?
That's enough for now. It'll take that dumb secretary all weekend to type up those notes. Man, I really need a drink. I've been off it all week, haven't really missed it - no problem. I reckon I deserve one now. I wonder if I should tell Bernstein about it. No need, I can figure this one out myself. I'm justifying my needs 'cos I'm doing what the doctor ordered. I'm gonna reward myself for being a brave-little-man, just like Mom used to when I grazed my knee. "Here's a candy bar for going to the store - who's a good boy then?" Aw Mom, I'm not blaming you, I'm just weak.
Well I found all kinds of other good reasons to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels, hop in a cab and spend the afternoon in Central Park. Strawberry Fields forever. I just sit on this rock, communing with Lennon. Don't get me wrong, I don't talk to spirits or anything like that. I really identify with his music that's all. When I go there, I'm at peace with the world and all I hear is that song - Strawberry Fields forever. Did you ever notice that last line, as the song is fading? "I buried Paul." What did Lennon mean by that? I've got my own ideas and if you'd been through what I've been through, you'd understand. Three hours pass so quickly, so does the bourbon. I'm very careful, no one sees me drink it. I get up to leave and can't believe I'm staggering. A bottle of bourbon in three hours never used to have this much effect on me. By the time I get to Bernstein’s office for my four o'clock appointment, I think I'm OK, but obviously not;
"You gave in didn't you Jack?"
"Doc., it was just a little party to celebrate the end of our first week together."
"How did the taping go? Have you covered the period I suggested?"
"It's already with your secretary,"
"And do you feel it has helped you in any way Jack?"
"I hadn't thought about that angle, but I guess in some way, it has helped. My thoughts don't feel so scattered. As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to recording a bunch more stuff." The next forty minutes were spent reviewing everything we'd discussed during the week. I decline Bernstein's invitation to go to the theatre but accept the music tapes as a compromise. I go back to the hotel feeling better than I have in months. Maggie, that's it! I'll call my wife. She'll be pleased to hear about my progress. I'm in luck, Maggie answers the phone herself;
"Hi sweetheart."
"Jack, you know you're not supposed to call me. We're not ready to talk yet." She hangs up - I call back - the line's busy. Next thing I know, I'm standing outside the bottle store reaching for my wallet. Shit! I left it on the dresser. I start to run across 51st and almost get hit by a Yellow cab.
"Trying to commit suicide buddy! Hey, it's Jack Devereaux. How the hell are you Jack? When are you coming back? Sure do miss your show - best thing on radio." It's not until I get to my room do I realise what happened. I'm laughing as I flop down on the bed.
"Good move God. Ya got me again." It was all too easy. Deprivation deserves a drink. Maggie did right hanging up on me. Jack Daniels would've listened all night long.
When I first told Bernstein about God-tricks, he gave me a thirty minute lecture on synchronicity. Coincidences that point you in the right direction or something like that. He said I should observe them, make notes. Well that was a pretty good one tonight God.
Who the hell's phoning me at seven on a Friday night; “Hello, who is this?"
"It's only me, Bernstein. I thought I'd stop off in the bar downstairs before going to the theatre. Care to join me?" I said yes, even though I thought it strange he should offer me a drink. It was even stranger when I sat down at the bar with a large bourbon in front of me.
"Is this some kind of test?"
"If there's no temptation - there's no trial Jack. You can handle it. Relax, enjoy."
"You know I'm not an alcoholic - so what's the point."
"No point really, except to prove to yourself you can do it. Here's a damn good reason." He passed the evening newspaper to me, opened at the entertainment section. The headline made me smile; 'Come Back Jack Devereaux - All Is Forgiven.' I hadn't seen a paper, listened to the radio or watched TV in over a week and I wasn't in the mood to read the article;
"What's the slant on the story Doc.?"
"Basically, in the three weeks you've been off the air, the public miss you like crazy - they want you back. The station says you're on a sabbatical and will be back when you're good and ready. Jack, I think we can get this whole thing sorted in six weeks, not three months. That's why I wanted to see you now. I read the notes of today’s tape, a good start. I'd like you to work on it again tonight. Pick up where you left off, I want it to flow, the way it happened. I think that you were sexually inhibited in your youth. Do you recall when that changed? I don't need explicit details but I have a feeling something happened to change your attitude to sex. Put the tape in my mailbox, I'm in the office tomorrow; I'd like to listen to it over the weekend." He threw back his drink, put on his coat and ordered another for me. I found it easy to say no. He smiled, pumped my hand and left. "See you Monday at eight, have a great weekend."
Tape 3. Side 1 - Sexually inhibited! Where do you get these crazy ideas from? I was just shy that's all. Hey Doc., I'm glad you’re listening to this rather than reading it from your secretary’s notes, I don't think I could face her if she heard this tape.
OK, I told you how I got to do the Saturday show, well after a few weeks I'd become somewhat of a celebrity on campus. My social life improved rapidly but it still hadn't given me the nerve to call Judy Dreyer. That didn't matter anymore; I could take my pick from dozens of really good-looking girls that hung out at Shalamars every Saturday. Alexa had offered me an extra $50 for just stopping by the sandwich bar when I finished the show. I'd eat lunch and she would introduce me as her protégé. You'll laugh at this but yes, I really was shy. She'd take me by the hand, lead me to a table and say something like;
"Girls, I'd like you to meet the star of Shalamars Solid Gold Show, Jack Devereaux!" Nearly every time, one of them would say;
"How cute, look, he's blushing." And I was. I'm sure this was a real turn on for Alexa. I was so naive, like a babe in arms. Well this one Saturday ... I don't know if I can tell you this - I'm embarrassed just thinking about it. What a jerk, I didn't see it coming. OK, it went something like this;
"Jack, Mr. Stillman tells me you're majoring in electronics."
"Something like that ma'am."
"Why that's wonderful. My husband has just installed one of those electric power showers at home. When I turn it on, all I get is a trickle. He's hopeless at absolutely everything. Do you think you could take a look at it for me Jack?"
"No problem ma'am." She drives me out to her place. It looks like Southfork except it's in Maumee. We go upstairs, through this incredible bedroom and then she stops in front of the bathroom door. Tells me to wait a moment, she might have to hide some delicate items from my innocent eyes. Two minutes later I hear the shower running and she calls;
"You can come in now Jack - I can show you the problem." I walk in, wondering what I can do without my toolkit. Kapow! I've never seen a body like it. She's in the shower, her tanned body showing no bikini lines and it's glistening like Aphrodite.
"Ma'am, I think you've got the wrong idea about me."
"Oh no I haven't, unless - you're not queer are you Jack?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then get you're sweet little ass in here boy, we've got some fixin to do."
"But what about your husband?"
"He's away till Monday - stop wasting time Jack, get in here." Oh I wanted her all right, but never having been in this kind of situation before, I just stood there, gaping at her.
"Why Jack Devereaux, you've never done it before have you?"
"No ma'am." She pulled me in the shower and that was it - every guy's fantasy come true. She made me feel like a king. I stayed till eight on Sunday night and learned more in those thirty hours than most guys do in a lifetime.
The Jack Devereaux Solid Gold show was attracting quite an audience on Saturday mornings. The station started charging advertisers premium rates. Just three months after I started, Dean Stillman offered me the six to ten slot every night as well. The hours suited my study time at college. I was now able to rent a decent apartment and quit the dormitory. I was allowed to do the show my way and it worked. The first rating period showed such a dramatic increase in audience share, I was moved up to the breakfast show. It might not seem much to someone in your profession Doc. but it was one hell of an accolade for a newcomer. With my new hours I began to cut classes. I tried keeping up, but not very well. I went home one weekend, absolutely bushed. Mom was living in Dayton now, I told her I might have to drop out of college for a while; I'll never forget her words that day;
"Jack you stay with radio for now - I just know there's a good reason for it. You can always go back to college and get your degree. I know your daddy would tell you there's more money being on the radio than being stuck in a shop fixing them." At twenty four, I became a college dropout but the biggest name in town.
I looked down at the cassette recorder, less than 5 minutes left on side two. I couldn't believe I'd been talking for almost an hour. I figured Bernstein must have time this weekend if he wants to listen. I loaded another cassette and rambled on.
This is tape 4, side 1. Listen my dear doctor; I hope I don't get charged for your listening time. I'm on a roll right now and I want to get all this crap out of my head. It's really working. I'm feeling good about the whole thing. Doctor Bernstein, if you can get me back to work within a month, I'll double your fee, how does that sound?
You're probably wondering how I got the big break, well it was the sort of thing DJ's always boast about, I got an offer. Most jocks claimed to be getting job offers in some big city somewhere. They were the transient jocks, the ones who drifted from city to city with a smaller U-Haul hitched behind every move. Mine was real, it came just twelve months after I started the breakfast show back in Toledo. Dave Armstrong, a programme director from Cleveland Ohio, was driving through town and caught the end of my show. Armstrong then calls me at the station, introducing himself as a rep' for Atlantic Records. Jocks were always getting calls from record companies and it usually meant a free lunch. That was about the only payola around. I was intrigued and accepted his invitation. One month later I move to Cleveland, one of the top radio markets in the States. Quite a leap up the career ladder.
Z-105, Cleveland was heavily into promotions - newspapers, billboards, mugs, tee shirts. You name it; Z-105 was on it. Dave Armstrong believed in getting his jocks out and about meeting people - communicating - being available to the audience. I got my share of public appearances but was never really comfortable with the exposure. The microphone was the mask that hid the persona very well. In public, I tended to be the shy college student. Armstrong said that endeared me even more with the listeners I met. You know what's funny? Some people even doubted I was the real Jack Devereaux when they met me. They used to say things like 'Hey speak to me like you do on the radio Jack.' I suppose it came from trying to keep both personalities completely separate.
My air shift, when I started at Z-105, was nine to midnight. I'd get a lot of calls every night, mostly from lonely ladies - ladies with fantasies. Some just wanted to bend your ear, others would come on really strong, like, 'If you make love like the way you talk, then I want me some of that.' Late at night, in bed, with only the radio for company, the friendly night time jock was doing his show especially for them, or so they believed. It didn't matter what he looked like, they conjured up their own visuals and made the voice fit, a voice that caressed their imaginations. You were paid to sound warm, friendly, even sexual and it wasn't unusual for some woman to call complaining that she didn't like me playing records for other ladies. These were the obsessional types, the ones you'd never play `Misty' for late at night. Hey Doc. I gotta wrap this up for now. I'll maybe do some more later tonight when those damn sirens wake me.
I was beginning to feel depressed again. There was something in what I taped that brought it on. I didn't want to sit alone in my hotel room all night, I had to get out or the whole thing would close in on me and I'd be back at square one.
Friday night around six, the bar downstairs gets pretty crowded: people stopping off for a quick drink with friends before heading home. Most of them stayed for hours. The bartenders knew who I was but never acknowledged it. It was always 'yes sir, no sir, same again sir?' Yet they seemed to know every other customer by name. I sat at the round bar and Dennis, a very amiable Irishman automatically reached for the Jack Daniels. I shook my head and got a beer instead. I made that beer last a full hour as I soaked up all the conversations around me. I enjoy people watching, guessing what kind of work a guy did and what kind of pick-up he was using on the woman next to him. I had a few more beers, then, at nine, I walk across the street to Bernstein's office, drop the tape in his mailbox, go back to my room and crash. I didn't want to think about anything. Last thing I wanted to do was tape any more of the rubbish in my head. It was eleven on Saturday morning when the phone woke me, it was Bernstein.
"How about some lunch, I'd like to talk about the tape - no charge for this one Jack." I met him thirty minutes later in the bar downstairs.
"Why did you stop recording last night? You were opening up beautifully. What made you quit, what happened?"
"I was thinking about Jarvis. He's always there. Doc, I just gotta nail that bastard."
"Whoa, slow down Jack. We're light years from talking about this obsession you've got with Jarvis. You know damn-well that the calls you were getting before you - well, before you came to me, were from a woman. Those calls have triggered some distant, disturbing memory. If you can't get in touch with it, perhaps we should try hypnosis."
"Hell no, I don't need that. Doc, there was nothing going wrong at that time, things couldn't have been better. It didn't start until I got to New York."
"Jack, I don't want you to leave that period in Cleveland yet. You were talking about these women and their fantasies. Then you started closing up - like you were hiding something. You are hiding something aren't you Jack? What is it from that time you're reluctant to tell me about? Did one of those women get to you in some way?" I could feel my brain slipping into overdrive as he spoke. Thoughts flashing by like ultra-fast rewind on a VCR. "It's all a scrambled mess Doc, I can't focus on any of it. I need a stiff drink. Hey Dennis, fix me a very large bourbon." Bernstein jumps up and goes to the bar - cancels my order.
"Not this time Jack, later maybe. I'd like you to try something for me. Go back to your room, lay on the bed and put on one of those tapes I gave you yesterday. The music will slow you down. Try and picture yourself in a tranquil setting with the music massaging, relaxing every part of your being. If you drift off to sleep, that's OK. Let the thoughts come as they may, and if you feel like recording them - do it. No pressure, no hurry, we can meet again on Monday and take a look at the whole thing again." I already felt better. Bernstein had managed to find the emergency brake - panic over.
Sprawled out on the bed with a set of earphones and slotted in the cassette Bernstein had given me. It took around ten minutes before I stopped criticising the music and letting it go to work on me. I can be so damned analytical. Maybe I did drift off to sleep, whatever it was, the images were becoming very clear. I was back in Cleveland. It wasn't the late show, I'd moved on to when I was doing the breakfast show on another station in town. There was this one incident that might have some bearing ... no it couldn't, well judge for yourself Doc.
The breakfast show brought out a different type of caller. They always had the radio on in the background while watching TV. No matter how often you gave a weather update or time check, they always missed it and wouldn't hesitate to call and let you know. You'd be riding high on performance, everything coming together smoothly, then some dumb-ass would call and ruin it; 'Hey man., when are you gonna do the weather?' Or, 'Don't you have no friggin' clock in the studio?' Susie was different; she'd call every morning around 7:30. The calls came through on an answer phone and I'd hear them on the monitor.
"Jack, this is Susie, I just want to say Hi' and thanks for waking me. You make me feel great each morning - y'all have a nice day now." Her calls were always the same, she said what she wanted and hung up. I never got to talk with her, it was very tantalising, One morning, she's on the line and I grab the hand-set;
"Susie, don't hang up, I wanna talk with you."
"Hi Jack, you took me by surprise, how are you today?"
"Susie, you've been calling me for weeks now, tell me something about yourself - what do you look like?"
"Sorry Jack I haven't got time right now, I have to shower and get dressed, maybe tomorrow, OK?" She hung up. I felt like a schoolboy discovering girls for the first time. I couldn't wait for her to call next day.
"Hi Jack, it's Susie, do you want to talk? Pick up the phone, I'll hold." I grab the phone, and for ten minutes try to find out what she looks like, where she works and where she played. Nothing, very secretive. It was three days before she called again, I was begining to think I'd blown it;
"Hi Jack, it's Susie." Her voice was different, her breathing rapid and heavy. "You'll never guess what I'm doing right now." She hung up before I could get to the phone. She was driving me nuts. I craved her. It made no sense. I had this image in my mind, she had to look like Sharon Stone but in reality she was probably real ugly. The following morning, at 7:35 the phone rang. I was ready this time and picked it up immediately;
"Morning Susie, how ya doin'."
"Jack, I've got to ask, how did you ever get a voice like that, it really turns me on."
" Two packs of Marlboros and a bottle of bourbon every day. What can I do for you?" I was playing it cool, trying desperately to sound detached.
"Ooh, if only you knew what you DO do for me!"
"I don't know what you mean Susie."
"Jack, you set me up for the day, every day. I just lie here in bed every morning, imagining you right here with me. Just talk to me Jack, that's all I want - just talk to me in that voice, it's so sexy."
"Susie, I can't figure you out, tell me about yourself." Then I heard her moaning. "Hey, what's happening.?." Susie didn't need to explain. The sighing got faster and faster, rose to a crescendo, then the line went dead. It was a week before she called me again.
"Jack I'm sorry I haven't called, I didn't think you'd ever want to hear from me again. I got a bit carried away last time we spoke, I just get so turned on when you speak."
"Susie, I've got to admit, you turn me on as well. Sweetheart, I just gotta see you."
"I'm not going in today. How about I meet you in the parking lot after you come off air? I know your car, it's that cute little British convertible."
I could hardly wait to finish the show. At 10:05 I breeze by reception saying I'm going out to breakfast. As I approach the MGB, I can't believe my luck. She's beautiful, flame-red hair and she's waving to me from the passenger seat.
"Hi Jack, I'm Susie, let's drive." Man, I hadn't been this turned on in years, but I was doing something programme directors had always warned against - dating a telephone groupie. I suggest we go by McDonalds and have breakfast - Susie has other ideas.
"Hell no, let's go by your place, you do have your own apartment don't you?" She was all over me as we walk through the door. She threw her shoulder bag on the bed, her blouse and bra' followed. Even lying flat on her back, her breasts were enormous, nipples bright pink and very erect. She pulls me down on top of her, squirming away beneath me. She starts struggling with my zip, I stand up and do it myself. It was then I notice her shoulder bag on the bed, it had spilled open and a number of books had fallen to the floor. The logo of `Central Catholic Junior High School' leapt up and smacked me in the face.
"Jesus Christ, are these yours? Susie, how old are you.?"
"Forget
about my age it doesn't matter. Jack, I want you so bad." A
sexy telephone voice, great make-up and clothes, all contributed to
an illusion that spelled disaster. My mind was in turmoil, my jeans
round my ankles and I'm looking at one of the most beautiful bodies
I've ever seen. I was literally aching with desire but the thought
of all the guys who'd messed up their careers screwing underage
groupies made me hesitate. Susie had by now removed her skirt and
was sliding out of her panties in the most provocotive manner. She
was smiling, her tongue teasingly licking her lips. I couldn't stand
it any longer, I drop my shorts, lay down on top of her and suddenly
her tongue is half way down my throat. I'm so horny I'm fit to
burst. I was convinced Susie must have done this with loads of guys,
she wasn't going to tell anyone. I was just about to enter her when
a voice inside my head screamed NO!
I told her to get dressed
and I'd drop her off at the bus depot. She called me all the names
under the sun and was in tears as she dressed. Her last words to me
were "I'll get you for this Jack Devereaux." Doctor
Bernstein, I never saw her again and that's the truth. She never
even called me at the station. Now, I know you don't have much time
for this psychic stuff doc, but is it possible you were somehow tuned
into this incident? Is this what I was hiding? I hadn't thought
about it for years but now, that memory scares me. Maybe I did screw
Susie and because she was only fifteen, I've been blocking it all
this time. Holy shit. What would she be now, about thirty? She
could've been waiting all this time, festering away. Then, when I
make the big-time, she goes gunning for me. There are some
unresolved issues here doctor, I'm not going to record anymore till
I've seen you on Monday.
I spend Sunday afternoon with John Lennon. I'm sitting on that rock in Strawberry Fields, people watching. Central Park is full of weirdos - not the junkies or the muggers, I mean the joggers, the roller bladers, all the wannabe athletes with pain all over their faces - listening to their personal stereos. OK,OK, so I've got my Walkman - but I'm listening to Lennon. 'Imagine all the people, living in the world as one.' That guy was really tuned into something much higher than most of us will ever know. 'Imagine there's no heaven, no hell below us.' I don't have to imagine it. I know both places well, they're just opposite states of mind, my own creation. People like Jarvis use it to scare the hell out of you. They're preparing their mindless followers for heaven when all the time they're lining their own pockets for paradise on earth. I've got to deal with this Jarvis issue as soon as possible. I feel like he's got a direct modem link with my mind. Strawberry Fields forever - thanks John - enjoyed your company again. I'm all fired up to record a bunch more stuff for Bernstein.
I didn't think I'd be recording again this weekend Doc. You've got John Lennon to thank. You really must come and meet him one of these days, metaphorically speaking of course. OK, I think we can leave the Cleveland period. I've come to terms with the Susie episode, at least I hope so. Nothing else of any real significance happened during my three years there. The Jack Devereaux show had become the best rated programme in town. Offers came and I got the midday slot on one of New York's most progressive music stations. The Big Apple was 'top of the heap, A number one' and all the things Sinatra sang about. Those lyrics keep repeating over and over inside my head, maybe I just like the song. I also like Ella Fitzgerald; 'I'll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Stattan Island too.' I kept singing that one my first night in New York - my ego was so pumped up. I was gonna take this town by storm, I could feel it in my bones.
My new employers had provided hotel accommodation for thirty days but I wasted no time finding my own place, three rooms above an art gallery very close to Madison Square Garden. The pad was more than I could afford but I'd decided not to have a car, the station was just a ten-minute walk. It took less than a month for the novelty of living in New York to fade away, I had no friends, and was lonely. Most nights were spent staring at the TV or tuning across the radio dial to hear what the competition was doing. I think my miserable social life began to affect the way I felt about the station. I was stifled by the format - it was rigid, speech was kept to a minimum and no music earlier than 1980 was ever played. There was no direct line for the public to reach the studio, I missed that connection. In a way it's like being on stage - structuring the show to suit the audience. The only audience feedback was in the Arbitron survey. I was losing the essential rapport that made the Jack Devereaux Show work, audience participation, head-on communication. For the first time in my career I approached another radio station and asked for a job. One of the smaller outfits in town were broadcasting late night chat shows, no music, just the phone-in. I liked what I heard. It was compulsive listening. It got to be that I would stay awake half the night listening to the intimate details of people’s lives. The station didn't show very well in the ratings book and I saw an opportunity to move into a whole new dimension of radio - and maybe boost their figures. The PD was over the moon when I called him. He was in the process of firing their late night host for being drunk once too often. For once, I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I did my first talk-show in September 1993.
Chapter 2
Adeline is looking especially frumpy this morning. she scowls when I hand her the cassettes.
"I hope YOU had a good weekend Mr. Devereaux."
"My weekend is all on those tapes for your listening pleasure dear sweet Adeline."
"I wish you wouldn't address me that way, it makes me feel ancient." I want to tell her she is ancient but she doesn't deserve my bitterness. I make these comments without ever thinking of their effect. "Go right on in, Doctor Bernstein is waiting for you."
"You're looking remarkably well this morning Jack."
"Wish I could say the same for you Doc. Didn't you sleep or something?"
"The telephone woke me at three this morning, I couldn't get back to sleep. Jack, we're going to address the Jarvis issue very soon, where are you up to with the tapes?"
"Just beginning the Big Apple talk-shows. Doc, that phone call? There's some connection with me isn't there?" I'm starting to panic. "It was Jarvis, wasn't it?"
"No. No, it wasn't Jarvis - it was a woman, said she was with the radio station. She wanted to know when you'd be returning to work. Jack it was 3 am. How did she get my number? How did she know about us? I'm not really sure what I told her. Whatever it was, she burst out laughing - not normal laughing - forced laughter." I felt the blood drain from my face. I just manage to sit down before my knees give way. I knew that laugh. I'm back at square one. Bernstein doesn't look well.
"I think you should see a doctor, doctor Bernstein." Flippancy is my forte. This time it works to good effect. Bernstein goes through an instant role reversal and is back in control.
"Jack, if I don't get my full eight hours, I'm no use to anyone. I've cancelled all my other appointments today. I'll listen to your tape on the drive home. This problem, the one with Jarvis, didn't it begin soon after you arrived in New York?"