SMILING VOICE ON:
"Today on The Jeffrey Meyers Show, we're going to be looking at butterflies and what they do for the environment." BREATH. "Then we're off to Brazil where writer-activist Roosevelt Pereida talks about the slums of Rio. In the last hour, we talk to Nancy Cougson about her new novel for tweens."
SMILING VOICE OFF.
We almost done? He wrote the question down in big block letters so his engineer and producer in the control booth could see. For a year now, Jeffrey had taken a vow of silence when he wasn't on air. He never said why. He wasn't even sure himself. It just seemed like the right thing to do. His staff didn't seem to mind - one less prima donna to have to listen to was not a bad thing. And there was also the fact that he had good penmanship and the sense to carry a pad around with him at all times.
"Jeffrey, you're so behind. I don't want to hear it." Hannah's voice sounded more pinched than usual. She was often impatient with her boss, but there was something more going on that day - an amplified quality - that Jeffrey took to be from a complete lack of sexual activity. He wrote himself another note, but this time didn't let Hannah see it: For Christmas, hire a male prostitute. He'd have the bored-looking intern see into it.
"You ready, Jeffrey?" Tom, his engineer, clicked through the intercom.
LONG SIGH, DEEP BREATH, followed by TIGHTENING OF LARYNX. And then, with a QUICK NOD, the SMILING VOICE was ON once again.
The Jeffrey Meyers Show had the dubious distinction of being the least listened to radio show in the top national market. For its host, it was a test of will not to yell and scream and criticize like on the top shows. That would've brought in listeners, at least. But criticism was what they did on talk radio. WAPL, Public Radio for the Big Apple and home of The Jeffrey Meyers Show, stood for the balanced, the fair, and, of course, the polite, which meant that it also stood for low ratings.
This was partly why Jeffrey hated recording promos as much as he did. It was grueling and thankless work. Take after take, he had to sound excited about books he never read and about artists who were untalented. Then there were the actors, producers, and directors of plays and movies that he knew he'd hate. Having an arts and culture show five times a week wasn't as easy as people thought, especially when that show's only listeners were over the age of eighty and could barely hear anything. And to sound excited about it? That was something else altogether.
After three hours and twenty promos, Hannah clicked through the intercom and told Jeffrey he could take a break. "You should call Daphne, by the way. She called a bunch of times already."
Reason? Jeffrey wrote on his pad.
"Didn't say. She sounded calm, though - for a change."
He knew there'd be no messages on his phone. His wife always called Hannah because she knew he wouldn't answer. He texted her: I should be home soon. I heart you. Even though he thought texting was amazing, he was still old-fashioned enough to make sure that he wrote everything out. No symbols, no hearts, and definitely no abbreviations. Jeffrey Meyers could embrace the digital age only so much.
When he got home, he found out what his wife had been calling him for. She had left him no note, but the fact that her clothes were gone and her antique doll collection was missing told him all he needed to know. He didn't scream out loud. Instead, he reached for his pad and wrote himself a note, which he then crumpled up and threw in the waste basket. His cleaning lady would find the note later that day - a one word cry of anguish that encapsulated his feelings at that moment: BITCH!!!!!
For the next week, The Jeffrey Meyers Show filled its two-hour slot with previously recorded interviews. Richard, the station manager, wanted Douglas from the news department to come in and take over until Jeffrey got himself together, but Douglas was always an absolute failure with "the Elders." As soon as they heard Douglas' inflections, the way he'd say New York as if New had a Y after the N, or over-enunciate the name of any classical composer, they were all over WAPL's phone lines, complaining about the uppity voice that was filling their airless, cramped apartments. The aged and infirm, the active senior, the faithful AARP crowd, Veterans of Foreign Wars, members of the Greatest Generation, aka, "the Elders," tuned in for Jeffrey and Jeffrey alone. He was the one with the SMILING VOICE.
"He sounds like a very nice man," or some variation thereof, was the most often heard comment on WAPL's switchboard. And if there was anything the Elders liked, it was nice - a close second being enthusiasm. When on air, Jeffrey had found a way of pitching his voice that he captured both while also managing to sound sincere and intelligent. So it was no surprise that after just one show, Douglas was out and "the Elders" had to bide their time with repeat broadcasts.
All of this made Richard unhappy, which made Hannah unhappy, which made even Tom, the show's engineer who always drank coffee two cups at a time, displeased. But Jeffrey had no clue and wouldn't have cared even if he had known. He was in pain. Silent and unspoken, but in pain all the same.
Hannah called every day and left messages demanding that her boss get off the fucking pity wagon, get himself the fuck together, or failing that, that he fucking call her. Jeffrey, for his part, texted her to let her know his side of the story: still no word; life sucks, etc. After a week of this, Hannah decided to stop the back and forth. Coming ovr, she texted, which, even as depressed as he was, made Jeffrey cluck his tongue in disappointment. He wrote himself a note: Hannah's too bright to use bad grammar. He would talk - write - her about it when he felt better.
By the time Hannah made it to his house, she found Jeffrey looking over a stack of legal documents. Divorce papers, he tried to write on his pad, even though the paper had been waterlogged by giant man-tears.
"Jesus. What did she put down as the reason?"
Irreconcilable diff.
Jeffrey had no real differences with his wife, irreconcilable or otherwise. At least that's how he saw things. There had been their talk about talking, which wasn't much of a talk he had to admit to himself, since she spoke and he responded by writing on his pad. He tried to explain that his job was responsible. All that SMILING VOICE stuff wears on you, he wrote her. His job left him without the ability or the will (he wasn't sure which) to speak. But he still loved her. He wrote her and texted that all the time. And anyway, wasn't he a better husband now that he actually had to think about his responses to her? Words are cheap when they're spoken - easy. But when writing things out, real effort's involved.
In the end, all his arguments fell on deaf eyes, as it were. His wife wanted words, and she wanted them spoken.
"Jeffrey," Hannah interrupted, her voice sounding as pinched as ever, "I know you're not doing well, but people are getting tired of hearing repeats. Richard's getting tired of it, too."
Jeffrey snorted back the mucus that was coating the inside of his nose. Tell Richard to fuck himself.
"It's not that easy. You have a contract."
Fuck the contract.
Hannah crossed the room and took the pad away from him. "I don't want to hear that - read that, whatever. It's not true, anyway."
He looked up at her, lost without his pad.
"Would you stop with this mute act. Speak!"
He motioned that he wanted the pad back.
"No, I'm not going to give into this baby shit. I need you to grow the fuck up and talk."
He looked around but didn't want to get up from his chair, so he wrote a couple words on his palm that took Daphne a second to figure out. "Fuck me?" she asked. "Fuck you, you prima donna. I got a divorce last year. Remember? I bounced back. I didn't give up and act like a pussy. Yes, I said it. Don't give me that look."
He moved his chair over to the nearest wall and started writing a response when Hannah snatched the marker out of his hand. "You wanna say something? Well, say it. Come on. Say it."
But Jeffrey said nothing. He looked at her and it wasn't more than a few seconds before silver dollar tears were pinging on the hardwood floor between them. He took the marker back and continued the message he'd started to write on the wall: I have to do something different with the show. It's time...
"Oh my God. Not that shit again. You interview artists and people who talk about artists. You're not a hard news person. Light and fluffy, Jeffrey. Light and fluffy. You fucking do it better than anyone I know. Why isn't that enough for you?"
Jeffrey wiped his eyes and motioned for his pad.
"Ask for it." He got up, his legs wobbly underneath him, his lack of hygiene now making itself obvious.
"Oh my God. Jeffrey, have you showered this week? You're awful."
Jeffrey reached around her and took his pad back and started scribbling a note that asked her to go back to the station. He had an idea for a new series of shows. And when she didn't move, he reminded her that he was still her boss, fucked up or not.
The following Monday, Hannah received a text from Jeffrey telling her to check her e-mail, which then let her know to check the attachment he'd sent her, which in the end, left her completely confused. The attached document was a list of twelve names with a single direction at the top telling her to find them and get them on the show. There was no mention of who these people were or the topic of the shows they would be on. Hannah was about to text him a series of expletive-studded questions when Jeffrey beat her to the punch and showed up at the studio. He'd showered, shaven, and on his pad, he'd written a note asking for a staff meeting ASAP.
Within the hour, Tom was dragging himself and his two cups of coffee into the conference room with Hannah and her clipboard arrayed with multiple-colored sticky-notes. The bored-looking intern trailed behind. They found Jeffrey already seated at the long table with his pad out in front of him. He'd written them a memo that he had the intern read aloud. It announced his plan to move the show in a different direction starting immediately.
Tom slurped his coffee uninterested, trying to make eyes with the intern, who in turn, was staring at the now even sadder, now even more vulnerably sexy Jeffrey.
"What's this new direction?" Hannah started in on him.
More gravitas. No more fluff.
"Jesus, what do you mean, fluff?"
Have you started booking the guests?
"Which guests?"
The list.
"Jeffrey, we have guests booked for the next month."
He didn't write another word. He stared at Hannah with a crooked smile that made him look insane to her and even sexier to his intern, who in turn, was getting annoyed by Tom staring. "I guess we can move things around, but can you at least tell me what the shows are going to be about?" Hannah asked.
Jeffrey scribbled a note, tore the sheet off and left it on the table before leaving the room.
"What does it say?" Hannah asked.
Tom put down one of his cups of coffee and leaned over so he could see the note. "It says: People who almost made it."
The people on Jeffrey's list weren't hard to locate. They were all famous - sort of. True to what Jeffrey said - wrote - at the meeting, they were people who were almost successful: a scientist who kept making major discoveries days after colleagues in some other part of the world came up with theirs, a pro basketball player whose only claim to fame was having spent more seasons on the bench than any other. There was an artist who'd managed to have shows in every city except New York, and an actor who'd been on a number of pilots with other actors who made it big, but who'd neve managed to do the same.
For the most part, the people on her list seemed excited at the prospect of getting on the show. Free publicity is nothing to wag a stick at. But inevitably they'd ask what the show was about, and then the excitement they had for the project evaporated like water on a desert floor.
Out of the twelve people she called, she was hung up on five times, threatened with physical violence and/or legal actions by another five, and asked on a date by a drugged-out lounge singer who made a living playing all the second-tier casinos in Reno. But on her last call, her luck changed.
"Good to hear from you, Hannah" the voice on the line said.
"Can I speak with Jonathan Doe, please?" she said ignoring the fact that there was no way the person she was calling could've known her name.
"You can call me Jon, Hannah. My parents had quite a sense of humor." The man snickered in a way that made Hannah think the line was being overcome by static.
"How did you know my name?"
"I'd love to," he said.
"What?"
"The only thing I ask is that the show be recorded live."
"How did you know what I was calling about?"
"You're calling about the show, and I am saying yes."
"As long as the interview is recorded live?"
He snickered again: "Don't worry, Hannah. I'm not as creepy as my laugh makes me seem."
When Jonathan Doe showed up at the studio a few days later, he was wearing an expensive blue suit and a pair of black, very shiny, very pointy Italian shoes. His skin was tan even though it was winter, and his nails were manicured and polished to a shine. He looked more like a successful European businessman than a magician. Only his hair seemed to fit. Jet black and longish, it was a swirling rebellion that, no matter how much mousse or hairspray was applied, refused to be put down. Tom was the first to notice it. While adjusting the mic levels from the control booth, he kept staring.
"You alright, Tom?" Hannah asked from her usual pre-show spot at his side.
Tom didn't say anything as he pushed a series of buttons in front of him, but he kept staring. "Our guest is kind of freaking me out," he finally said. Just then on the other side of the sound-proof glass, Jonathan and Jeffrey were putting their headphones on. Jonathan raised his hand just as Tom spoke and looked over toward the booth. Hannah pushed the intercom button and asked if he needed anything. "I just wanted to tell Tom not to worry," he said. "A lot of people feel the same way about me until they get to know me."
"How'd he hear that?" Tom asked.
"He didn't," Hannah said. "I think he's psychic. I guess I should've told you that before."
After a few more minutes, the mics were on and so was Jeffrey's SMILING VOICE: "Good morning, everyone. Today on The Jeffrey Meyers show, we are going to devote the hour to our guest, Jonathan Doe, a magician who spends most days of the year travelling from small town to small town doing a one-man magic show. We're going to talk about the nature of magic tricks, about the history of magicians, and about what keeps this practitioner of one of the oldest arts going. Jonathan Doe, welcome."
Jonathan leaned forward, and for a moment, it seemed as if he were going to kiss the tip of the microphone. "The pleasure is completely mine, Jeffrey."
"To start Jonathan, why magic? What keeps you doing your show year after year?"
"Well, it's all I've ever known how to do." SNICKER.
"Where are you currently performing?"
"You're a performer, too. You know that?" Jonathan's non sequitur took everyone in the studio by surprise. "I've been listening to you for a while, and I think you're quite the performer." He clapped his hands into the microphone. "Bravo."
Jeffrey paused. "Well, thank you. I guess you're right in a way." He looked up to the control booth at Hannah, who shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I try to keep listeners interested if I can."
"Oh, I think you do," Jonathan interrupted. "I think a lot of people are happy because of that SMILING VOICE of yours." WINK.
"I guess what I'm getting at," Jeffrey said, trying to focus on what he was saying, "is that you've been successful. You make a living doing magic. But I imagine most people in your position would want to take the next step in their careers - maybe a show in Vegas or Atlantic City. Wouldn't you say that's right?"
"You're right, but after the whole thing with Stanton, I gave up on having a big career."
Jeffrey shot another look over to the control room.
"Maybe you've forgotten it? Should I remind you and your listeners?" Jonathan asked, his voice strong and sure once again. "I took him to court after he made an unfortunate comment on the Tonight Show. And when I lost the case, no one wanted me anymore. Simple as that."
"Can you talk about what that comment was?"
A smile broke over Jonathan's face that affected everyone in the studio differently: Jeffrey marveled at the man' perfectly white teeth; the bored-looking intern who was sitting behind Tom in the engineering booth, decided then and there that this guest was even more sad and vulnerable than her boss; Hannah thought she was in love, and Tom, on his second cup of coffee, sat forward over the control panel and realized why Jonathan had made him uneasy from the start. "It's moving, Hannah. Do you see that?"
"What? What are you talking about?" she asked.
"The guy's hair is moving around."
"Well," Jonathan started, "I spent years practicing my craft and I almost had a show of my own, as you probably know. I almost had a huge career. But then I spoke out about some movie star who, in an interview, accused me of fakery. He said he knew all about fakery in the magic world - because he's the expert on the subject, has read books about it and so forth. He's not an especially talented man, I should say that. And I didn't think it was fair for him to criticize. So I spoke out, and now as payment for my efforts, I do magic for people in small towns across America."
Throughout, Jeffrey was still focusing on Jonathan's teeth. That, and the fact that this was the kind of interview he wanted. This was what it was all about. Maybe "the Elders" were bored. Maybe they were chomping at the bit wanting to get on air and talk about some magician they'd seen - someone long dead. But it didn't matter. He felt a bond with Jonathan: someone who lived for years almost getting what he most wanted in the world.
"So why are you so sad, Jeffrey?" the magician asked.
"What? I'm sorry, I missed that."
"I know the listeners out there can't see it, but if you ever see Jeffrey in person, he has a wonderfully sad face. I hope you're not sad on my account. You see, Mr. Stanton actually set me free."
Jeffrey didn't follow up because he'd noticed that Hannah and Tom were arguing about something in the control room. They were facing each other and their arms were flapping about.
"Would you like to know how, Jeffrey?"
"Uh, yes. Sorry. We're having some technical problems. But yes, please, of course."
"Well, if you're a magician," Jonathan started, "then a lot of what you do is, strictly speaking, fakery. But those of us who are good, really good, we're just holding back. You see, no one really wants the real stuff because," he snickered again, "well, you see, Jonathan, it just doesn't sell. And to tell the truth, it's not always so visually pleasing. You have to concentrate to really catch what's going on."
"Maybe after the break, you can tell us more about what you mean by real magic."
"It would be my pleasure."
"For those of you who've just joined us, we're talking to Jonathan Doe, the magician. He'll be with us for the rest of the hour. You're tuned to WAPL and The Jeffrey Meyers Show." Jeffrey cued the promo tape and then turned toward the control booth. Everything alright in there? he wrote on his pad.
"They're arguing about my hair," Jonathan said. "Isn't that right, Tom?"
"Everything's fine, Jeffrey," Tom said over the intercom. "You're doing great. You both are." He avoided looking at Jonathan as he sounded off: "Three, Two..."
"We're back with the magician Jonathan Doe," Jeffrey's SMILING VOICE was not quite what it usually was, but it was passable. "When we left off, we were talking about real magic. Is there some trick you could do for us on the air?"
Thick black strands of hair were slithering around on Jonathan's head now. "You know I'm a huge fan of radio. Always have been. I guess I caught the radio bug from my grandparents. They used to tell me about all the shows they loved when they were children. It sounded pretty magical - no pun intended. Old radio performers could evoke pictures in people's minds by simply using their voices. Amazing what a voice can communicate. Wouldn't you say, Jeffrey?"
Jeffrey was too focused on Jonathan's hair to answer.
"Anyway, the trick: it's simple, actually. You've actually been helping me with it for some time. Did you know that Jeffrey?"
"What do you mean?" Jeffrey managed to ask.
"Well, I think I should just show you." With all the flair and movement that one would expect from a magician, he pulled a pristine white glove out of his suit pocket.
"Ladies and gentleman, Jonathan is putting on what seems to be a magic glove. Is that right?"
"I guess you could call it that." Jonathan leaned back and closed his eyes. With his gloved hand, he began making a circular motion in front of the microphone as if he were shining it. "OK. Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three," the sound of Jeffrey's voice seemed to be coming from Jonathan's hand. "Hello and welcome. This is Jeffrey Meyers' SMILING VOICE."
"That's pretty good," Jeffrey tried to interrupt. His own voice sounded different, almost hesitant, as if it was shy and considering whether or not it should come out. "I know you can't see it, but Jonathan seems to be creating the sound of my voice with his hand over the microphone."
"Your voice, Jeffrey? Is that really what it is? Because your voice, your real voice, just sounded pretty different. Lower, quieter - somber even? Are you feeling as sad as you look right now?"
"How are you doing that? Your lips aren't moving at all."
"You don't recognize the sound of your voice, do you? Callers: do you recognize Jeffrey's real voice? Does he ever let you hear what he's thinking?"
"I think we should move on." Jeffrey tried to clear his voice. He thought maybe he was coming down with something.
"Having another technical difficulty?" Jonathan asked in his own voice, his hand no longer in front of the microphone.
"Why don't we take another break?" Jeffrey turned back to Tom in the control booth. Once they were off air, he turned back to his guest. "What are you doing?"
"Your real voice has a depth to it," Jonathan said. His hair had quieted down now. "Do you know how beautiful it is? I couldn't have imagined how beautiful. Maybe you should let people hear that once in a while."
"I need it," Jeffrey said.
"Maybe more people would tune in. Maybe you'd be more successful if you just let yourself be who you are."
"Jeffrey," Hannah interrupted over the intercom. "The phones are going crazy. People are calling up and they're crying. They're saying they can't take it anymore."
Jonathan began to snicker. "Voila. The trick, she is done," he said in a fake French accent. He then took off the white glove with the same flair he'd used to put it on.
"Give it back. Please."
"Give what back, Jeffrey? It's my glove."
"My voice. Give me back my voice."
"Jeffrey, you're on in three," Tom said through the intercom. He sounded like he had a cold, or like he was sniffling. "Two."
"Tom, do we have another promo? I need a minute." Over the speaker, Jeffrey heard dead air. "Tom, put a fucking promo in." He turned and found his engineer bent over in Hannah's lap, his shoulders shaking. He then turned back to Jonathan, who had taken his earphones off and was getting up, smoothing out his tie. Jeffrey pushed the intercom button. He could hear Hannah crying about how lonely she was; Tom was saying something about how the Elders were dying - killing themselves - something like that. Jeffrey couldn't make it out because the bored-looking intern was shrieking in the background. He tried asking what was going on, but they yelled for him to stop talking.
"You see my point now, don't you?" Jonathan asked as he made his way to leave the studio. "Real magic just doesn't sell."
