Page 83 of Bless This Hot Mess
“This might be surprising, but our listeners don’t care how you look and neither do we,” Japheth said, fiercely protective of his bandmate.
“Us Weeklydid a two-page spread on hats in the October issue and there are several, at least a month’s worth I think you’ll look incredible in,” Carrington said, already imaginatively stacking and rotating beret, bucket, bowler, beanie and cloche on Rebekkah’s crown. “You know, until it grows out. I really think I didn’t do a horrible job; it just needs to find its shape.”
The fax machine buzzed and beeped, jealously signalling everyone to pay it some attention, as all eyes had been glued to Rebekkah as one does when passing a collision. A few prayers and signs of the cross may have been sent up as well, but it was impossible to confirm as they had all willingly shielded their gaze during the make-shift salon accident. Now, they all turned expectantly toward the fax, which purred contentedly as it sputtered out its news.
“Another advertiser? See! There’s somuch to celebrate!” Emma-Lou said, elbow to elbow with Carrington as they crossed the lobby and leaned over the paper tray.
“Umm… no, this doesn’t look like an advertiser. I can’t quite see who it’s from yet… We’ll just have to wait for it to finish printing,” Carrington said, leaning over the beige beast as perforated paper inched out like a child sticking out its tongue in provocation. Finally, the machine finished its emissary mission and settled back into a nap.
“Dear WWJD, please CEASE and DESIST from plagiarizing, stealing, sampling, feeling inspired by…” Carrington read aloud, eyes widening. “It’s from Ricky Martin’s manager. Turns out Ricky thinks the original lyrics toLivin’ La Vida Locadon’t need revisions from Trinity.”
The fax machine cleared its throat again–Buzz, Beep, Sputter–helpfully heralding another envoy of legal notice. Emma-Lou leaned over Carrington’s shoulder, dread chilling her voice, “Is that another one?”
“Sugar Ray!” Carrington yelped.
Buzz. Beep. RIP.
“Smash Mouth… Sixpence None the Richer. 98 Degrees. Sarah McLachlan!Et tu, brute?!” Carrington cried, clutching their chest as if the queen of Lilith Fair had slapped them across the face with a cold fish from the Halifax harbour.
“But, but I thought youclearedthis with your lawyer?” Emma-Lou stammered, wheeling round on Trinity; her bangs, one glamorous step behind like a dancer punctuating a tango twirl with a kick.
“These are all cease and desist letters,” Carrington said dully. “No praise. Just complaints. They demand that the Trinity Radio Hour is pulled from the airwaves immediately.”
“But we did! We cleared it! He said it was fine. He even listened to the Ricky Martin one, he said it was catchy!” Rebekkah protested, hands splayed protectively over hercheeks, giving her the look of a middle-aged woman impersonating Jim Carrey/Anne Heche impersonating Macauley Culkin.
“Weinus, Weinus, and Ware have been cashing all our retainer cheques for the station and as attorneys of record for Trinity…” Carrington said, already preparing for an audit.
“Wait, Trinity works with Weinus, Weinus, and Ware too?” Emma-Lou blinked. “They’re representing the radio stationandthe talent?”
“It appears so,” Suwarna said, shoulders squared and tense.
“And we’re paying for both sides?” Emma-Lou asked, sensing her business was a house of cards, and she, the fool who had built it on sand.
“We have to clean all that moneysomehow,” Carrington said. “Do you know how much they charge per hour? We can move alotthrough them.”
“Who’s your lawyer? Stanford?” Emma-Lou asked, voice pitching up at the end like a prayer.
“Umm… no, Micah is our lawyer,” Japheth said, cheeks pink with the mention of his name. “I’m sure he’s going to swoop in and clear this all up. I’m sure it’s just a tiny, little misunderstanding. Micah will save the day, just you wait.”
“Who?” Emma-Lou asked, baffled.
“Micah,” Ronald said. “We’re not sure if he’s a Weinus, Weinus, or a Ware actually.”
“He saves orphans. Plays rec hockey. Has a billboard on Oak Street?” Japheth added hopefully.
“A realstud,” Rebekkah said, then flinched at her own reflection in the cake knife. It was worse than she could have imagined.
“I’ve never seen him around the office. He must be new?”Emma-Lou frowned, tapping the desk in an escalating staccato that raced along with her thoughts.
“Micah works in the MANHATTAN office,” Japheth explained, capitals audible.
“Manhattan office?!” Emma-Lou echoed, just as the lobby doors opened and some fine-ass Italian leather shoes, glossy as sin, pointed as opinions, carried a fine-assed Italian across the entrance. Emma-Lou gave a big wave to Rino, then spun to face her team.
“Call him!” Emma-Lou snapped at Trinity, taking big gulps of air to swallow her panic, regretting that she’d dispensed her worst-case-scenario paper bag to Rebekkah. “Fix this! We can’t pull the Trinity Radio Hour or we’ll lose our listeners. And our advertisers!”
“And Emma-Lou might…” Suwarna added, lifting the cake knife and making a cutting-across-the-throat gesture that was anything but subtle, “Kkkkk-kkkk-kkkkkk.”
Rino Ferrari arrived with a wake of expensive cologne and the whisper of danger at his heels. He was tailored in charcoal, shirt unbuttoned just enough to confess a crucifix among generous black curls of chest hair, his smile a beneficent blessing. He spread his arms wide and purred, “Piacere!”
