When it was over, the last item recited, I punched a cart and sat back in my squeaky chair—which hadn’t squeaked once during my performance. I relived the experience three times over. With a welling of blood in my chest, I reveled in the potency of this miracle. It wasn’t pride thumping like a herd of elephants in my chest, but gratitude, as though I’d been granted a gift. Maybe it was my destiny to speak to the disenfranchised masses—all the hopeless ineffectual dweebs like me, sitting alone in their darkened rooms, pining for a fate grander than acne—maybe I’d pull them together by the force of my hypnotic mint-smelling rhetoric, inspire them from my electric pulpit, like some secular Elmer Gantry for the new millennium. Or maybe it was just my destiny to do overnights at a college radio station. Either way, I was grateful.
When I played the air-check the next day for Eugene Gobernecki, he was in awe of my radio persona.
“Shit motherfuck. How come all the time zey not having you talk? Zey have guy talking he sound like Donald Duck! But you, you good. You sound like pro. Zey gonna get rid of him, give talking job to you.”
When Nate heard the air-check, he said, “That wuth good, man, really, that wuth good, but . . .” Then he mopped his greasy forehead with a shirtsleeve and mumbled a few halfhearted suggestions about hitting the post on the muthic bed and thlowing down a bit before suggesting that I do the calendar every night.
The next night I did the calendar every hour, and by the third hour I started adding little flourishes and personal touches, and once I even made a joke. And the morning after I made the joke, Eugene Gobernecki knocked on my door in his coveralls again, this time clutching a manila folder, and he walked past me into the kitchen like it was his own kitchen and sat down at the table and flashed his gold tooth.
“Oh shit. Zat was funny what you say about band from Milwaukee. And when you screw up the date and you make choking sound, zat’s good stuff.”
“What were you doing awake at four in the morning?”
“Zis,” he said, slapping the folder down on the table. He opened it to reveal a stack of clumsily handwritten pages.
“What’s this?”
“Business plan for Hot Dog Heaven,” he announced.
“Wow. Geez, Eugene, I . . .”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’m ready to commit the next three—”
“I know, I know,” he said. “You big radio star now. Not to worry. You give me three months. After that, I buy you out anytime. We set fair price.”
“Deal.”
“Good. Now I fix sink in 117.” Eugene closed the folder, swept it up, and hopped to his feet in one fluid motion. He was gone in a flash.
After a week, the events calendar served only as a rough guide, like directions scrawled hastily on a cocktail napkin. I began spinning my own verbiage, and it was good: fast, funny, succinct. The words simply aligned themselves on my tongue in endless streams. My inflection improved daily. My voice got smarter, it knew instinctively just how to wrap around syllables—just which syllables to wrap tightest about, which ones to let glide, and which ones to balance precariously on the tip of my tongue for the briefest of moments before releasing them like tiny dirigibles into the atmosphere. And interestingly, I found that when I flexed my voice, I always smiled, so that the words sounded happy. And I don’t mean that Feelin’-Groovy-Hello-Lamppost-Whatcha-Knowin smile, but a Beaming-Like-Big-Bill-in-the-Middle-of-a-Front-Double-Bicep smile. A turgid smile. The smile of a pro. The smile of a champion. Smiling from the outside in, not because I was happy—though certainly I was happy—but smiling because it was impossible to create the illusion that I was happy without smiling. Smiling because it was impossible to sound enthusiastic with a straight face. And people don’t listen to radio to hear straight faces. I never hurried. I was cool. I was suddenly infused—as though by magic—with the confidence of a Chad or a Daryl or a Troy. And for once in my life I had reason to be confident, because on the radio I looked like Matt Dillon. I sounded like Casey Kasem. I pulled words out of thin air like David Copperfield.
Nate did not object to my progress. Good old Nate. It wasn’t in his nature to feel threatened. If anything, he was relieved, content to punch carts, leaf through records, sweat through spot sets, content to leave all that yakking to me. And maybe it was just my imagination, but his own performance seemed to be improving as the days progressed, as if by osmosis, or perhaps by scholarship. His pauses were becoming measured, he was breathing, I could see his teeth more when he spoke. He was still terrible, but at least now he was self-conscious about it.
I soon found that I had influence. Eugene Gobernecki was not the only lonesome schlub in the greater Los Angeles night who found fellowship in my voice as it surfed the crest of those twenty-thousand-watt radio waves. The very Saturday that Hot Dog Heaven was set to open its doors (or its hatch, as it were), just two scant weeks after the debut of “the voice,” Phil Spencer, the program director himself—apparently an insomniac or a baker—called me personally at five-thirty in the morning and told me that he’d been tuning in and that he really liked what he was hearing.
“That choking thing was a gas. Did you plan that?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I guess not. So you write the jokes? Like the one about Tad eating the left side of the menu at Barney’s?”
“I just open my mouth and they come out.”
“Yeah? What about the cat haunting your house? Frank the cat? That’s yours? You made that up?”
I was tempted to tell him it was true, but somehow that seemed like the wrong thing to do. “Yeah, I just made it up.”
“It sounds true. Funny stuff.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you got any prior on-air experience?”
“No.”
“So, you’re just a natural?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Big family?”
“Kind of, I guess.” I had wanted to ask him how he knew, but before I could get the first word on my tongue, he was on to the next question. He was sort of like old Pitts that way, always one step ahead.
“You the baby?”
“The oldest.”
“Humph. I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“Just surprised. Had you pegged as the baby. So, off the record, what do you think of Nate?”
“Well, I think Nate really loves the music.” Of course that was like putting a sunbonnet and perfume on a gorilla.
“How would you like his shift?”
I paused. “His shift ? Well, what do you mean? Is he leaving or something?”
“Depends. I’m just asking you how you’d like his shift.”
“I just think . . . well, Nate really loves the music.”
“You afraid of success?”
I knew why he asked, because once again I’d formed an attachment to the competition. I’d come out shaking hands after the bell had rung. I hadn’t the strength to capitalize on anyone’s weakness unless the stakes were personal.
Waxing philosophical, as had become my habit anytime I didn’t know the answer, I told Phil in so many words that I wasn’t sure whether I was afraid of success, or if I just didn’t believe in success, having no correlating impression of success. Lacking any immediate data from experience, the idea of success was patently not demonstrable in my case.
Phil laughed at that, and there was something about the way he laughed—benevolent, but patronizing—that suggested he understood everything about me; that my psyche, my will, and possibly even my future were visible to him.
“Okay, I see,” he said. “Well then, how does weekend overnights sound?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess. I mean, of course, Mr. Spencer.”
“Spence. Call me Spence. And just one thing.”
“What?”
“Keep
doing what you’re doing, but don’t get too personal. Familiar, yes, but not personal, not self-indulgent. Keep the reins on the personal stuff.”
“Got it.”
“You wanna get better, listen to Balance, listen to Owens, the guys with substance. Don’t try to be Rick Dees, don’t try to be Mark and Brian, be yourself, but don’t rely too much on one part of yourself. Be a whole person. If you want to be persuasive, listen to your callers. Don’t get wrapped up in what you want to say before they’ve spoken.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And always, always listen to your air-checks. Sit down with them and take notes. See what works, where there’s room for improvement—and trust me, there’s always room for improvement—read books, educate yourself, books about everything, practice framing your thoughts and subjects, practice seeing all sides of an issue, hearing all aspects of a song, and laugh with yourself, don’t depend on the listener. You’re a good talker. Spin words like Nate spins records.”
That was, and remains, the longest one thing anyone had ever told me. And the moment Spence bestowed those confidences upon me, something happened. I ceased being William Miller Jr., a blob of mashed potatoes, and I became somebody bigger and brasher and altogether grander. I became Will “The Thrill” Miller, a solid mass of probabilities.
The Nature of Illusion
Mission Statement for Hot Dog Heaven
Selling hot dogs of highest quality making perfect for consuming on Venice Beach boardwalk for young people and others. Also tourists consuming with families. Offer good deal for setting price and making good customer relations for return customer. Friendly service for wanting to come and eat best hot dog. Building franchise for serving hot dog using same idea for success everywhere. Spreading hot dog throughout China and other free markets once they are free from communism and other non free market systems.
Description for Company of Hot Dog Heaven
Company will have three equal partners that are Will Miller and Joe Tuttle and me Eugene Gobernecki. Maybe we incorporate for tax purpose. For gross revenue we split in half and put first half for overhead and for paying principal for leasing to ownership. Part of overhead equals hourly wage of six dollars in one hour. Net revenue we split equal three times for Will and Joe and Eugene. For Will he pay part extra from profit or have sweat equity by subtracting for hours at six dollars for one hour. All decisions about Hot Dog Heaven made like democracy for making fair.
Strategy for Growing Hot Dog Heaven
First comes high quality and friendly service and from here we grow. Not to overextend when coming time for franchise. Making choices prudent with questions of expansion of Hot Dog Heaven. But also taking risk which is calculated. Always making sure for friendly employee. Not to make expanded menu but keep simple with hot dogs and chili. Also extras for making it your way like from Burger King. Also promoting healthy hot dog of highest all natural quality for consuming. Makes good not only for health but for business also. Hot dog with chili is balanced meal for feeding nations. Having strong brand for global franchise to boost image. Making same everywhere. Hot dog is international language.
Cost Analysis for Hot Dog Heaven
For startup cost needing approximately one thousand dollars for improvements to current Hot Dog Heaven now called Hanks Hot Diggity. With this we make new sign and menu and buy uniforms and make promotion for new Hot Dog Heaven with balloons and free soda. Also for startup cost needing $402 toward vending license and some money extra for buns mustard relish chili and cleaning supplies.
Sales projections for first year Hot Dog Heaven
We selling maybe one hundred hot dogs in one day. Bottom line for operating costs equals one day and thirty to forty hot dogs depending on extras making for sixty to seventy hot dog profit for one day or three hundred to three hundred fifty dollars. At seven days makes for seven times. For whole year makes for one hundred nine thousand to one hundred forty thousand depending on extras.
A Solid Mass of Probabilities
Opening day at Hot Dog Heaven began at 8:00 AM in a blaze of expectation, with Eugene, Joe, and I dicing onions, loading napkin dispensers, and filling relish and ketchup tubs as though our lives depended on it. At any moment the flash flood of revenue was sure to crash upon us. By ten o’clock we were prepped and poised in starchy white aprons, tongs and buns at the ready. Eugene insisted on caps. White mesh adjustable baseball caps. Hot Dog Heaven, Out of This World emblazoned upon them in a red and yellow script suggestive of ketchup and mustard. Joe wore his cap backwards. I wore mine tilted rakishly off-center. Eugene wore his straight ahead.
For two and a half hours we stood expectantly behind the counter, monitoring the steam table, turning the onions occasionally, giving the relish a stir. We clicked our tongs and scratched ourselves and peered miserably out from beneath our wooden hatch into a thick fog. The boardwalk was deserted; even the seagulls weren’t interested.
“It look like fucking Bering Sea in middle of winter,” observed Eugene bleakly. “Maybe we need foghorn or some bullshit. Motherfuck.” Indeed, a foghorn might have come in handy—you could barely see the surf. Not hot dog weather. But the optimism of Eugene Gobernecki was indefatigable. “Oh well. Zis probably burn off.”
At one o’clock we were still socked in. A few people were walking their dogs. A speeding bicyclist passed now and again; twice it was the same guy. Somebody was bouncing a basketball somewhere in the distance. Occasionally the rim thrummed, and the chain net rattled. A guy in a fleece Patagonia stopped at the counter and asked for directions to Windward Plaza. He didn’t order anything. But Eugene’s faith was unwavering.
“Sings starting to pick up,” he said. “Put on cassette of Springteen with ‘Born Running.’”
Around one-thirty the fog finally burned off. The basketball courts began brimming with chatter. The foot traffic began flowing in broken streams, and Venice began to swell with color. And though it was a far cry from the Muscle Beach of the early ’50s—a Muscle Beach buzzing with acrobats and strongmen and human towers and teen spirit that wasn’t canned but rather trumpeted by the wholesome likes of Joe Gold and Bill Trumbo and Jack LaLanne and Big Bill Miller—though it was a far cry from all that, still, if I listened carefully, I could intimate the clanging and grunting of Muscle Beach in its modern incarnation from my post in Hot Dog Heaven. I could envision the new generation of bodies assembled there, rippling personages in neoprene shorts and torn T-shirts, heaving and pounding their chests, paining and gaining, paining and gaining, until their hearts beat in their biceps and their jaws hung agape. Nike swoops everywhere. Bottled water. Women with fourteen-inch biceps. A different kind of prosperity.
By two o’clock boom boxes were competing up and down the boardwalk. The current had started to eddy in places. The henna tattoo lady was out. The qigong massage guy, even the shaved ice guy was out. A few tentative souls began contemplating hot dogs, but only at a distance. Finally, a homeless guy with dreads and a shopping cart purchased an all-beef dog. Eugene waited patiently as the full balance was paid in nickels and dimes. The dready guy heaped inordinate amounts of sauerkraut and relish on his dog, and though Eugene smiled politely through the ordeal, he could not belie a wince when the guy went back for his third helping of relish.
Fifteen minutes passed before a few Korean gang members bought foot-longs, and a few teenage girls lined up, along with a black guy in a cowboy hat. And suddenly, we were slammed. The torrent of revenue crashed upon us at last, the steam table lid rang like a cymbal, and the ketchup bottles splurted and belched. Orders arrived three and four at a time. An hour elapsed in an instant, then two. America was alive and well. The beleaguered masses were ravenous for hot dogs, and Hot Dog Heaven provided them. By four o’clock we were exhausted, disheveled, spattered with ketchup. The coolers were empty. The garbage can was heaping with soiled napkins and foil wrappers. And Hot Dog Heaven grossed three hundred and eighty bu
cks.
We rang four hundred and sixty the following day. The third day we broke five hundred, which soon became the standard. Within three weeks Eugene had his bronze medal out of hock. Success was empowering. One afternoon a sun-kissed goddess arrived on roller blades, with pale blue eyes and a cleft chin and a chest that may or may not have been real—I didn’t care. She ordered a foot-long and ate it at the counter. She talked with her mouth full. She said she was an actress. I said, Aren’t they just calling everyone “actors” now? She said that she still preferred actress. Then she dribbled mustard down her cleavage, and I boldly wiped it off with a napkin, and gazing down into the golden valley, I felt a lump in my throat and a slight arrhythmia in my chest, and for a few precious moments there existed another woman in the world besides Lulu. The actress didn’t object to any of it. In fact, it seemed to amuse her. When I recovered sufficiently, I told her that being a restaurateur was just one of my business ventures (this, as orders were backing up and Joe was shouting C’mon, ass-munch). I explained to her that I was a radio personality (C’mon, man, who’s got my back? I need three foot-longs and a medium Coke! ), in fact, I told her, she could tune in that very night and hear my voice surfing the radio waves anywhere in the L.A. basin, a fact that seemed to impress her somewhat, but not enough to make me good-looking. I didn’t get a number, or even a name. But I was making progress. I’d had a chance with her. There was a palpable moment, a brief window of opportunity when it could’ve gone the other way, when the future might have ceased conforming with the past. Perhaps if I’d let my radio voice do the talking.
My whole orientation to American culture was changing. I was assigning myself a new caste. I finally learned the difference between coveting success and simply pining for it. The difference resided in action.
To watch Eugene Gobernecki handle a hot dog was truly inspiring. The way he nestled each sausage lovingly into its bun, wrapped it fastidiously in gold foil (Gold! he insisted. Everybody doing silver! ), the way he tucked it snuggly into its paperboard cradle and passed it over the counter like a newborn, like every hot dog was his goddaughter. Hot dog vending was Eugene’s love story. He handled the money just as lovingly as he handled the sausage, smoothing out the wrinkles, scrupulously laying all the bills in the cash box face up in the same direction, wincing every time Joe and I refused to do the same. Eugene did it all with panache. He didn’t serve customers, he seduced them. The guy just looked good with a hot dog in his hand. Some guys were born to hold a hot dog, I guess. Eugene knew how to woo the hungry masses. Like a siren, he crooned to would-be customers as they passed.