He's tilted back in his chair, knees wedged up against the console, letting the last part of the last song of this morning show wash over him. It's the trick he's done since childhood: letting music build waves and colors in his mind's eye, a palette shifting with the sounds, kind of like the light shows they used to do at concerts back in California, but better. This song has weird watery shimmers in it, edged with purple. He would've wondered what the big deal was about MTV in comparison, if careful conversations in the L.A. days hadn't revealed that most people only saw things along with music when they were on something.
A rap on the booth window behind him startles him upright. It's Bailey, a sheaf of paper in one hand, looking a little ghostly - more like half a ghost, what with dark skirt fading into the background and white blouse not. She waves. He gives her a thumbs-up, and that's her cue to come in.
The song shimmers its way to the end and disappears in a little gold synthesizer burst, and he grabs the mike: "And that was A Flock of Seagulls with 'I Ran,' and with that, the Doctor is giving all of you a prescription to RUN! Carpe that diem, fellow babies, seize that day with all the seizing you got IN you! AWOO! And your very own Dr. Johnny Fever is gonna take some of his own medicine and run on out of here till tomorrow a.m. Stay tuned to the big WKRP for our 10-o-clock news spot, and then the ever-edifying Rex Erhart coming at you - after these words from our lovely sponsors."
He slaps in the commercial tape. The Shady Hills guy starts drawling: "Have you ever asked yourself this age-old question..." before he can turn the volume down.
Bailey makes a face. "Herb still pushing those spots?"
"Ohhh yes."
"Kind of a comedown after your show."
He relinquishes the chair to her and starts putting on his coat. "Oh, I dunno. By now most people are settling into work and feeling like one step away from death, so it might just be hitting the target market. Les's News Intro of Grandiose is cued up when you're ready. Should be in about five minutes. Four-and-a-half, once Mr. Shady Hills gets through telling the public about their golden years."
"Roger. What are you putting that on for? The heat okay in here?"
"Sure. Just, having it on reminds me of where my body is."
Bailey laughs a little. He ponders whether to tell her he's really not joking about that, but decides against it. She already knows he's crazy.
In a minor miracle, there's actually fresh coffee in the bullpen. Herb's not here - though his deskside mirror is unfolded, so he must have been checking it earlier, ergo he's out on a sales appointment - and Les's desk is unoccupied too, though strewn with teletype printouts. A rare and very weird moment of peace, then. Johnny sinks into the couch, mug in hand, eyes closing against his will.
Roughly one nanosecond later, the door opens in a burst of chatter.
Four guys: Les and Andy, and two strangers. One guy is older in the way that makes people call you distinguished instead of just old. On a Terrible Suit scale of one to Herb, about a five. Something vaguely familiar about his face. One younger guy, blond, trying a little too hard for the business casual look, a faint air of they would've kicked you out of my school on sight, hippie smarminess. They both look a little bewildered, but that's probably because Les is chattering at them about current trends in hog futures.
"And this is the bullpen," Andy breaks in, once Les stops to take a breath. "Everyone else who's not a DJ works back here. Sales, promotion, and news. Bailey's going on the air with the next news spot in a couple of minutes, actually. Oh, speaking of DJs, this is our morning man, er, Doctor - "
Ah, hell. Clearly these guys are important somehow, so he gets to his feet to shake hands. "Johnny Caravella."
"Frank Quarters," the older guy introduces himself.
"Quarters?"
"Bailey's my little girl."
"Oh." 'Little girl'? Oh, brother. He looks over the guys' heads at Andy, who gives a little shrug.
"And this young fella is my nephew, Carl." The kid flashes a smile of at least 60 watts' worth of insincerity as he shakes hands.
"They're in town on consulting business," Andy explains, his drawl a tiny bit impatience-short. "Mr. Quarters here wanted to see where Bailey works, and talk to Mr. Carlson about some - services ...?"
"Computerized data storage!" Mr. Quarters' enthusiastic nodding looks weirdly like a bobblehead doll. "You may not believe it now, but it's the way of the future - and more affordable all the time." He looks over at Les, who's stacking folders behind his desk. "Why, Mr. - Messman, was it? - someday you'll be getting all your news reports from a computer. That teletype will make a nice paperweight!"
Les, glaring, starts to say something, but Andy cuts him off with: "Bailey should be on right about ... now," and turns up the speaker on the wall.
Bailey's News Reporter voice floats out, smooth like polished mahogany: "...arms reduction negotiations with the Soviet Union continue today, as the president - "
"Wow," Carl says. "She sounds so ... grown-up."
"Well, she was really just a kid when you saw her last." Mr. Quarters turns to Andy. "She sounds really professional, Mr. Travis. I know Ohio State didn't do that for her, was that you?"
"Bailey did most of that herself, sir." Andy's still smiling, but it looks strained now. "Les coached her some, too."
"Really?" Mr. Quarters doesn't even try to hide the skepticism in his voice.
I bet I'll regret this, Johnny thinks, but - "He's the four-time winner of the Buckeye Newshawk Award. Some other stuff, too."
"That's five-time winner," Les corrects, without looking up.
The speaker crackles and fuzzes, then resumes: "- and for Les Nessman, this is Bailey Quarters saying good day, and may the good news be yours!" Another quick static burst, and then the Red Wigglers jingle starts chirping away. Andy turns the speaker down at that, thank God.
"She subs for you, then, Mr. Messman?" Carl asks.
"Actually, she does two regular news spots every weekday," Andy says. "For the past several months."
Mr. Quarters shakes his head, but at least he's smiling. "When she went to major in journalism, I never thought it would work, y'know? I said, 'Honey, you have such a hard time even talking to people, how are you ever supposed to interview anyone?' But if you're on the radio and you don't have to be face-to-face with someone, I suppose that makes sense."
"She does some in-person interviewing - " Johnny starts explaining, right before the bullpen door opens.
"Oh, Andy, there you are!" Bailey's grinning. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the Enigmatic Bagels concert promotion - " Then she stops short.
Johnny's reminded of the deer in the scrubby woods behind the trailer park where he'd grown up: how if you surprised one, it'd just freeze absolutely still, like it was trying to vanish by sheer mental power, but also watch you really intently. That's exactly what Bailey's doing.
A tick of silence, and then her voice, a little shaky: "Dad?"
"Bailey!" And Mr. Quarters goes over to hug her. "Honey, I just heard your newscast, and it was terrific!"
She extracts herself after a moment, a bit stiffly. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming to the station?"
"Well, you said we should meet up if I was going to be in town, and since you didn't give me your address, I just figured - "
Andy shoots a puzzled look at Johnny on hearing that, and he shrugs back.
"Dad." Bailey's voice is a little firmer now. "I said to call me ahead of time. You didn't have to come here."
"It worked out better, though. I made an appointment with your Mr. Carlson to talk about computerized data storage this morning. Fine fellow, seemed very interested."
"Hi, Bailey," Carl pipes up.
Bailey stares at him. "Carl?"
"In the flesh." Another cheesy smile.
"What are you doing here?"
"I got laid off from the place in Akron. Uncle Frank got his supervisor to hire me on for a bit, just a temp till that one lady consultant comes back from maternity leave. If she does, that is. You know a lot of them don't, so maybe it'll be permanent - "
"Really." Bailey's voice is very flat.
"So he's showing me the ropes. Jeez, Bailey, it's been years."
"Yeah. Um, look, Dad? We've got this upcoming concert promo to deal with, lots of marketing, it's complicated, so I don't actually have that much time to talk? Someone from the venue should be calling any second now. We've been trying to get in touch with them for days, can't miss it." Bailey's talking faster now, words starting to trip over each other the way they had back when she'd first been hired.
"Okay, sweetheart, I'll leave you to it. We can meet up for dinner later, huh? I'll call you here."
"Call the main office number." Bailey sits down at her desk and starts shuffling papers. "I'll probably be playing phone tag all day. You know how these things are!"
"Will do!" Mr. Quarters waves.
"Good luck with your, er, hogs, Mr. Messman," Carl says. Les just nods, the way he does when he's so annoyed that he doesn't have a polite response.
Andy shepherds them out, pausing just long enough for a brief, friendly tap on Bailey's shoulder before closing the bullpen door behind him.
"'Messman'?" Les glares at the door.
Bailey leans back in her chair. "Oh, don't worry about it, Les." Her voice has a false chirp of cheeriness in it. "That's just my dad. Must be losing his hearing as he gets older, because he listens to people even less than he ever did."
"Computerized data storage?" Johnny asks. "Does he know WKRP doesn't have the budget for that? Or, I mean, that Mother Carlson would never let go of the purse strings long enough."
"I didn't even know he was going to see Mr. Carlson about it." Bailey sounds tired all of a sudden. "But it doesn't really surprise me. It'll work itself out, I guess. Oh, by the way, I put Rex's tape in already."
"Cool. I can deal with the mess in the record room." And mooch some food from whatever Venus might have stashed back there, he thinks.
"Venus said if you swipe stuff from his stash again, he'll turn you upside down and shake you till payment falls out," Bailey says.
Johnny puts a hand over his heart in mock surprise. "I am offended by the very suggestion, Miss Quarters. I'll have you know I am a thoroughly rule-abiding citizen, completely innocent of any nefarious plans - "
"Out!" But Bailey smiles ever so slightly as she says that.
He salutes and heads back down the hall.
The record room is surprisingly cold. He turns the lights on to reveal the scattered piles of records and jackets stacked, oh, pretty much everywhere they shouldn't be, after Rex pre-recording for the week and Venus up to God only knew what overnight.
"Erhart, Flytrap, you owe me," he mutters, and starts matching records to jackets.
Only then does it occur to him that no one had called Bailey's phone after all.