Promotions are not what they're cracked up to be.
I thought when I accepted the job as general manager of WBZE, the top rated radio station on St. Chris, if not the entire Caribbean, I'd landed in a bed of frangipani.
I would still host my regular weekday radio show from 6 A.M. 'til noon, then shuffle a few papers, sign paychecks, morale boost the troops, and saunter out the door at 1 P.M., for a real lunch instead of a carton of pineapple yogurt inhaled during a sixty second commercial break, my work day done.
Talk about self delusion. Before you could say Johann Sebastian Bach I was up to my toffee colored eyes in trouble.
That's Trouble with a capital T which rhymes with P, which stands for political infighting.
If I'd known there was also a very dead body in my future, I would have jumped the good ship WBZE faster than my cat Minx can pounce on a mousie and joined Mrs. H on her six month 'round the world cruise.
Mrs. H is the owner of WBZE and, prior to my ascension, also the general manager. She offered the promotion with a generous raise and bonus attached, like a diamond studded carrot, the previous Christmas when my life was in twenty four hour a day bedlam. I decided to accept the offer on Old Year's Day, it was official February 1. Even rated page one in the Coconut Telegraph, the St. Chris daily newspaper, "Kelly Ryan to Run WBZE." Heady stuff.
There was one fat zircon among the diamonds.
Chairmanship of the annual Navidad de Isabeya parade committee. Mrs. H casually added it to my job description during one of our last pre-cruise meetings in late February.
"By the way, Kelly, would you do something for me while I'm gone?"
"Sure, name it." I thought she meant a simple favor, like watering plants.
"Take over the birthday celebration parade committee." Mrs. H, noticing the 'are-you-out-of-your-bloody-mind?' look on my face, quickly added, "piece of cake, the committee practically runs itself."
I knew she was lying through her capped teeth when she said, "you're the boss, take off any extra time you need. I don't expect you to abandon your personal life for the station. Or the parade."
She handed me a slim file folder labelled Parade. "Our second committee meeting's tonight."
Without missing a beat she segued into, "how's Jeff? Will he be back in time for my Bon Voyage party?"
"Smooth, Mrs. H. Very smooth."
Notice how deftly she switched the topic to my love life? Jeff - Jeff Payne, son of the old island family who founded the local rum distillery, he's the chief detective on the St. Chris police force - and I had been seeing each other since early December and were quite cozy. When we had time. Between his job and mine there weren't enough hours in the day, especially when I went to sleep by 9 every work night in order to get up at 4:30 to be on the air by 6.
"I'd love to help you out Mrs. H, but this isn't going to work. I hate group poop. I'm allergic to Robert's Rules of Order." I placed the file back on her desk.
Mrs. H looked at me over the top of her rose-tinted horn-rimmed reading glasses. "Nice try, Kelly. You'll be perfect. Can't stand that camel building committee stuff myself. See you at the library at 7."
I recognized an exit line when I heard one.
My parting shot was to stroll out of Mrs. H's office with the file tucked under my arm, whistling "Nearer My God to Thee."
A throaty chuckle was her only reply.