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respectful of our audience. Privately, though, during a commercial break, she’d come into the studio, on the other side of the sound-proof glass from Rod, and blast the conventional conservative wisdom.
    â€œStan, you don’t really believe that shit?” I’d simply roll my eyes.
    On air, in limited doses, I’d call upon her to provide a feminist response to my boorish banter. Frankly, she had the easier job because she got to say what she really thought.
    Me: “The Gov-er-na-tor’s relationship with his maid is none of anybody’s business. All that matters is that he acted with propriety while running the affairs of California.”
    Alex: “Stan, you really disappoint me. He was a man in a position of power who took advantage of a female employee. Next you’ll be telling me hookers cannot be raped.”
    Me: “Hookers can be raped, but anyone applying for that job needs to know it’s a recognized employment hazard.”
    And so it went. The audience really seemed to enjoy the interplay, without any clue as to what either of us was really all about. That would have been too much for most of them to handle.
    But above all, her most important quality was pure and unadulterated competence. She had a knack for getting shit done. And in radio, as is the case in any other workplace, that skill was always in short supply.
    Straightlaced Rod had a difficult time dealing with Alex, whom he sat next to in a confined area for four hours a day. For the most part, he kept his opinions and any discomfort to himself, save for one time a few election cycles ago when his coping skills became particularly problematic. As we got close to that November election, we had a daily onslaught of surrogates in the studio and on this particular day, we were expecting Mary Cheney, the daughter of former Vice-President Cheney, who was now a pundit. For once in her life, Alex was legitimately excited about one of my Republican political guests.
    â€œStan, I’d like to bring Becky in tomorrow to watch some of the program if that’s ok,” she said, referring to her roommate with whom I was already acquainted.
    â€œSure thing,” I responded.
    It didn’t occur to me until the interview began why both Alex and Becky revered Mary Cheney. Becky sat between Alex and Rod while I was conducting the interview, and when the segment was over, the two women had a photo taken with Mary as I looked through the glass and took note of Rod’sdisapproving scowl. Well, the following day, Alex called me after I’d just gotten home.
    â€œSome freak leafleted my car.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWhen I came out to my car, Stan, someone had left a printed card on it that said: ‘Even if you were born gay, you still need to be born again.’ ”
    â€œSo what. That shit happens. I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
    But the following day it happened again. Only this time Alex had the presence of mind to look at the other cars in the WRGT lot, and none of them had anything similar on their windshields.
    â€œI know it’s the Chinkster,” she said that day, meaning Rod. “I don’t think he got me until he met Becky.”
    â€œDo you want me to speak to him?”
    â€œI don’t want you to get involved. I know his old man is important. I just want you to be aware of it because he scares me sometimes. This is Westboro Baptist sort of shit, Stan.”
    I debated whether to discuss it with my boss, Steve Bernson, but pussied-out. If I said something to him, I feared he’d say something to Atlanta which might get back to Vernon Chinkles, and I couldn’t afford that. Plus, I didn’t want Alex to take any heat. Thankfully nothing further came of it, but it was a wake-up call regarding Rod. We continued to exist, our odd little trio, held together by the one thing we had in common: our dedication to the program, and the goal of producing the