The Perfect Gentleman
by Marion J. May
Lilly was glad to return to the little mill town where she began her media career 30 years ago. When the four-seater plane hovered over the river near the radio station, she was reminded of an eventful night from those early days.
As NovaMedia’s CEO of Mergers and Acquisitions, Lilly expected her job to bring her back here one day. Her know-how from working in Northern Ontario media was key to the company’s successful expansion in the area. This station, serving a population of 15,000, was the last to be brought into the fold.
* * *
Memories from her early twenties came flooding back; being the first to get a radio copywriting job in her all-male class, fleeing the grasp of yet another controlling man with an uncontrollable temper, her 14-hour train escape northbound from Toronto only to be met by DJ Dingo’s harassment. She recalled his innuendos, advances, staring and, worse, his intimidation and stalking.
On her first day, as she spoke with the station manager, Dingo circled nearby, his breath smelling of booze. “Give her this desk, boss! I want to keep an eye on this one.”
Recognizing the tactic, Lilly pushed back. “How about that one?” she asked, pointing to an empty desk near the back door. When Dingo was vetoed, he stared at her chest. “You’ll be cold back there,” he goaded.
Lilly squared her shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Dingo can be a jerk,” the station manager told her privately, “but he has loyal listeners, and we all depend on the ad dollars he pulls in. Play along. If he thinks he stands a chance, he’ll back off.”
A week later, Lilly discovered the three copywriters before her had lasted less than a month. Dingo claimed they couldn’t handle the workload. Lilly feared otherwise. Despite Dingo’s being a lecherous alcoholic, Lilly knew the station wouldn’t change a thing.
In the afternoon before the incident, Dingo had arrived early. His cheap aftershave preceded him as he paraded toward Lilly’s desk. Recalling his remarks about her “hot bod,” she pulled on her Dingo armour: a bulky sweater.
Suddenly, he appeared behind her and ran his fingers down her spine.“What’s the matter, Copycat?” he whispered, reeking of whiskey.
She brushed his hand away. “Could, could you... please just leave me alone?”
He put his hands in the air, shook his blond ringlets and asked, “What’d I do?”
* * *
Foreigner’s “Cold as Ice” rang out as DJ Dingo signed off. “This one’s for Lilly, celebrating three months on the job.” Like she needed a reminder!
It was almost 6 pm. The station would be off the air. Lilly had become distracted with the day’s stack of Christmas ads to be written. She chided herself for being left alone with him.
Next, she heard Dingo call out, “Allo? Anybody out there?” After seeing her alone, he locked the front door.
“Just you and me, Copycat,” he said, pointing in her face and moving her typewriter table aside. “Time to get to know each other.” He towered over her and pushed her chair backwards, cornering her between desk and wall. His sour whiskey breath enveloped the air between them. Even for him, he seemed tipsy.
He placed both of his hands on her shoulders and pushed down hard. Lilly shoved him backwards. He stumbled and fell to the floor. Lilly bolted out the backdoor. She ran in her office pumps toward the woods and the river footbridge near the back of the station.
After treading cautiously across the narrow, snowy footbridge, she hid behind a spruce bush. To her surprise, despite his drunken state, Dingo easily crossed the bridge.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” he called. As he staggered from side-to-side looking for her, he lost his balance, and slipped down the ridge into the river. She gasped in horror as she watched the river’s dark, choppy waters sweep Dingo downstream. He bobbed up and down, gasping for air as he searched for something to pull himself to safety. At a narrowing in the river, he grabbed the limb of a fallen tree, clung to it, and screamed for help.
Quivering with indecision, Lilly cautiously made her way toward him. Seeing him so desperate, so weak and so close to drowning, she resolved to save him... on her terms.
Lilly pulled off her sweater, tied a knot in the middle, then held it pensively in her hands. “Why should I save you? You’ve made my life hell!”
“I’m sorry,” he begged. “I’ll do anything. I’ll never bother you again. I promise!”
“A promise is forever, Dingo! Better remember that! I’m not going anywhere. So, no more of your stupid games. Got it?”
“I promise. Forever!”
Lilly threw one of the sweater’s sleeves to Dingo and dragged him to safety. He lay panting and shivering on the riverbank. Lilly unknotted her now stretched and ragged sweater and threw it over him.
“Thank you!” he whispered to her.
She turned and ran to a nearby house to call an ambulance.
* * *
The plane landed smoothly on the tree-lined runway, Lilly’s eyes welled up with tears. Her mascara began to run. The pilot tapped her co-pilot and cocked her head toward Lilly, who handed her a tissue. “Hey? Everything okay, hon’?” the co-pilot asked.
“Thanks. I’m fine,” Lilly sniffed. “Believe me, these are happy tears.”
When Lilly entered the radio station later that day, the station manager, Mélanie, a petite French-Canadian woman, greeted her warmly and showed her around. Carole, the afternoon DJ, waved hello from the high-tech on-air booth. A framed photo of Dingo hung outside the door. Lilly was taken aback by his handsome features; clear blue eyes, blond ringlets, and disarming smile. The plaque below read, “DJ Dingo (Jack King) 25 years on air. Loved and fondly remembered by thousands of listeners.”
“He died about a year ago,” Mélanie told her. “Très gentil ! Yes, the perfect gentleman.”
Copyright © 2022 by Marion J. May
