"That Son of a Bitch!"

After the 3 radio stations I managed in LA were sold…that made a total of 6 sold in 11 years. I’d had it with the radio business….

Of course, I decided to take one more shot.

I bundled together the money, made an offer on a station in Boston, the guy accepted the offer, we shook hands on the deal. My lawyer sent him a purchase agreement. 

This was Thursday, I was excited as hell. I flew home to LA on Friday morning, I was a little hung over from the celebration with Sharp in Boston on Thursday night, but I was good.

My wife picked me up at LAX, we stopped at Pann’s for lunch. I had chicken and waffles, she had a salad. We laughed, we made plans and decided we’d move to either Beverley or Marblehead. I voted  for living in the Back Bay again, but somehow in a democracy of two, she has more votes than I do.

I waited the entire weekend for the purchase agreement to show up, I was supposed to get the document via email and then a signed hard copy to sign and send back with a 10% deposit. I didn’t get it Friday or Saturday. I didn’t get it on Sunday. I called him at noon pacific time on Monday.

He answered his phone on the 8^th ring.

“Oh hi, I was just going to call you.” He said.

“Hey man I haven’t got the purchase agreement yet.”

“Well, I ah…ahh.”

“Do we have a problem?”

“Well, uh huh, yes.” he says. I could smell the sweat from all the way across the country.

“If you tell me what the hang up is, let’s get it fixed.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve sold the station already.”

“What? You already sold it to me last Thursday. We had a god damned deal, you and Sharpie and I pounded it over breakfast, we agreed on everything. For Christ’s sake, you sat there and made a deal with me and you were working another deal at the same time?”

“Not really.” He sounded nervous.

“What do you mean not really, what did you do, use our agreement to leverage more money from another buyer? I’ve known you for 15 fucking years, you’ve eaten at my house, you’ve been over at Christmas. My wife thinks you walk on water. We’ve hung out together, I sat by your hospital bed when everybody thought you were going to die from a god damn stroke…and this how you fuck with your friend?”

“It isn’t like that, not at all, I uh, kind of had this going on before we talked and uh…”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It kind of came up after we talked last week.”

“We didn’t just talk, we made a deal, we forged an agreement and we shook hands on it. It was done.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry enough to complete our deal?”

“I can’t, the other deal is done.” He said.

“How much more money did you get?”

“Way less money.”

“What, you sold it for less money?”

“I sold it to the Archdiocese, for 250 grand cash and a 1.9 million dollar tax credit, plus they are going to rent the tower site from me and pay a monthly fee for program production and studio rental. They signed a ten year deal on the studio and a 25 year deal on the tower site.”

“I hope you and Jesus get along….and I hope his checks are good.”

I hung up the phone. I was pissed. The minute I set it down, Sharpe the broker called from New York.

“Did you get the agreement back yet?”

“No. He fucked me and you at the same time.”

I told Sharp the entire story, when I finished he said, “That son of a bitch.”

I hadn’t hung up from Sharpe for more than a couple of minutes when the phone rang again. It was a guy I’d worked for early in my career, he called to congratulate me on becoming a station owner, I told him the story, when I finished, he said, “That son of a bitch.”

I took the dog to the park and threw the ball for him until my arm damn near fell off, I got back, checked my phone, two messages. I called back, told them what happened and guess what? The son of a bitch thing. Both times.

When my wife got home, I told her the story of my day. She didn’t say anything, she got up poured herself a glass of wine, came back into my office. She looked at me and said, “That son of a bitch.”