Cover

Dedication

To Charlene, my audience of one, the sister I chose

MAN SHORTAGE

A red light blipped on the top left of the control board. Liza B. had a caller. “Hello and good evening. You are live with Liza B., the only DJ who gives a jam. Tell me what’s on your mind . . .”

The producer mouthed a name to her.

“. . . Keisha?”

“Girl, we are in a man shortage. I’m broke! I can’t be buying my own steaks,” a cheery woman’s voice buzzed over Liza’s headphones. Liza pressed a flashing orange button on the control board and slid the dial all the way to the top. This was her pulpit. Instead of airbrushed paintings of blond Jesus, posters of Afrobeat stars, Punjabi crooners, K-pop idols, and reggaeton bad boys competed for space on the cork wall of the small booth. Instead of scripture, someone had graffitied MegaRadio Sux on the table. Her parishioners called in with their “confessions” and she gave them the good word. She wasn’t saving orphans in Soweto like she always imagined, but it was a kind of service to the community.

“It is a man drought, girl,” Liza agreed. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“You know those new buildings that they’re putting up at Netherfield Court?”

“You mean the overpriced luxury apartments that will force us out of our neighborhood and change the fabric of DC forever?” Liza said.

“Um . . . yeah, those . . .” Keisha stammered. “Anyway, there are a lot of men working construction. I’m just going to walk past there in my shortest shorts!”

Liza remembered why she liked this job so much.

“So they can catcall you? Whoop and holler? What are you getting out of this deal?” Liza pressed.

“Do I need to spell it out, Alizé Bennett?” The woman dragged her whole government name out like an old boot. Being named after an alcoholic drink popular in the nineties was not a fact Liza wanted broadcast across the nation’s capital. She had job applications floating around.

“That’s Liza B. Leesa with a Z to you.” She kept her name explanations ready. People saw a Z in your name and lost their damn minds. She could not count how many times she had been called “Lizard” with a straight face.

“Well, Liza B., I’m a woman. I have needs.”

“Excuse me, I thought it’s a kind of truth universally acknowledged that every broke woman wants a rich man, not just vitamin D!”

“Times are changing, honey,” Keisha told her. “The construction company is having a get-together over at Netherfield. Will the radio station be there?”

“I have to pass,” Liza said. She couldn’t begrudge people for wanting to get fed and dance on someone else’s dime. But she had her principles.

“Good! Maybe the rest of us will stand a chance without you and your sisters showing up looking snatched!”