her face—and tatas—would be flashed all over the news, and on the real Entertainment Tonight and YouTube. It doesn’t take much to make the news these days, as I prove every week with my stories on Deco Time.
“I was just playing, Teddy. You get all fussy over nothing. It’s Deco Time, remember? We’re supposed to be playful, tongue-in-cheek, and everything in between, you know.” She grabs and squeezes her tits to emphasize her point. She gets up from her side of our hot pink news desk with its big white sign behind us that blinks “DECO TIME,” like the infamous Hollywood sign. Flanking the sign are two fake yet lush palm trees. Very Miami.
“Watch out! I’m going get to get you back on next Friday’s show. You can count on it, Trina Fucker…Oops, did I just say that? I meant, Tucker.”
“Oh, whatever Teddy. Don’t let your pink feathers get all ruffled over this. You’re not a pink flamingo at Metro Zoo. You’re still the star of the station,” she says, flailing her arms like a diva as she walks back to her desk. As she struts, her heels echo through the studio.
She’s right. She was just playing. I just don’t like looking like an ass on TV, but that’s hard when you host a wanna-be ET show called Deco Time. If Trina pulls another one of her cheap shots on air, this show is going to be called Deck her Time.
I follow Trina’s lead and head back to my own cubicle, maneuvering around the cameras, sound equipment, and lights of the news studio. The only thing I care about right now is that it’s Friday. Thank God! What a week it was. Let me give you a recap. I spent Monday covering the double suicide of a mother and daughter in Hollywood Beach. The women hung themselves in their house. Bizarre! My Tuesday went to covering an eight-car pile-up on I-95 on the Dade-Broward line all because some driver lost control of her Lexus SUV while applying some lipstick. (I’m surprised it wasn’t Trina who caused that wreck layering her L’Oreal foundation.) Wednesday was all about the President rolling into town for a surprise appearance at the University of Miami. Love her! That story is a keeper for my “Best of Ted Williams” news reel. Thursday, what did I do yesterday? Oh yeah, it was my turn to do a follow-up on the Miami real estate robber. He’s the guy who pretends to look at homes in Coral Gables and Pinecrest with pretty agents and then snatches their purses. Scary. It’s making the property values dip for the neighbors of the listed properties. So with all this gloom and doom reporting, I don’t mind spending my Fridays taping Deco Time or my occasional Wednesday’s Child segments, where we highlight a local youngster who wants to be adopted. I enjoy hanging out with the kids we feature because they’re regulars at the South Beach Boys and Girls Club. It’s for a good cause. Those segments and Deco Time provide outlets to gently ease into the weekend, except when Trina pulls one of her cattylicious lines on me.
With all the make-up they put on her, you’d think there was a drag queen sitting next to me on the set. People know me more for my Deco Time segments than my breaking news reports, so I don’t mind the actual duty. I just sit back and comment on all the video we have about our local and out-of-town celebs frolicking on Ocean Drive and Collins Ave. and at Oprah’s Fisher Island digs. Every now and then, I grab our camera guy Carlos, and we hit the clubs to dish about the hottest bar in South Beach or downtown, and I take Ray and Brian along for the ride. In the past few years, downtown Miami, a place you’d avoid at night at all costs, has become a clubbing destination. It really has stolen South Beach’s club thunder because there’s plenty of parking and you don’t have to deal with the causeway caravan clogging the streets. Besides, South Beach has become more international heterosexual than it was young and homosexual in the ’90s when Ray and I were at UM.
The round newsroom clock reads 9 p.m., and I’m sitting at my cubicle (no, most TV reporters don’t have their own offices unless you’re BaBa WaWa). I loosen up my baby pink tie and check my emails before I take off. There’s one from Ray from 6 p.m.
I’m getting ready to leave work. I saw Miami Vice II today. Will tell you all about it later but you won’t be missing too much if you skip it. Anyhoo, see you at Score, TV whore!
Ray has such a way with words. He’s always been more of the writer. I’ve been more of the give-me-the-facts ma’am reporter. I read some more emails from viewers, mostly realtors complaining about my story last night. They say they’ve had cancellations for house tours because of my reporting. To be nice, I write them back with kindness.
Hi, thank you for your email and for watching Channel 7. I appreciate your feedback. Send us your news tips.
Sometimes, these people just want a response.
I log off and shut down my computer before walking out of the studio’s main doors off the 79th Street Causeway in Miami Beach and toward the parking lot. I have a reserved space that reads “TWILLIAMS” for my cherry-red BMW. Once inside, I glance at the digital clock and notice I have just enough time to get to my home in mid-Miami Beach, and get ready for tonight.
In case you were wondering, I do share the same name as the famous Boston Red Sox slugger. It was my dad’s idea. Being a Williams, he always thought it would be great to have a son named Ted after his favorite ball player. Little did my Irish dad know that I would grow up hating sports, so the name is kind of ironic. The only ball I could hit was the glittering one in the club on ’80s nights in Beantown. I also take after my mother’s Portuguese family with the dark tanned skin, which confused people back home when I was growing up because of my last name. It could have been worse. I could have had her maiden name, San Paolo. Then I would have been Ted São Paolo. Sounds like a tasty dish, huh?
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up into my brick-paved driveway, and walk up my winding cement walkway to my small cottage off Pine Tree Drive. I love living here, along the Intracoastal Waterway and within walking distance of the beach. Because of my boost in salary after I received a competing offer from Channel Four, I am able to afford this little real estate gem. It’s a one-story white bungalow from 1936 with two bedrooms, an office, and a small backyard. Several red, yellow, and pink hibiscus trees ribbon the exterior of the property. This is my little beach oasis from the daily news grind.
I tinker with the keys, and hear some scratching and whimpering on the other side of the door. That’s Max, my sandy chihuahua, just like the doggie from those old Taco Bell commercials. “Yo quiero Ted Williams,” I always joke to guests. When I do that, I hold up Max and mimic the Taco Bell dog’s Spanish-accented voice.
“Calm down, Max. I know you’ve got to go.” The moment I open the front door, Max starts scratching at my gray slacks, trying to climb up me. He’s so sweet. He’s excited to see me because he’s been cooped up inside the house all day.
“Now, now. Let me put your leash on, and we’ll go, OK?” Max follows me to my Mexican-tiled kitchen, where I toss him some treats, grab the leash, and hook it around his neck.
We walk outside and down Pine Tree Drive, passing the majestic gated estates with flowing fountains that dwarf my little house. The sidewalk is wet from the automatic sprinklers that water the manicured green grass and trees. Max sniffs around and finds his spot under a palm tree next to the Weinsteins’ home.
“There ya go! Good boy!” Max starts peeing like Oprah in that scene in her movie Beloved where she gets so excited upon seeing Danny Glover’s character that she pisses like a racehorse. As we walk back to the house, I feel the beach breezes soothe my skin and spirit like the winds off Cape Cod, my hometown. I can’t help but wonder at what a good life I have and how blessed I am. I have the job of my dreams, a dog that adores me, friends who love me, a nice big Irish-Portuguese family back in Massachusetts, and a beautiful home in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But I can’t help but feel like I want more. Even though I’m a famous reporter in South Florida, where I get the best stories, I come home to Max and no one else.
During weeks like this, I fantasize about how nice it would be to come home to Max and a boyfriend. Someone who would have dinner ready and a romantic night with flickering vanilla-scented candles softly lighting the rooms. Someone who wants to share his life with me as much as I want to share my life with him and Max and perhaps another dog or even a kid. Maybe I could adopt one of those Wednesday’s Child kids with a partner one day.
As