Tim was the first to admit that of all the childish, embarrassing, teenage, imbecilic fixations one can have in life, he had the worst. A crush so stupid and so humiliating, he told no one. Even in his small single apartment, where few outsiders ever ventured, he kept the evidence under a layer of old sweaters, in a taped box in the back corner of his closet, actually closing the curtains before he’d take the box out and undo the tape. And always, when he was done, he’d replace the pictures just as they’d been, on the bottom of the box, sweaters on top, lid securely taped shut.
How and why Tim had developed his crush on Kato Kaelin was a mystery, even to Tim. At first, during the O. J. trial, Kato was just another character, one Tim hardly noticed. When the media turned Kato into a major player, Tim became slowly
fascinated and then sadly and inexplicably hooked. Forget the entire cast of Dawson’s Creek; Kato was Tim’s fantasy guy—cute, fun, with a great body. Stupid, too—Tim knew that, but it didn’t bother him. Over the years, he had collected articles about Kato, mainly for the pictures. The shirtless ones were his favorites, and he had a surprising number of them, proving to Tim that he was not alone in his fixation. Magazine editors had the same problem. Once, Kato spent a half hour shirtless on Politically Incorrect—they said it was some sort of beach-theme show, but Tim assumed he had yet another kindred spirit out there, one who was able turn his fascination into televised reality. Tim kept a tape of that show in the box, too.
Perry was vaguely aware of Tim’s crush. Once, when Tim went on an involuntary Kato-related talking jag, Perry looked at him and said, “Well, he has great hair—I’ll give him that.”
That’s why it was so odd to have Sandy suspend a copy of Maxim, open to a photo spread of Kato, the same feature Tim had cut out and put in his box just the night before, over the cubicle wall and ask, “Doesn’t he just give you the creeps?”
“I don’t fully understand everyone’s fascination with him,” said Tim insincerely. “He’s just accidentally famous. I don’t know why he hasn’t faded away. You see his name everywhere.”
“He’s such a loser,” she said emphatically. “But he is sorta cute.” She sat back down.
Tim’s intercom buzzed, and Simon, his voice raspy and punctuated with coughs, asked him to come to his office immediately.
“I’m supposed to be a guest on a radio show today, and I thought I’d be up to it. But as this morning goes on, my cold feels worse and worse. I hate to put you in this position, but I need you to fill in for me. It’s Warren Olney’s show, Which Way LA? You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. He’s doing a show about
the Internet. Matt Drudge will be there and some woman with a sex site. And you, of course. Have you ever been on radio?”
Tim shook his head.
“It’s surprisingly painless, and you’re the right person. It’ll be good for us, and frankly, it’ll be good for you. There’s one slight drawback … .”
“Yes?”
“You’ll need to be at KCRW in an hour—and that’s in Santa Monica, so you might want to leave immediately. I’m sorry I didn’t give you more notice. These colds can really sneak up on you.”
“Wow, a radio show. This is as close to upper L.A. as I’ll ever get.”
Simon smiled. “It’s as close as you’ll want to be.”
The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of activity, with Sandy agreeing to tape the show (“Why are you teacher’s pet?” she asked. “Why not me?” “Because you thought Marilyn Manson was a girl,” answered Tim), a quick phone call to his mom, who volunteered to call the others, and then the drive to the radio station, his mind racing.
Once he was there, it was all surprisingly low-key and casual. No one rushed, even with airtime seconds away. People walked in and out of the studio, bringing coffee and water, while the show was on the air live.
It all happened too quickly for Tim to get nervous. Well, not overly nervous at any rate. And he learned a lot. He learned that even when you’re on an hour-long radio show, you don’t get to talk much. A few sentences go a long way. He got to see Matt Drudge wrestle with the dilemma of how to fit the headphones over his trademark fedora. Ultimately, he gave up and took off the hat. He saw how polished and poised Danni of Danni’s Hard Drive was—for a porn star, she was the smoothest talker of the group, except for Olney. Most of all,
he learned that he could do it: He could go on a radio talk show and not embarrass himself.
When he returned to the office and got a round of applause from the staff and saw the phone messages from his mother, father, brother, and several friends, he realized something else: A little bit of fame is a great thing.