The Remember WENN Character Tribute
by Jen Payne
Home      Fan Fiction

Some of My WENN Stories...

Along with some favorites of my friends.
Beyond my first fanfiction below, here is my Continuing WENN Stories site.
And here are Linda Young's fanfictions. My favorites are "Past Nine O'Clock" / "Secrets" and "One Good Turn" for some awesome backstory.
"Sleepless", "Fever", "Odyssey" and "Return" are some great Scott stories that helped me get to know him better.
"Homesick" and "Memorial" are great Betty stories, "Letter" is a nice Victor in Europe scene, and "A Night on the Town" is the best season 4 story I've ever read.
I'm a fan of WENN parodies... in the tradition of say, "From the Pen of Gertrude Reece" and "Sunset Blvd." so...
Here's a hysterical Lord of the Rings parody that my sister wrote, "The Lord of the Radio". If you're familiar with LOTR, then get ready for some ROTFL'ing. Just make way for the inflatable raft in the aisle.
I always wondered what LOTR would be like if no one ever died... it would be... a miracle. LOL!
And because I adore Betty and Victor together... here's an unfortunately named, but rather well-written "It's a Wonderful Life" parody.

Here is the text of my first fanfiction and it's accompanying sequel:

Chance Meeting

By Jennifer Payne
Remember WENN and its characters are the property of Rupert Holmes, Howard Meltzer Productions, and American Movie Classics. No copyright infringement is intended.
Victor and Scott meet in a London pub... Set in the first season, on the evening of May 9, 1940.
It was raining hard as Victor stepped out of the front door of the British Broadcasting Corporation’s London headquarters.
Only his second week here in London, far away from his home, his friends and his station, and he felt as if he were completely alone. He was constantly irritated from working on the radio with people who thought they knew what innovation meant. He was not allowed to try any of his own ideas, or share what he thought the American people needed to hear. The British seemed not able to understand that breaking the will of isolationism across the sea was the whole point of his being brought here. Especially after experiencing war close up, he knew that America needed to be awakened to the fact that Hitler had to be stopped before he engulfed all of Europe, or the world. But the British were implacable in their stance that he must read only what he was given and not come up with any “new and innovative” ways to reach American’s hearts and minds. He had, in fact, just come from a meeting with a few of the higher-ups at the BBC where he was politely told to “do only and exactly” what they said he should.
“Fools,” thought Victor, “exactly like New York…except without Grace.” In order to relax, he decided to go to the pub across the street on his way to the post office. He had bought a lovely old limerick book at a sidewalk bookshop on his way to the station that morning that he knew Mr. Eldridge would enjoy. He didn’t know how the heck he was going to get it to him though, since mailing anything from England was a luxury these days. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and pressed his hat firmly on his head as he gingerly put the old book under his arm. He stepped out onto the cobblestone pavement, completely unaware that what would take place in the next hour would impact his radio station back home forever.
To avoid getting too wet he jogged across the small, uneven street. The George and Dragon was a typical small London pub. The single door opened on a dingy, dark and smoky room filled with talk and laughter. He glanced about looking for someone he might recognize from the BBC, but found none. The bartender asked him what he might help him with as Victor took off his hat and sat down. “Whiskey,” he answered as he put a few small coins on the polished counter.

As he was downing a glass, he couldn’t help thinking that he’d rather be at the Buttery with Betty after work than here, in war-torn England, helping the cause of decent humanity, which was fighting Hitler and everything that he stood for. He knew he liked Betty very much while he was working with her, but now that they were apart it became all too apparent that he loved her. “This is not a good time,” he told himself. “Self-pity will not bring us together and it certainly won’t help anything to let emotion get in the way of my job here.” All the same, he wished he had at least told her something about what she meant to him before he left. He wished he had taken the time to walk her to the trolley that night. He had avoided it in case of… in case they got too involved. He had thought that it would be wise to not let her get her hopes up regarding their future together due to the nature of his business in London. But now he was having second thoughts weeks too late. “What a day to leave,” he thought. Right when the station lost a huge sponsor for the Hands of Time and Hilary suffered a bout of amnesia. Betty was hit with the new responsibility of running the station for an unknown period of time while continuing to do all the writing. Why did they have to send him that day of all days? It was unspeakable timing.

Right when he was pondering these things, one of Victor’s coworkers came into the pub and recognized him. He walked up to the bar and announced himself.

“May I join you?” asked the stranger.

Victor looked up at him and nodded. “Sure.”

“You’re the American newly arrived last week, right?” the man asked.

“Yep, that’s me.” Victor replied.

“It is an honor to meet you sir,” the man answered. “The name’s Rodger, Rodger Jameson.”

“Victor Comstock,” answered Victor.

“I know sir;” Victor raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side. Rodger hurriedly responded, “I mean, of course, everyone at the BBC knows your name. You wouldn’t have met me on your round of introductions though. I work upstairs in records and research; hardly an interesting place to see.”

“Yes, but an irreplaceable function of the station.” Victor replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

Rodger sat down and asked for a drink. “So how do you like it here, of course, besides the blasted war and all?” he asked.

Victor straightened up in his seat. “Well, London is fine...”

“Is it very hard to be so far from your family?” Rodger asked. “Mine live in the country and it can be very frustrating, even living this far apart. Your glass is empty; let me buy you another,” offered Rodger.

“Actually I do not have much of a family, but I do miss my work greatly,” Victor replied. “There is a certain freedom that comes from managing radio that you can’t find anywhere else.” Victor responded wistfully.

“You have your own station?” Rodger exclaimed. “That’s lovely.”

“Yes, under normal circumstances I manage a small station in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” Victor said. “It’s not very glamorous, but definitely more than enough to satisfy an imagination.”

“So who is running it now?” Rodger inquired.

“A young lady that I hired as the station’s writer a short time ago is in charge; a Miss Betty Roberts.”

Unnoticed by anyone except the bartender, Scott Sherwood had come up to the bar from somewhere among the card tables in the background of the pub and sat next to Victor during their conversation, taking everything in. “Scotch please,” he told the bartender. His fedora was tilted on the back on his head as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As the conversation progressed, he kept his eyes on his glass as he tilted it around and around in a steady circle. To an observer, he would appear to be lost in thought. But at this very moment he was all ears.

Victor continued: “She is the sweetest, the smartest, and the most singularly audacious and industrious young woman I have ever known, not to mention worked with. You should have seen her on her first day. By the end of our evening drama she completely astounded me with her creativity although she had showed signs of incompetence when we first met. I don’t think that I have ever met anyone sweeter or kinder or more innocent. The task I’ve burdened her with is a daunting one, but I think she is equal to it; she always found ways to cope with even the most awkward of circumstances. She might even do as well as I did.” Victor took another drink.

“So, did your station have financial trouble, then?” asked Rodger.

“Oh, we’ve had our struggles,” admitted Victor. “Usually we were unaware if we’d be permitted to keep broadcasting on a month to month basis, but fortunately for us, we managed to do the impossible with next to nothing.”

“Sounds daring and rewarding, Mr. Comstock,” continued Rodger. “You seem to be a very lucky man. Why would you risk losing all that for a dangerous assignment over here?” Rodger asked.

Victor responded, “I didn’t volunteer for this assignment; in fact, when I first heard of the idea I thought that it was superfluous.”

“But now?” offered Rodger, hopefully.

“But now, after experiencing the danger and witnessing the fortitude of these people, I realized that it is a vital part of winning America over from isolationism and committing them to assist in the Allied cause.” Victor paused. “I was lately informed that I should expect to receive new orders presently involving some sort of training. I expect some sort of ambitious underground work… possibly France or maybe even Norway.”

“And you don’t mind?” asked Rodger, perplexed. “I mean, this isn’t even your war.”

Victor replied, “Mr. Jameson, this war belongs to everyone who believes that democracy must defeat fascism and any other form of bigotry. Even Betty Roberts has to understand that this war is something that must be fought… at all costs.”

There was a long pause as both men considered the predicament of the world and the suffering it was inflicting. Victor’s thoughts were interrupted by memories of WENN. Hilary and Jeff were carrying on about nothing in particular, Mackie was doing his Colonel Moore routine; and Betty again. He silently prayed that he could get in touch with her before whatever it was would happen.

He couldn’t believe how far he’d sunk. It wasn’t like being fired was a new experience. Heck, he had seen the inside of prison a dozen times, knew what it was like to barely survive. Why was this latest change such a blow? It seemed that he had lost his heart for nights on the town night after night after night. Life was so predictable, so meaningless, so plain. Hearing this guy speak, it seemed as if he lived on the edge, but also had a sweet kind of stability to return to in the form of a sweet, upstanding girl. “Unbelievable,” thought Scott. The women Scott mingled with were not the kind that a guy could place his trust in. Maxine, for instance, worked at the Victorian Palace which was from one of the more questionable parts of London. She had a long relationship with him, of sorts, but that was only for a couple of weeks. “What would it be like to be able to come home to someone like a Betty Roberts, I wonder?” Scott thought. Maybe it would be the next best thing to keep him going. “Radio seems pretty interesting from the way these two go on,” he mused. “I bet it’s not quite as difficult to turn a profit as he lets on.”

“What is the book for?” asked Rodger, trying to change the topic.

“Oh, this?” answered Victor, picking up the limerick book. “It’s a small present for an old friend at my station back in the states; I picked it up this morning. Which reminds me, I should write him a few words before I send it. Do you have a pen?”

“No,” Rodger responded patting himself down.

“I have one,” interjected Scott. “The name’s Sherwood.” He passed the pen over to Victor.

“Uh, thank you.” Victor responded. “The only trouble is,” he continued, “is that shipping it to the states will be next to impossible with the post at a standstill. With the news we hear from the Atlantic, it is unbelievable that any ship can get through without being sunk.”

Scott intervened, deciding to finally chance it, “You know, I’m on my way over to the states tomorrow morning; in fact, I have some business in Pittsburgh…I could drop it by for you if you like.”

“Which would save much time and consternation,” answered Victor. He took the pen and wrote a short note on the inside of the front cover. He signed it while Scott got up from his seat. “This is the address,” he said as he scrawled a few lines on a scrap of paper. “It means a lot to me….I don’t know how to thank you.” Victor said.

“It’ll be nothing,” Scott interrupted. “Well, would you look at the time! I should be movin’ along.”

Rodger and Victor watched as the stranger practically flew straight through the door as if he were late for something he’d been waiting for all his life.

“I hope he wasn’t just trying to steal my book,” commented Victor.

Rodger chuckled in agreement. “What an odd character.” He sighed and stood up. “Well, I suppose I should take my leave as well; and maybe I will see you tomorrow?”

Victor nodded in reply.

“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Comstock.”
Story Continued In:


By Jennifer Payne

It had been Hank Meyers who had mentioned it; the man two places to his left, at one of the poker tables in the back of the George and Dragon. Information to save his life - well, maybe just his sanity. He was the particularly bad poker player who was sailing to America the next morning as a radioman on an ocean liner. He had mentioned that they were in need of someone to handle the encryption of their messages for the new requirements of the convoy, right before he lost his shirt and had to leave.

At first mention, Scott had not been interested. He had not wanted to give up on London quite yet. It would be admitting defeat as a promoter to leave with nowhere to go. But then he met Victor Comstock. Taking over a radio station that had financial trouble sounded intriguing, and if this Betty Roberts was anything like what Victor had described, then it would be too good of an opportunity to pass up.

As he ran through the rainy streets of London’s east end, he contemplated the quickest route to the dock yards. While doing so, schemes flew through his mind about how he was going to con his way onto the ship, since he had no money and it was bound to be overbooked as it was. Lots of people wanted to leave England; children were being sent to America by the shipload, bound for safer places. It was early May, 1940. The Germans were just starting their offensive on the Low Countries and France, which would inevitably lead them to the brink of the invasion of the British Isles, itself. No one seemed capable of stopping the juggernaut of the German war machine. This was not the best time to be out of work in London and looking for opportunity back in America.

The ships had to travel in convoys now, since the German U-boats were sinking anything and everything that left from or arrived in England. For Scott, this only meant that the next ship traveling to America would not leave for another couple of weeks. He did not want to just hang around with his mind focused on an unattainable goal. Besides, how would he eat during the waiting? Oh, he would think of something, but it was unbearable just to bide time in such a situation.

Once he arrived at the dockyards, completely out of breath and soaked to the bone, he stood a ways off from the gate, pondering how he would get past the guards. He finally made up his mind and walked up to them, confidently and in a hurry. The helmeted soldiers lowered their rifles at him. They were understandably nervous, guarding a ship during times like these during the night. It did not help that the place looked eerie with the street lights illuminating the wet pavement. It could have been a scene out of a Hitchcock movie.

“Halt! Who goes there?” one of the young soldiers shouted, his high-pitched voice cracking and revealing his uneasiness. Scott did not hesitate, but confidently told them that he was there to meet with the ship’s head of security, and if they could tell him where he could find it, he would be greatly obliged. He flashed the men his identification. They were impressed with his demeanor, and believed him. What criminal or spy would ask to see the head of security? They were nearly going to let him pass with no further questions, but their supervising sergeant came out to investigate.

“Sergeant?” the other man called. “Sergeant, there’s a man here…”

“Of course there’s a man there,” the Sergeant complained, as he stepped out of the shelter of the guard house. “Now, what does he want, and who is he; these are the things that interest me more.”

The Sergeant was obviously not one to be simply intimidated. He was a thin man, but firmly built, with a trimmed, reddish-brown moustache that drooped around his serious and hard-set face. His pistol belt was secured around his overcoat and his Tommy helmet was cocked to one side.

Without wasting a second, Scott answered confidently, “Scott Sherwood is the name, and I am here by appointment, to meet with someone in the office of security about officially registering on the ship’s roll, since I was taken on last moment to work in communications. My passport…” Scott handed him his papers.

“Well, that’s alright then,” the Sergeant said, as he handed back Scott’s papers. “Sir, please follow me; you must have an escort beyond this checkpoint without a ship’s assignment.” Here he glared at his two young charges. “Continue your watch, gentlemen,” he said with sarcastic politeness.

Shouldering their rifles, the young men snapped to attention, and about-faced to continue their watch.

With a grim face and a steady stride, the Sergeant led Scott across open pavement to an office building to their right. The rough board planks creaked as the two of them walked up to the door of the security building. It was lit up by a single bulb that hung down from the overhang. The Sergeant opened the thin door, and Scott went in first, the Sergeant following and removing his helmet.

Inside the dreary room, a bare-headed corporal sat behind a table-top desk that was covered with personnel files. Scott walked up to the desk and repeated his story.

The clerk was surprised, but pleased. “I didn’t think those fellows over in communications were ever going to find someone, but apparently they did. Could I see your passport, please?”

Scott dropped it on top of one of the stacks of paper and took off his fedora.

“Mr... Sherwood, this will only take a moment; if you’d care to take a seat over there…” he said, motioning to the chairs against the wall.

“Thanks,” Scott replied. He let a little smile crack as he sat down. This was way too easy. He would have preferred it to be a little more challenging or dangerous, but this would have to do. He leaned forward in his chair, turning his hat around in his hands. He did not care for waiting when he was so close to his goal.

The Sergeant sat down across from Scott, and studied him. He broke the silence, “So, you’re an American, then?” He was curious about his background. “What brought you over here?”

“A business opportunity,” Scott replied. “After working for the Spanish resistance – which didn’t quite go the way I planned – I came here for a couple of different reasons.”

“Spain…” the Sergeant mused. “I lost a good friend there, bloody Nazis. And now they think they can walk right into France… and then England, I shouldn’t wonder. I’d rather die than let bastards like them destroy my land.”

Scott was struck with the unbidden memory of his experiences in Spain. He had seen terrible things, and he wasn’t even at the front lines. “I’m sorry about your loss,” he offered.

The Sergeant nodded. “Well, I should return to my men. It’s always a pleasure to meet any of my brothers from Spain,” he held out his hand. Scott shook it, not knowing what to say. “Hopefully America will soon become our brother in this war as well. Have a safe voyage then.” With that, he got up and left, leaving Scott in a much more somber mood than when he met him.

With the mention of the English-American partnership, Scott thought about the man he had just met in the pub, and the same vision that he held with the sergeant. “Victor…” he tried to remember out loud. He took the book of limericks out from under his arm and opened it. “Comstock,” he finished. “Victor Comstock.”

Just then, the clerk interrupted his thoughts. “Mr. Sherwood, your papers are all finished; here you go.”

“Thanks,” Scott said, picking them up. He looked at his watch. “Oh, would you look at the time! Not a moment too soon… I’ve got a meeting on board! What’s the fastest way to the ship’s communications center?”

The clerk gave him directions and he took off.

There were more guards by the gang-plank, but he didn’t have to say a thing with an official ship’s pass. Scott walked on board and took the turns he was told, and soon arrived in the radio cabin. There, checking through a stack of books, with a look of consternation on his face, was Hank Meyers, the guy from the bar.

Hank looked up when he heard someone stop at the hatch. “Sherwood? What the…”

Scott just smiled as he stepped into the room. “Just thought I’d try my luck in America,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

“I suppose I know how you found out about the job, but how on earth did you manage to get accepted so fast? Did you run into Lt. Kurtz too?”

“Actually, no one here knows about me yet,” he answered.

“But security?” asked Hank, with real concern.

“Piece of cake!” Scott supplied with a laugh. He held up his security pass. Hank just gawked at it. “Actually, is Lt…”

“Kurtz,” Hank filled in.

“Is he around? I need to see him about getting set up here,” Scott finished.

“Uh, he’s probably in his cabin, but he’s coming up here soon to check on how I’m learning code,” Hank answered.

“Where’s his cabin?” Scott asked.

“To our left, down the ladder, take a right, and then a left. His is the third on the left. And good luck to you,” he added, as Scott took off.

The lieutenant was never ‘told’ anything. He was a little too old for his rank, and he knew it. He did not take anything from anyone, and he always went by the book, even if it was meaningless or unnecessary. He always tried everything he could to get promoted, and if something or someone rubbed him the wrong way, he took it personally. He liked being in control of situations, but in his current role, he was only in charge of the ship’s communications. And that was not very meaningful.

Scott knocked smartly, three times on the lieutenant’s hatch. There was a bustle about the room, and then the lieutenant opened it. He was a heavy-set man in his early 40’s.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, candidly.

Scott didn’t waste any time. “I am the man that security just sent over to handle the ship’s encryption. Scott Sherwood, sir,” he said, anticipating his first question and holding out his papers.

“Well, it’s about time they responded to my inquiries. Seven hours before we ship off too!” he said, as he grabbed the papers, glanced them over, and raised his eyebrows at Scott’s previous job title. “I suppose you’ve never been on a ship before?”

“I’ve sailed a schooner in the Pacific, but that’s a bit different from this,” Scott supplied.

“Quite right,” the lieutenant followed up. He liked Scott. After a pause, he said, “You better meet Seaman Meyer, the radioman, as that’s who you’re going to be working with. He should be interested to know that he doesn’t have to bother blundering through those code books anymore. Before you came, he was going to have to teach himself code.”

“And where do I bunk?” Scott asked.

“Yes, yes. We’ll have to arrange that,” he seemed to think out loud. “Last minute arrangements… stupid security.”

When they reached the radio cabin, Lt. Kurtz burst in and found Hank winding wires.

He swore at him. “How were you planning on learning code by tidying the room?”

Hank gave Scott and the lieutenant hard stares as he stopped what he was doing.

“Good thing for you, security has come through at the last minute and sent us Mr…,” he looked at the papers, “…Scott Sherwood, to handle all code work with the convoy. Sherwood, meet Meyers. Meyers, make sure Sherwood gets a bunk. Carry on.” He then turned and left the two alone.

“Nice guy,” Scott commented with eyebrows upraised.

“Yeah, a real piece of work,” Hank responded. “So, if I’m understandin’ right, you’ve simply played one off the other and won yourself a berth?” Scott just smirked. “That was quite a poker hand that you just played,” Hank continued. “I suppose you just played it like you played our game back at the pub.”

“Piece of cake,” Scott shrugged. He did not feel it necessary to point out that he lost his own shirt a little later than Hank did at the same poker table. For some reason he was losing his edge with cards.

“Well, I’m keenly happy to have you here, poker hands and all, so you need not worry about me telling anyone. Come on, let’s see about your bunk.” They stood up to leave. “Oh, do you have any bags?” Hank thought to ask.

Scott picked up the limerick book he had set down earlier. “Nope. This is it,” he said.

“You sure travel light!” Hank observed. “Okay, right this way.”

He led him through a set of passageways to the crewmembers quarters. There were quite a few men already asleep, as it was soon the morning of the voyage. Near the back of the room, Hank stopped and pointed out a top bunk.

“There you go… that one’s yours. Better try and sleep a little as we’ve got to be up and underway in just six hours… gosh, I’m glad you came,” he said, as he was very thankful that he could retire as well, instead of hopelessly studying codes.

Hank’s sack was just across from Scott’s, on a top bunk as well. The two of them crawled into them, and though the mattresses were not too thick, quickly fell asleep. Scott slept just fine, but then again, he was used to catching bits of sleep whenever he could. This was going to be the easiest adventure of his life, if they didn’t get sunk by a U-boat.

Most of the first day was spent in the radio room, or on call, since the convoy was meeting up and messages were sent and received with certain regularity. Scott and Hank worked together quite well, and did their jobs efficiently, almost efficiently enough to not get noticed and barked at by the lieutenant.

The second day, the convoy was quite in order and heading at a good speed though the open Atlantic. Scott was always on call, but he did not have any immediate duty, so he promptly found a group of guys in the crew’s mess that played poker. He did well at first, but as the experienced men caught on to his game, he began losing what he was going to be paid when they reached New York, so he decided to keep the rest of his pending payment and do something else with his time. That way, he would not have to barter his way to Pittsburgh.

As they met in the radio room at the beginning of the third day, Scott asked what Hank thought a surprising question, “Hank, do you have something I could look at that would help me find out a little about radio?”

Hank thought for a moment. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Well, I was thinking on studying up a little on the mechanics and fundamentals,” he answered.

“What are you going to do in the states, manage a radio station?” Hank asked sarcastically. Scott just looked back at him with a slightly wry smile. “You’re kidding!” he responded. “You’re not kidding,” he finally realized. Scott shook his head with a big grin. “Well, let’s see… you could flip through this book about frequency modulation and kilohertz, and things of that nature… but if you have any questions, or if it gets too boring, just ask me.” The rest of the day, as well as the next, Scott spent mostly talking to Hank, or glancing at a few pages he found with the index or getting to know the equipment with Hank’s help. He had mastered the basics quickly, because it was really only an in-depth refresher. He had to be familiar with using one in several of his past adventures, but was never particularly taught about the principles behind it.

On the fifth and final day of the voyage, he had no real need to do any more studying on the subject. He decided that this would be a good time to put his letter of recommendation together. The far corner in the mess hall was a nice place to work, so he set out a piece of paper and began writing with a pencil, as he sipped on a cup of joe.

After a few minutes of writing, he was interrupted by an orderly that told him he was needed at his post. After decoding the message that had been received, Scott asked Hank, “Hey, could I borrow the typewriter for a few minutes?”

“Sure, Scott,” Hank answered nonchalantly.

Scott sat down at the desk and produced his hand-written note from his pocket. He began to type: “To all my friends at WENN…”

“What are you writing, anyway?” Hank asked, suddenly interested.

“My letter of recommendation to the radio station that I’m going to manage,” was his surprisingly truthful reply. Scott owed Hank quite a bit, and felt it safe to level with him. There was no way that he could interfere, so there was no risk to his plan.

“So, what made you decide to take the job? I suppose I mean that literally,” he both asked and mused.

Scott smiled and replied, “After our game, I met this guy at the counter who was talking about how great his job was, back in the states. So I figured that I’d try it out, since I was between prospects, myself. And I’d been thinking about giving San Francisco another shot, so it seemed like the perfect first stop along the way,” Scott thought for a moment, and then resumed typing.

“What are you telling them in the letter?” Hank asked.

“Well, I’m making it sound like the guy thinks I’m the perfect man for the job, and that he misses them all, and that sort of thing, but at least I’m telling the truth about my experiences, right? I mean, what kind of references do you need for running a radio station? All you need to know is how to make money. I bet this is probably the most forthcoming letter of recommendation that I’ve ever written for myself.”

They both smiled.

“Did the guy you met talk about any of the people you’ll be working with?” Hank asked.

“He did talk quite a bit about a young lady that he left in charge,” Scott replied. “She sounds like she must be great to work with… a sweet, smart, knock-out kind of girl. I think he might have been in love with her or something. But think, what kind of woman would be left in charge of a radio station? Can’t wait to meet her.”

“What’s her name?” Hank asked, slightly insinuatingly.

“Betty,” he said.

Hank just raised his eyebrows, and Scott knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Well, would you look at the time… I need to go work some magic on this signature - I’ll be in the mess if you need me,” he said as he got up to leave.

“You’re going to be in a mess if she figures it out,” Hank said, a little disappointed with Scott’s plan.

“You kidding?” Scott replied. “I’ll be long gone before that has a chance of happening.” He took the letter out of the typewriter. He smiled and said, “Piece of cake.”

“Scott, you’re something else,” Hank said. “First you get yourself a free passage to the States when every ship is already overbooked, then you give yourself a manager’s position before you arrive over people you’ve never met. Why don’t you give yourself a hundred-thousand dollars and retire to Hawaii while you’re at it?” he joked.

“Nah, I didn’t like Hawaii much,” Scott said as he stepped out of the room. Hank just shook his head and smiled. He thought it was too bad that they would probably never see each other again after they left the ship in New York. Scott was a likeable guy if he let you get to know him.

The next day they arrived in New York. It took the ship a long time to unload, because of safety screening and immigration issues. When Scott finally got on shore, he said goodbye to Hank and saw the paymaster. After receiving his meager income, and paying off his debts, Scott thought to himself, “Honest pay… honestly! What am I coming to?” He took off for the train station, and did not waste much time in getting there, besides stopping for a sandwich at a local café.

Once he arrived in Pittsburgh, he immediately took a cab to Isabella Street. Plans for the station’s sponsorship swirled around in his mind. He knew, by what Victor had mentioned, that the station needed a financial boost. But the budget books would tell him exactly how much. He was brimming with anticipation.

He got out of the taxi on Isabella and North Gedney. The building that the station was housed in loomed above him. As he was standing there, near the stoplight, a businessman came by and bumped into him, knocking his precious book out from under his arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the man said.

“Not a problem,” Scott replied.

“Here you go,” the man said, after he picked up the limerick book. “That’s a diamond of an antique book you got there.”

“Why do you say that,” Scott asked, surprised at the unique phrase.

“Well, being in the jewelry business, like I am, I was just saying that it looked nice,” the man said. “You wouldn’t happen to need a stone for a lady of yours, would you?”

“No,” Scott said, with an awkward smile.

“I’m sorry; I’m having a bit of trouble with advertising my store… I’m sorry I interrupted you. In any case, if you ever need a jeweler, just call ‘Empire Jewelers’. My name is Gregory Boynton.” Here he handed Scott his card.

“Actually, Mr. Boynton,” Scott said, “I think we might be able to help each other, sir.” “Do you have any sales going on right now?”
“Yes, we have lots of things... like children’s watches…”
“Perfect!” Scott interrupted him. “Why don’t you come by radio station WENN, right in here, in say… oh, would you look at the time! eight-fifteen? And I promise you that I’ll have a solution to your advertising problem. What do you say?”

Mr. Boynton happily replied that he would, and that he was looking forward to it.

They parted ways, and Scott went in the building and took the elevator up to the station’s floor. When he walked in the door, no one was seated in reception. “Strange,” he thought to himself as he walked down the hall and nearly ran into a bubbly blonde that popped out of one of the doorways.

Surely, this was not Betty Roberts!

Scott blurted out, “I’m looking for the woman in charge…”
So continues, ‘A Capital Idea’, Episode 11, Remember WENN