Ware Wear & Wares
Once upon a time, the WWJD switchboard saw less action than a nun’s dating profile. Now it rang like a Pentecostal tambourine every time Trinity hit the airwaves.
But in the hours and days when the Trinity Radio Hour wasn’t broadcast, the station settled back into its cemetery silence.
The phones were once again used as paper weights to prop open prayer books, or in Carrington’s case, the latest issue of Us Weekly.
Carrington had been carefully arranging paperclips into the shape of the Holy Ghost when the shrill ringing tore through the stale air of the lobby and they knew the show had started.
“WWJD,” Carrington chirped, snapping upright, already smoothing their sequinned blouse as if the caller might somehow be watching. “What would Jesus do? And what can I do for you today?”
The voice on the other end was deep, velvety, absurdly confident - the kind of voice that belonged to someone who posed shirtless on yachts or on the cover of a catalogue selling rustic log cabin furniture.
“Carrington,” the voice said with familiarity, “This is Micah Ware. From Weinus, Weinus, and Ware.”
Carrington blinked hard, “Our lawyers?”
“Yes,” Micah replied smoothly, “but today, I’m calling not as a legal eagle, but as a designer. I’m launching a new clothing and housewares line, Ware Wear & Wares, and I want to buy ad time during Trinity Radio Hour.”
Carrington’s pen slipped from their hand, clattering dramatically against the desk, still unaccustomed to brands buying airtime on WWJD. “You… you want to advertise with us?”
“More than that,” Micah continued, his vowels so perfectly sculpted they might have been buffed with expensive cologne, “I want Trinity themselves to voice it. Live. Today.”
Carrington’s jaw dropped, “Today?”
“Yes. I’ve written the ad. I’m also a copywriter. It will be a… long spot. I’m unfortunately not also an editor.” He paused, “Think… sermon length.”
Carrington could feel their heart thudding, “That’s not normally how we do things, Mr. Ware. We’d need rehearsal, prep, perhaps a focus group…”
“I’ll pay double the rate.”
There was silence as Carrington considered. Double the rate. Which meant, if they math’d it right, an extra three hundred and fifty-seven dollars and change after Emma-Lou laundered it through their Manna Money Market account.
Carrington snapped open a fresh legal pad, scribbling Micah’s words furiously.
He rattled off sentence fragments about curling rinks, ski lodges, sailboats, and grocery store aisles.
About glassware, hardware, tableware, and birthdays.
About fashion saving lives. Carrington nodded dutifully, underlining random words for the emphasis they heard Micah punctuating through the phone.
When it was finished, Carrington looked down at the lined yellow paper and their scrawled handwriting carrying over multiple pages.
How in the heck were they going to make this into a commercial?
“Yes, yes, we can definitely… make this work,” Carrington said brightly, though their wrist ached from the note-taking and a headache was birthing from the whole exercise.
When Micah finally hung up, Carrington fanned themselves with the notepad.
They popped an Aspirin, cracked their knuckles and started typing up the scripts.
Then, with an intoxicating mix of fear and delight brewing in their belly, they leapt from behind their desk and clomped down the hall in their chunky magenta heels toward the recording booth of the Trinity Radio Hour.
Inside, Rebekkah was fussing with her French braid in the reflection of a microphone stand which offered a fun-house elongated view, Japheth was chewing on a pencil and checking the indentures for proof his grin really did have a goof in its upper line, Ronald dribbled an imaginary basketball against the soundproofing foam, and the engineer sat stone-faced, cycling through all the coulda-been career choices he’d had for the choosing out of high school.
Carrington burst in, waving the typed-up scripts like winning lottery tickets. “Trinity!” they announced. “We’ve got ourselves an eager new advertiser. He wants this on the air ASAP. During today’s show. And he politely demanded that you three record it personally.”
Rebekkah recoiled as though Carrington had just suggested she eat a hotdog bun without condiments, or a dog. “We couldn’t possibly! As exciting as that is, we haven’t even read it. Or rehearsed it. Or mapped out our motivations!”
“And normally Jim does the commercial spots,” Japheth pointed at their engineer.
Carrington flapped a hand, subconsciously attempting to wave away the excuses that could quickly snowball into a digression of unknowable destination with the new stars of WWJD. “I know! I told Micah that’s not how we do things here, even if he was willing to pay double the normal rate.”
Japheth’s pencil snapped between his teeth, “Wait, Micah? As in Micah Ware? He’s heard our show? He wants to advertise and he wants me, I mean, us, to be his muse?” His cheeks flushed like someone had just mentioned John Stamos had entered the building.
At that moment, the door creaked open and Suwarna stuck her head in, clipboard resting on her outstretched palm like a waiter holding a tray of invisible confidence.
“I’ve printed and read the script, it’s excellent.
A revelation. Very fresh. Before you ask, Carrington, it’s a simple and straightforward safety precaution that I have passwords to all computers in the building, yours is not an exception,” she explained coolly, taking a seat and crossing her boots on the tabletop.
“So, this Micah, he’s willing to pay double the rate? ”
“Yes,” Carrington said, finding themselves still whirling from the revelation that Suwarna calmly shared.
Was there anything on their computer that well, shouldn’t be?
Despite securing some much-needed revenue for WWJD with this double-rate radio spot, they suddenly felt the win was about to be swooped in and stolen, which was often the case when dealing with Suwarna.
“Then let’s do this,” Suwarna said briskly. “Cue it up. You’re professionals, aren’t you? You can just cold read it. During the next commercial break.”
Rebekkah’s jaw dropped, “A cold read?”
Suwarna adjusted her glasses, “Just smile, think of the sun hitting your face, think of all the money, and that’ll warm you up.”
“I really don’t see why we wouldn’t do it,” Japheth murmured dreamily. “For Micah.”
Ronald dribbled his invisible ball twice, caught it, and glanced at Carrington, “What’s he even selling?”
Carrington slapped the scripts down on their three music stands, “Ware Wear & Wares. Here are the scripts.”
Jim, the engineer, finally came alive, swivelling toward them with the weariness of a man who had seen his musical dreams die in the polyester swirl and smoke haze of the seventies. He raised his hand and began counting down the seconds until they were back live, “Five, four…”
He dropped his voice to a whisper and then mouthed the last three digits, “...three, two, one.” The ON AIR light glowed red.
Rebekkah leaned in first, her voice syrupy with a radio smile, “Welcome to the future of fashion, where style meets comfort in the most unexpected ways. Imagine slipping into a statement piece that feels like a hug yet makes you look effortlessly chic. Our designs are crafted with the modern individual in mind. Blending functionality with flair.”
Ronald picked up smoothly, as though preaching a homily about the virtues of functional fashion, “Each item tells a story, our story, and we hope soon it will be yours, too. Picture yourself strutting down the street, or at the curling rink, or in your sailboat, or at the ski lodge, or doing a power walk down the grocery store aisles.”
Japheth swooped in, eyes shining, and heart beating with the intimate knowledge that Micah Ware, Esquire, was very likely listening to him (them!) right now.
He purred into the mic, “You’ll be turning heads and feeling confident in what you wear.
With Ware Wear, you’re not just putting on something off the rack, you’re making a statement.
Get ready to redefine your wardrobe and express who you truly are. Aware.”
Rebekkah riffled her papers, momentum carrying her, “You know us. You trust us. You wear us.” She lifted her chin, warming to the script. “We’re the Wares. And we’ve been reliably living life authentically for decades with one goal in mind.”
Ronald leaned into his mic, eyes squinted to a sliver like he was reciting slam poetry, though he was out of necessity still cold reading, “To have fun. To create, to grow, to laugh, to learn. To love and to inspire you. To buy what we’re selling. Ware Wear & Wares is a family dynasty.”
Japheth’s grin widened and he seductively whispered, ‘It’s ours, but you can wear it. Where will you wear Ware Wear?”
Rebekkah shot side eyes at Japheth and raised an eyebrow at Ronald before dutifully asking, “Everywhere?”
Ronald nodded sagely, “Everywhere.”
Japheth gestured wildly with his hands as though he were vogueing with excitement as he discovered the vast array of Micah Ware’s empire. He preached, “Are you aware that we have gardening wear? Sailing wear? Ski wear? Hiking wear and wares?”
Rebekkah chimed in, droll as a newscaster, “Curling wear.”
Ronald tapped the desk for emphasis, “Meeting wear.”
“Via teleconference or the old-fashioned way!” Japheth’s eyes twinkled.
Rebekkah’s face scrunched into an expression that sandwiched incredulity and the pressure of this cold read, “Biking Ware wear and wares.”
Ronald offered up, “Investing Ware wear.” His voice tilted up into a question toward the end subconsciously, unclear what one wore while investing.
Japheth, however, was growing increasingly ecstatic, “Landscaping Ware wear and wares. Workout Ware wear!”
The pitch of Rebekkah’s voice was rising with the absurdity, and she struggled to suppress a giggle, “It’s your birthday Ware wear.”