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like discovering that Warren Buffet clipped coupons. We laughed as he proudly displayed a container holding dozens of stamps, all neatly extracted from fan letters and junk mail.
    We were able to glean that the recently departed Rosko had not been very well liked at the station. Everyone thought him to be unnecessarily confrontational and more than a trifle rude, a man who created arguments for the sheer pleasure of embarrassing his colleagues. That appraisal seemed at odds with the sensitive poet we knew from the airwaves.
    Muni often would talk about someone, only referencing them by nickname, as if we knew everyone he did. So we got juicy gossip but couldn’t tell if the subject was a rock star or someone in the mail room. There would be lulls in the conversation during which we’d be tempted to interject something about ourselves, because we weren’t sure that Muni knew who
we
were either. After an hour, we sensed that extending the interview further would be counterproductive, but Scottso always had another story and we couldn’t break off without appearing rude.
    Our biggest surprise came when a rotund black man wearing large glasses and an orange leisure suit walked into the room. Was this Rosko?
    “Hello, Tammy.” Muni sneered, not bothering to introduce us.
    “And who are these two gorgeous young boys, you old bug-eyed mother humper?”
    This was obviously not Rosko.
    “Shut up, you black faggot. What are you in here for, did your mother forget to wipe your bottom this morning?”
    “You leave my mother out of this, you aging, gravel-throated bag of horseshit.”
    “Why don’t you go back to your cave, you African Queen? Leave this new meat alone. They probably don’t like your queer old black bubble ass anyway.”
    This badinage went on for five minutes, each insult topping the next until “Tammy” turned up his nose and left the room. Muni rebounded as if nothing had happened.
    “Tammy,” he chuckled to himself. He acted as if such dialogue was routine office chatter, and didn’t even look up to see our reaction. We’d never witnessed such an exchange, even in the movies, and we had no idea what to make of it. Was Scott Muni a racist? Was he gay?
    We later found out that “Tammy” was in fact Tom Tracy, a longtime producer, who worked on the Giants games on WNEW-AM and produced the taped weekend shows and the public service programming for WNEW-FM. He and Muni were the closest of friends, each having grown up in the South with many similar experiences, albeit from a different sexual orientation. They delighted in razzing each other with the most graphically obscene language imaginable. I actually laundered the preceding exchange, because it was too crude even for me to recount.
    In our stunned silence after the “Tammy” encounter, it seemed like a natural time to close out the interview.
    “Well, Mr. Muni, we’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for seeing us. We brought some tapes and résumés.”
    “Don’t need ’em. Leave ’em with the girl on the way out if you want to.” It sure sounded as if we were being blown off. “We’ll be in touch.”
    Just then, Alison Steele burst into the room. “Boys, how are you?” She gave us both extravagant hugs and kisses on the lips. “Scott, I hope you’re treating my friends well. These are the nicest boys ever. Got to get back on the air. ’Bye.”
    With that, the whirlwind departed the room, sucking all the air out of it with her. We’d known Steele casually for a few months, having invited her out to WLIR for an on-air interview and then having lunch with her in the city, ostensibly seeking career advice. But we hardly expected such a ringing endorsement. We were breathless as we smiled lamely at Muni and left his office. He never called us back.
    After a week, we called him. Couldn’t take the call, our secretary friend coldly informed us.
We’ll get back to you.
    Another week passed. Again no call. Again we called