When the public rejects a frustrated singer, comedian or disc jockey, he can either flee from the cold-hearted cynics, or try to edge his way in the back door of the sacred entertainment industry. If he decides to stay in showbiz, he may try to become a pusher. Not of illicit products, but of marketable human talent. He can become a promotional man.

A promo man must be constantly turned on to people, able to carry on a nonstop rap, and able to keep track of whom to know, and why. One type of promo man serves as a link between the contract holder and the record company executives, It is easy to find a promo man if he is hosting a local promo party to introduce his musical product in the media.

One such party was held on a Friday evening in the Presidential Suite of Cal State San Diego's Aztec Center. The purpose was to present a new RCA country singer named B.W. Stevenson, who was performing that evening at the campus coffee house, the Backdoor.

A young group of about 40 people, mostly representing the underground press, gathered into the small, paneled suite to look at the goods. The majority of men wore Levi jeans and jackets, and mingled with a small group of women, many dressed in thrift shop finery. A huge metal jug filled with Ripple Pagan Pink wine was provided by RCA to loosen the lips and pens of the press corps.

"Hello there!" I'm Don Latimore from RCA," a man in a red valour packet, and slacks of a different shade of red, reached for hands to shake. His pink shirt, flocked with white flowers was partly unbuttoned, revealing a public, hairy chest.

"Now, where are you from? The Door? Union?" He asked around, shaking hands, putting arms, and busily jotted down names in a red leather notebook. "I like to keep track of everyone i meet," Don smiled, pushed his goggle-shaped glasses back on his nose and slithered off. "Make yourselves comfortable..."

Don had welcomed faces, recorded names and shook hands of a group of six, in less than three minutes. He had the promo man procedure down to an art.

"Ah, these guys are all alike," whispers a woman with long, rippling hair, who was representing the Door. "They're always hyper and buzzing around like nuts." She moved off toward the wine jug.

The guests rotated from the wine jug to the small circles of people, apparently unconcerned with locating the honoree. Mr. Stevenson. Armed with heavy paper plates, the group soon moved toward a long buffet table. A collection of food, resembling the plastic samples found in department store refrigerators, waited for the siege.

The first dish in line was a tureen full of pimply meatballs floating in a curdled white sauce. Next, a mound of yellowish potato salad shaped like a huge gumdrop, and a pile of greenish gray coleslaw wanted to be consumed. The only harmless-appearing temptations were slabs of ham drifting in a yellow glaze, and long loaves of white bread.

Perhaps the menu planner believed that after a few cups of Pagan Pink wine, the press corp's taste buds would be sufficiently numbed.

"Help yourself, folks!" Don rushed around, leading people over to the table. "I always like to have a nice meal before a good show!" He refilled the plastic wine cups and passed them to outstretched hands. Looking like he was in his late thirties, he clung to his youth by dressing and speaking like a young stud. Within a half hour, the table was empty and the room filled with sounds of munching.

At last, a writer from the Daily Aztec ventured to ask about Mr. Stevenson. "Oh, he's been here all the time!" Don announced. Seconds later, a small man with a cherubic face was literally led over by Don.

"Sit down everyone!" He commanded. "May I present B.W. Stevenson." He settled the nervous company product between two reporters and organized four others in a neat circle around them. "Go to it, but we just have a few minutes before B.W. has to leave." Mr Promo slipped away to shake more hands.

B.W. (the initials stand for Buck Wheat) smoked nervously, and pulled on his straggly beard. His shoulder-length hair was tied back. He wore a big, brown felt hat that made his round face seem smaller than it was. B.W. looked more like a little boy dressed in a cowboy outfit, than a rising country music star.

Unfortunately, speakers hanging from the ceiling were blasting Elton John music, making B.W.'s replies to questions barely audible. By straining the ears, one could glean that he was from Dallas, Texas, had attended music school as a voice major, and then hit the road to become the proverbial wandering mistral. He had signed with RCA records in New York, and was on tour to promote his second album, Lead Free. "My real name is Louis James Stevenson the Third," he smiled shyly. "I guess you can see why my friends started calling me Buck Wheat." He had a great Texas accent.

The gentle singer seemed petrified by the hoard of media people gathered in his honor. He glanced around the room and waved at a shirt, wiry man in a cowboy shirt and jeans. "That's my manager," but, before his manager could rescue him. Don was at B.W.'s side, grabbing his elbow and offering farewells.

"B.W. has to go back to the hotel to change clothes and rest a bit," Don explained. The shy Texas singer waved goodbye as he was guided out between his smiling manager, and his grinning promo man.

"Poor guy," remarked a photographer, as the singer disappeared.

Barbara, the tall, tan manager of the Backdoor, welcomed the writers and stamped everyone's wrist with a pair of red ink lips.

"RCA is picking up the tab, so just give your name to the women behind the counter when you order anything." She smiled and moved on to the next group of tipsy media people. The guests filed past the general public and entered the club.

The Backdoor is a large, drafty basement under the bowling center. The din of the pins and rumbling bowling balls filtered into the entertainment area throughout the evening. Despite the noise, drafts, and stiff wooden chairs, the Backdoor proved to be an enjoyable place to listen to music.

"Did you pick up something to drink?" Don hovered over the front row tables. His stylishly long hair was plastered to his face with sweat. He patted shoulders and pointed an index finer at each person's face.

"Linda...no, Just...no, wait I'll get it ... Denise?" He beamed with pride at his propensity for remembering names.

After a set of lovelorn songs sung by a local singing man, a hassle with buzzing mikes, and uncooperative monitors, B.W. and his group arrived.

Don rushed from the stage, to the light booth, and back again.

"Oh, you're looking good my man," he patted B.W. on the shoulder. The only changes the singer had made back at the hotel were to change his t-shirt and let down his hair.

Even if the shy Texan couldn't carry on a conversation, eh communicated beautifully with his music. He exchanged the audience with his homespun patter, and easy-on-the-mind music. The audience forgot the staff chairs and cold concrete floor when B.W. Stevenson sand of life in small Texas towns, the women he's loved, and hard times on the road.

Don the promo man became a water boy, rushing paper cups of water the men on stage. B.W. played his music with a fine harmonica player and a subtle bass man.

During the set, Don paced between the refreshment stand and the light booth, chewing on his right index finger. At the break, he leaned against a concrete pole to anchor himself for a few minutes.

"I like it when things run smoothly," he smiled. "My whole job is to see that things run well, and people have a good time"."

He rubbed lime lip balm on his dry lips and offered it around. His eyes were shining behind his hige glasses.

"Are you having a good time?" he leaned close, smelling like a sweet lime. "You are, Nancy, no Ellen ... no, wait second... Sally from the Aztec?" he guess gleefully.

He turned away to confer with the Backdoor's manger and returned to the wall. He applied more lip gloss.

"I used to be a disc jockey, and then I was a comic in a nightclub... Don Harris, from Paris ... Kentucky, that is?" He mimicked a disc jockey-style voice. "I would introduce the stripper that followed my act... And now the luscious, lovable, Gigi La Rue, direct form Paris ... Kentucky!" Damn she hated when I'd say Kentucky." He watched the empty stage as he spoke.

The audience crowded around the refreshment counter and moved towards the exit for fresh air.

"I think they love N.W.!" Don smiled. "Oh, what was I saying? I was telling you about my life in the Blue Heaven in Paris ... but screw that." B.W.'s manager called to him and he ran over.

As he spoke he rubbed his palms on the sides of his red velour slacks, leaving dark wet marks. He was a man in perpetual motion, chewing his fingers, rubbing his sides, twisting his rings around his fingers.

"Forgive the interruptions." He returned and pulped something from an ugly brown mug. "Sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am to have a job like this. I'm making tons of money, have a limousine, and go to the front of the line wherever I go." Don smiled with pride. "What a life. You know, last week I was with Rod Stewart in Arizona? I cover most of the southwest.

B.W. and his boys were heading for the stage. Don gave them a cloudy expression. His limo was outside, his plane tickets inside his red velour coat, but he frowned. he seemed to deflate like a poorly knotted helium balloon.

As the house lights dimmed, his face looked old and wrinkled. He rubbed more lime stick on his lips.

"I almost got fired last week. Someone told my boss I was loaded out of my head in Las Vegas ... the goddam liar!" He reached in his picket for the red notebook and flipped through the pages without looking. That book was precious to him. In it was who to know, what they know, and why they could help Don Latimore.

B.W. tried a few chords. The microphones still buzzed. The room was dark, except for a blue spotlight focused on the minstrel from Dallas.

"Well, wouldn't you like to be a star?" Don demanded defensively. His confession was surprising, the words sharp in the quiet room. "All the adoration, the attention ... you just stand on a stage, and people cry out for you, crying out to touch you."