You can’t sell a public radio station, I say. I mean, you know that, right? The FCC—
Walter holds up a long and impressive hand. No lecture needed, he says. We’re not selling anything. Winnifred spoke imprecisely. We’re trading the existing WBCC, 107.9 FM, to WATB, 930 AM, and the owner of WATB, Ron here—
Ron, Ron says, pleased again to be speaking of himself in the third person, only as a representative of PureLine Communications—
— is going to assume the WBCC frequency for a new format.
Sports-talk-traffic-weather.
NPR doesn’t license AM-only stations, I say. What’s the WATB transmitter like, anyway?
Two thousand watts.
That’s a fifth our size, and we’re tiny as it is.
Kelly, Winnifred says, let’s be honest here. I know this must be a shock, though I did, of course, warn you that the situation at WBCC was unstable when you took the job. Baltimore isn’t a large enough market for two NPR stations. The letter more or less said that. Our expectation for the new WATB will be more along the lines of a true college radio station, staffed primarily by students and interns with a very small professional leadership.
Hold on, Walter says, we’re putting the cart somewhat before the horse here. The first thing you’re worried about, no doubt, is your own future and your family’s future.
As soon as he says it, an innocent slip, a bit of rhetorical filler natural to anyone who fires people often, the mortification spreads over his face like a port-wine stain. I was very open and honest during my interview about what I called, for lack of a better word, my life situation. I thought it would win me sympathy, which, of course, it did.
Okay, I say, trying to distract him. I get what you mean. No offense taken. Lay it out, Walter.
You’re a very understanding person, Kelly. And we’re willing to offer you three options. One, keep your role at WATB. We will keep your existing contract and renegotiate when it comes up for renewal. Two, take a severance package now. Three months fully paid, COBRA after that, with full TIAA-CREF contributions, the whole nine yards. And a nondisclosure clause, of course. Three, assume a new role at the new WBCC.
What new role?
Assistant PD, Ron says. We’re confident that someone as enterprising as you obviously can make the switch to commercial without too much difficulty. Of course, the staff will be much smaller. Most of our programming is national feed. Primarily, you’ll be in charge of sales to the local market.
Who’s going to tell the staff?
Walter clears his throat. I’m leaving tomorrow for Venezuela, he says. It’s a fact-finding trip organized by the mayor. Intercultural exchange. We’re thinking about doing a sister city down there. So unfortunately I’m out. Winnifred will go with you, I think, if there’s time in her schedule.
I won’t do it alone, I say. It’s not right. It’s immoral. I feel that I was hired under false pretenses, I’ll say that right now.
So I assume that means you’re taking the severance?
You can say what you want about WBCC, I say, but public radio isn’t something to be trifled with. Morning Edition is the top-rated morning drive show in greater Baltimore just like everywhere else. There’s going to be outrage. I hope you’ve consulted with your lawyers, because I wouldn’t want to be in the crosshairs of an FCC audit over giving up part of the FM dial to commercial radio.
Jesus Christ, Walter says to Winnifred. You told me he’d be glad to get out.
This is all news to me. I didn’t hire a stone thrower.
I’m just giving you some advice based on a broader perspective. There have been other cases like this, and they’ve all been ugly. So, in other words, gird yourselves for some nasty media. City Paper is going to be all over this story, no doubt. WYPR will pick it up. NPR stations tend to stick together. The Sun will be pissy, too, if anyone over there’s still awake. Plus, you know, the whole philanthropy side of things. The Greater Baltimore Commission. The Abell folks. No one’s a big fan of commercial radio these days. No offense, Ron.
This, Walter says, thickly, with a susurration in the back of the throat, this, this, what you’re saying — this is over a station no one listens to.
It’s the principle of the thing. Plus, WBCC is weird. It’s local color. Turn us on any time of day and you’ll hear something you won’t hear anywhere else. We’re like the homeless guy who sells his little poetry books down on Gay Street, right? No one buys the books, but we’d sure miss him if he left.
I wasn’t prepared to do this, he says. Blinking, recovering himself. Because I didn’t think it would be necessary, but there is a final offer available. Six months’ severance with an additional limitation: you can’t work in radio in Baltimore again. No station, nowhere. You’re out of town. I guess that’s not such a dealbreaker for you, is it?
And before you say anything, Winnifred says, beaming again, yes, this is hush money, and yes, we will sue you if you so much as utter a word out of turn to anyone.
Ron pulls at his collar, his Adam’s apple protruding, as if he’s just swallowed a golf ball.
Who wrote the checks, I’m wondering, and how was it disguised? Perhaps Winnifred has political ambitions and a PAC of her own. Who is PureLine Communications, at any rate? If I were the muckraker I’m pretending to be, this would be the story, and I would be wearing a wire. It all feels so ordinary, so matter-of-fact, this transaction, this yielding up of the comparatively innocent, the unprepared, to the profiteers of this small, small world. Who would have thought that a tiny public radio station you can’t even get clearly in half the city would be any kind of a prize? Or, on the other hand, perhaps the scandal is that there is no scandal. BCC needs money. WBCC is underperforming. Winnifred is fulfilling her fiduciary responsibility, and who could say otherwise, if WATB really does become student-run, a low-wattage flight simulator, so to speak? Surely that’s what WBCC was in the beginning. In that case the real scandal is us, the eternally subsidized, the overeducated, undermotivated, the preachy, those who hide their resentments in lectures, who think that the world — in the form of a university, a government office, some fragile and temperamental nonprofit — owes us a living.
Kelly, Winnifred says tenderly, reaching across the table to touch my hand, given the circumstances, I’m sure you understand that we need to have your decision before you leave here.
I realize, only now, that no one has offered me coffee, tea, a baked good from the tray, and my stomach is clawing at me to eat. I’ll get something on the way out. Winnifred, I say, I’ll be there, but you’ll do the talking. After that I’ll take the six months. But I’m not signing anything until after I hear you tell them what you’ve decided.
Fair enough, Walter says.
Winnifred appears to have risen slightly in her seat, though it may be just a trick of my perception. You took the job, she says. I warned you it might be rough going. And now you want to wash your hands. That’s not the mark of a leader.
Winnie, Walter murmurs, you know the man’s right.
I’ll let you work it out, I say, rising. You know my terms. Good to meet you, Ron. Best of luck.
It’s almost as if I could do this, too — I could be a dealmaker, a manipulator. Or is it just a role we all learn, now, watching TV? I walk along Charles Street, trying to remember where I parked, feeling a little dizzy, short-footed, as if I’m leaning over to one side, and slightly shrunken, as if I’ve just shed a skin.