9
In my life I have never heard, never imagined, the sound an office makes when everyone in it is fired at once. Here it is the sound of the live feed burbling over the speakers — Joe Giamelli’s taped show Once Upon a Garden—and occasionally the automatic scritching of Barbara’s fax machine, and the squawk of the walkie-talkie back in the engineers’ room, and the emergency frequency beeping every minute or two at Sully Parker’s news desk. The machines speak, and I look from one face to another, willing my arms not to cross my chest protectively, to remain open, in a receptive, listening posture. No one looks at me. I count them, once, twice. WBCC has seventeen employees, and they are all, mercifully, present — no one on vacation, no one with a sick uncle in Denver. They are all staring at Winnifred, who has just made the announcement, in a convincingly shaky voice, and now wipes her eyes with a tissue. There is no better defensive weapon than a tissue, it just now occurs to me. Not for nothing does she work in public relations.
How much time do we have? Sully asks.
Winnifred seems in no shape to answer, so I pick it up: Until what, Sully?
You know. Until the final decision is made. Until the ax falls.
Sully, I say, I’m so, so sorry to say this, but the final decision has been made.
Bullshit, Mort says. That’s so much self-serving nonsense, and you know it, Kelly. It ain’t over till it’s over, right? He looks around the room, gathering the troops, but there are only one or two muted yeahs, a few murmurs, and otherwise silence, thick as before. It’s going to be a lawsuit, then, he says. Jesus Christ, Winnie, you sold us down the river, didn’t you?
Don’t you dare use that expression with me, Winnifred says. That’s disgusting. You ought to know better.
Well, okay, good, Mort says. I guess you can say you’re firing me for cause. Because that’s the only way you can do it. Our contracts all say that we have ninety days’ notice if our employer files for bankruptcy or goes out of business. That’s standard boilerplate.
But WBCC isn’t going out of business, Winnifred says patiently. As I’ve just explained. We’re in a transitional period.
Were we just not popular enough? Diane Mackintosh, our pink-sweatered musical consultant, asks, her face already red and raw, a shred of tissue clinging to her nose, too. I mean, is that what you’re saying here? Basically BCC is giving up on us because we’re not marketable anymore? Because I have a few things to say about that. Take this off the air — she flaps a hand around the room, at no one in particular — and it disappears. I could show you the stacks of letters saying that we’re people’s lifeblood. That’s what I care about. Not about ratings. I went into radio to change people’s lives.
No one is saying the station isn’t an amazing resource, I say. It’s distinctive. There’s so much here to be proud of. And all of you can go on to offer the same content in other formats. Internet radio. Podcasts. Blogs. There’s a hundred different venues that didn’t exist ten years ago.
That don’t pay anyone a salary.
No, I say, you’re right. Not yet. The industry’s in transition. But public radio was never about institutional support; it was always about listener membership. And WBCC never had the membership dollars, the sponsorships, to work properly, in any case. BCC was footing too much of the bill. It was unrealistic, to be honest. In a down market something like this was bound to happen.
Shut up, Winnifred is signaling me with her eyes, all but mouthing the words.
We had six weeks of pledge drives last year, Sully says. You’re telling me we didn’t try?
I’m telling you that we were in the wrong position in the marketplace.
This capitalistic language, Diane says. It’s making me ill.
I’m sorry, I say. I’m sorry! I wish I didn’t have to be saying these things. Someone should have said them a long time ago. From my perspective, this station has had very poor leadership. Very poor strategic planning. I know it doesn’t help now. I just wish I’d had more time. It’s a huge waste. I’m so, so sorry.
No one appears to be listening, save for Winnifred, who stares at me with such concentrated fury I can feel it radiating from her body. For a moment I wonder whether she could construe what I’ve just said as talking to the media, a violation of my agreement, but she cuts her gaze away, flicking me off the table of her mind, and I know how insignificant I am, thank god, how justifiably an afterthought and a minor irritation.
We go to the papers first, says Michelle Berkowitz, who’s young, not even thirty, with a communications degree from Northwestern. I’ve never quite known what she was doing here. There’s going to be a firestorm, she says. You’ll see.
We can’t stop you from doing that, Winnifred says. We can’t stop you from doing anything. This is a station committed to public discourse, and discourse is what there will be. But in the end it’s likely that things will still come out on the college’s side. I say this as a matter of sheer practicality. I would encourage you all to think of this as a transitional period to new employment—
Where? shouts Trevor McCloud, our chief engineer. Everyone turns to look at him. His eyes have turned bubblegum pink; spit glistens at the corners of his mouth. I’ve got two kids in private school, he says, a mortgage, home equity, a car loan. Where? In fucking Kansas? In Milwaukee?
Trevor, I say, trying to lock every joint in my body at once, this is incredibly hard, it’s a disaster, but we’re giving you every minute of advance warning we can. The station won’t be off the air for six weeks. You’ve got skills. You’ve all got portable skills. I won’t say, it could be worse. It couldn’t be worse. Especially for those of you with kids and houses and families and obligations. But we will do everything we can.
Fuck you, he says. I mean, at least Winnie’s from here. You’re just, what, an import? A scab? What’s your job, anyway, in the new scheme of things?
No job. I’m looking for work, just the same as you.
Well, good luck with that, Mort says. Personally, I’d give you the highest possible recommendation.
Mort, that’s not fair, Michelle says. Stop looking for a scapegoat. Or if you are going to look for one, open your eyes, okay? Who do you think made this decision? She turns to me. I mean, it’s a sweet deal for PureLine, right? They’re not putting any cash in up front, are they? For a prime FM license? Just ad revenues? Wow, BCC is such the winner in that scenario.
I don’t know, I say. I’ve told you everything I know.
If you’re fishing for dirt, Winnifred says, you’re not going to get it from us. This was a straightforward strategic decision on the part of the college.
Oh, Mort says, what now, Winnie, you supported this? This is too much. He combs his fingers through his hair, which he wears Bruce Springsteen style, down to the nape of the neck; along with the open-necked shirts, the arrowhead on a thong, and the single gold loop in the left ear, it’s his virility costume, and I won’t hesitate to say that I find it deeply satisfying to see it become clownish and transparently sad. This is just evil, he says, it’s a corporate takeover, a total sellout, and I don’t know why Walter thinks he’s going to get away with it, but he’s not. This meeting is over. I have to go on the air in an hour, and guess what I’m going to talk about? Guess what just happened to your carefully orchestrated PR calendar, Winnie? I can’t wait to hear what the people have to say.