Jess Row - Your Face in Mine

Sorry to be so direct, she said. But I want you to think this through. These people smell indecision, understand?

I’m not undecided, I said, a patent lie. I want this job. I’m here.

—

Two nights ago Winnifred called me at eight forty-five — on the late side, for a business call, but I had nothing better to do, as she surely guessed. I’m wondering if you could come down for a quick breakfast meeting, she said. Henry’s, at eight sharp?

There was no way I could refuse, of course, though I longed for the days of daycare drop-offs and family responsibilities, so painfully, so wetly, that I could hardly hold up the phone.

When I turn around the pastry counter into Henry’s seating area I see immediately that this is no ordinary meeting: Winnifred is squeezed into a corner table alongside Walter Avery, the college president, whom I’ve met only once before, and a tall stranger in a navy blazer and polo shirt, a pudgy, bulbous-nosed man in his forties who looks like a high school football coach, complete with bristly red hair and a sawtooth mustache. They have in front of them a platter of assorted danishes, croissants, pecan rolls, bâtards, and scones, and the table is already scattered with crumbs and wadded napkins lumped from coffee spills.

Kelly, Winnifred says, let me introduce you to Ron Dwyer. Ron, Kelly.

Kelly’s a good Irish name, Ron says, pumping my hand.

I think my parents chose it out of a hat. We’re Dutch and German all the way back.

New Amsterdam Dutch?

Ellis Island.

I can’t imagine why we’re having a conversation about genealogy in front of two African Americans, but Ron looks pleased to have the details in order.

Kelly, Walter says, Winnifred’s told me that you’re scheduled to have a meeting with the staff this week about the accreditation issue, and so I felt we needed to have this conversation first, just so that there’s no miscommunication anywhere along the line. I’ll keep it simple, because I know you have places to be. BCC has opted to embrace a new arrangement for the WBCC license. This is an opportunity we’ve been thinking about for a while, and the letter from NPR gave us a window of time. Now we’re about to act.

Walter is also a big man, with very wide features — his nose in particular is like a lump of pancake batter dropped onto the griddle of his face — and I have the sensation, at this moment, of being a place kicker facing three linebackers across the line of scrimmage. All three of them have hunkered down at the same moment, waiting to hear what I will say, and I feel as if they could upend the table at any moment and reach out for my throat.

I’m sorry, Walter, I say — what else can I say? — can you clarify that a little? I don’t quite follow.

BCC is selling the station, Winnifred says, with one of her characteristic Teflon smiles. It’s a very difficult decision, and one I’ve questioned all the way along the line. But in the end I think it’s a disservice to the community and the college to keep things going the way they are.

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?