Charles had been fired, or was in danger of being fired. Where were Charles, Al Perry and Carla? Nobody would tell me what was going on. Had Charles not showed up? Or had he been there for only part of his show? One of the sub DJ’s had evidently worked part of his show. Meryl, the bookkeeper, told me that T. Mitch, Arnie Woo-Woo Ginsburg and Ray Riepen were in the office, had been there since she got in, and had not come out except to use the bathroom. Woo-Woo was grim, she told me.
I asked Kate, the Head of Volunteers. She could not tell me. She wanted to know what I knew. Her great, romantic, hidden, unconfessed Love for Charles, combined with the fear that the object of her love might be taken from her, had twisted her lovely, supple body into a knot in the corner by Carla’s desk. Kate was Irish. She mustered the phalanx of volunteers with efficiency and wit, except when Charles was around, when she retreated as it were into one of those transparent Santa balls, and was without speech. Only an enormous blush was left behind.
I asked Danny Schechter, the News Dissector. Danny hammered on the same message every day. The National Liberation Front was our ally (he never once used the phrase “Viet Cong”). Imperialism must and will lose the war in Vietnam. I hope he has not mellowed. Danny had a lot of stories about Corporate America, about minority and women’s issues; a lot of sources; but today he had nothing. “I don’t know, man”. he told me in his New York accent. “Do you know anything about unions, man”? He was not changing the subject. I told him that I did not, but wanted to know.
Little Bill darted out of the record library with a couple of albums. Little Bill was supposedly only 14. He claimed to be in the ninth grade at Newton South High School, and was the only volunteer to have had air time. Woo-Woo Ginsburg, impressed with Little Bill’s unbelievably frenetic delivery and knowledge of the hits, had put him on the air a couple of times on the weekend overnight shifts when nobody else wanted to work. Bill was called “little” because he was about five feet six. I was the other Bill at six feet two. He didn’t know anything either, although it was hard to tell what he knew, if anything, because of his supercharged state.
Max was not in yet, so I couldn’t ask her. Sam Kopper was just coming in the door, and I turned to ask him, but just then Arnie, Mitch and Ray Riepen emerged from the office and brushed past me on the way out the door. Sam and I stepped aside. Arnie Ginsburg’s head was down, a cigarette in his mouth, his complexion a light brownish green. The three executives went into the elevator.
Sam had nothing, either. He was a short timer anyway, having accepted a gig on the West Coast. His farewell party was to be in Littleton the next weekend, and he was mellow, with not much invested in the politics of WBCN at this point. He perched on Carla’s desk, fiddling with some rolling papers and the contents of a baggy. “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “It’ll all work itself out.” And he gave me that unforgettable grin.