“You’re from The Washington Post? Why would anyone care about an old fossil like Greg Campbell?”
Kelly Sterling was prepared for the question, because the young reporter had the same reaction when his editor approached him about writing the story.
He said, “We’re in a hot election cycle. Campbell was the last talk show host in this town who was independent. Red, blue, it didn’t matter. He called it as he saw it.”
From behind his uncluttered desk, James Furlong sighed. “Well, he was gone way before I took over as brand manager.”
“Brand manager? I thought you were the program director.”
“That title is a relic from the last century. Just like Campbell. I’m here to build our brand. We learned a long time ago that our audience has strong opinions, and they don’t want them challenged. We stroke our listeners’ pleasure centers. Before they put Campbell out to pasture, I hear they got more hate mail about him than anyone who ever worked here.”
“From the people I’ve spoken to, they said he was a great guy. A bit stodgy, but not a mean bone in his body.”
“That and four bucks will get you a cup of coffee.” Furlong glanced around his office. Deposited in the middle of a broadcast complex housing five radio stations, it might have been a call center for an insurance company. Every stick of corporate furniture was drab and disposable.
He said, “Look, Sterling, I never met the man. He was canned years before I came aboard. Sorry, I can’t help you. Last I heard, some daytimer in a jerkwater town hired him. Tell you what. Some of the old engineers the union makes us keep around were here when Campbell was. I’ll text you if I find anything. By the way, you guys should do a piece on our afternoon host. He took over after Limbaugh died and actually gets better ratings.”
Sterling said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He extended his hand. “Thanks.”
~~~~~
Kelly didn’t expect any follow up from Furlong and was pleasantly surprised when he received a text while driving home. Furlong obviously figured that staying on the good side of The Washington Post was important, despite their opposing political stances.
One of the old engineers confirmed that the last known radio gig for Greg Campbell, who he hadn’t spoken to in years, was indeed in a small Central Virginia town called Amherst. He worked at a tiny five-thousand-watt mom and pop operation, bankrolled by a wealthy auto dealer. He checked the obits, and it seemed Campbell was still upright.
Sterling found a G. Campbell at an address on Scotts Hill Road. In a town of twenty-two hundred, it shouldn’t be hard to find. Despite the aggressive search engines he had access to, Sterling couldn’t get a phone number for the man, landline or cellular. Calling the radio station sent him to a full voicemail box. The station had no website.
The town was a two-hour drive from Sterling’s home in Mount Vernon. Although he preferred to set up interviews in advance, he decided to drive down and knock on doors. In these cost-conscious times, his editor approved, but no more than two nights at the Amherst Inn.
The ride was pleasant. It took him through fields of gold on Route 29 before reaching Charlottesville and Jefferson’s University of Virginia. Less than an hour south, he arrived at quaint and compact downtown Amherst. There were the usual fast-food restaurants, a Food Lion, an attorney’s office, a Baptist church, and pet grooming service. The county seat was located in a nondescript redbrick edifice and a little further out was an elementary school and town library.
It was midafternoon. Rather than stop by the radio station, he decided to visit Campbell’s residence first. In this digital age, it was possible that Campbell’s broadcasts originated from a home studio.
The house was tiny, but the yard was neatly kept. Campbell’s wife had passed, so Sterling assumed the old man lived alone. He was surprised when a woman in her fifties came to the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Campbell?”
“We don’t take solicitations. Please go away.”
“I’m from The Washington Post. Here’s my card. I’d like to speak with Greg Campbell, if he’s available.”
“He’s just getting up from his afternoon nap. Is he expecting you?”
“I couldn’t find a way to let him know I was coming.”
“The mail works just fine here.”
“I’m sure. You see, I’m doing a Where are they now? article. My editor felt that Mr. Campbell might provide a contrast to the partisan anger on the airwaves.”
“I can’t speak for him, but I doubt he’d be interested.”
A deep voice emerged from within the house.
“Gracie. Who is it?”
“Someone who claims to be from The Washington Post.”
“Well, be courteous to our guest. Send him in and offer him a drink.”
She showed Sterling inside and invited him to sit on a well-worn sofa in the compact living room. Glass doored lawyers’ cabinets lined the space, chock full of memorabilia from Campbell’s glory days. Mounted above the fireplace mantel was a plaque, commemorating his induction into the radio broadcasters’ Hall of Fame.
Sterling was admiring the honoraria when a distinguished looking man entered from down a narrow hall. Sparse white hair surrounded his deeply lined face. He was short and very slender — he probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred twenty pounds. But the voice wasn’t an old man’s voice. The deep baritone was as rich as it had been when it rumbled speakers in its prime.
The woman retreated to a back room to let Campbell and Sterling conduct their talk in private.
“I’m afraid Grace doesn’t live up to her name as far as the social aspect of her job. We don’t receive many visitors. In fact, I can’t remember the last one. Welcome in, Mr. …”
“Sterling. Kelly Sterling. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Oh, come now. From a paper as prestigious as yours, I daresay you’ve been in the company of kings.”
“That’s not my beat. I’m a lifestyle reporter.”
“I’m afraid my ‘lifestyle’ wouldn’t be of any interest to your readers. What brings you here, Kelly?”
“As I was telling Grace ….”
Campbell interrupted. “Grace cooks, cleans, and tucks me in at night. She takes good care of the old geezer. I’ve had some health issues. It comes with the territory when you’re in your tenth decade.”
“You look and sound remarkable for a man of ninety-three.”
“Ninety-two. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My credo as a broadcaster was ‘clear, concise, correct’.”
“As it should be. Are you still active? I couldn’t find any information about your station online.”
“Online, eh? A blessing and a curse. There’s no privacy anymore. Just a lot of noise. Voices that could and should be ignored make headlines, as if their opinions matter. Unfortunately, too many folks believe they do. Influencers. Who are they? Outspoken people who claim to be smarter than the rest of us. Or women with overripe bosoms who inspire additional clicks from incels.”
“That’s an interesting take on social media. I can’t disagree.”
Campbell nodded. “But the internet does have its blessings. I read your paper and countless others daily. I confess I’m not familiar with your byline. I tend to avoid ‘lifestyle’ pieces. Mea culpa.”
“No offense taken. About what I asked before — are you still on the radio?”
“I am. My station is a rich man’s toy. A successful automobile dealer by the name of Jeff Landis took a shine to me, for some inexplicable reason. He was a frequent caller to my show in DC, and when I was let go, he offered me a job here.”
“A man of your notoriety surely could have found a bigger stage than rural Virginia.”
“Let me correct you. I know the word police now say that notoriety can mean famous, but it actually means infamous. In answer to your statement, masquerading as a question, I could not find employment after I was terminated. I thought radio stations would come knocking down my door. None did, and those I contacted had no interest either.”
“Unbelievable.”
“A man in his seventies was considered over the hill. They couldn’t say it in so many words, for fear of an age discrimination lawsuit. Their excuse was that my style didn’t fit contemporary standards. It boiled down to the fact that I don’t scream and yell and take ridiculous positions that can easily be refuted. And this was before the era of alternative facts.”
“What kind of show do you do?”
“When I first came here, I did a two-hour phone-in show. I must admit there weren’t many callers, and I wound up speechifying most of the time. Now I just do a fifteen-minute commentary three nights a week. Mr. Landis said I could do it from home, but I’m old school. I like to work in a real studio environment. I’m the only live show left in the whole goldarned place. For local color, I suppose. Mostly, they take syndication.”
“Do you know if it’s profitable?”
“I imagine not. It’s more of an ego thing for Mr. Landis. He expanded into technology and has businesses around the globe. But he calls in to me most every show, no matter where he happens to be. He’s a very thoughtful man. It’s my pleasure to provide an outlet for him to vent, as he does for me. They shoot horses, don’t they?”
“When’s your next broadcast? Would you mind if I sit in and observe?”
“Good fortune is smiling on you, young man. My program airs at 5 p.m. and I would be pleased to have you watch me ply my craft and sullen art. Grace normally drives me to the station. My vision isn’t what it once was. I’m sure she would be happy to give up that duty if you can offer me a ride instead. It’s only five minutes from here.”
“I’d be happy to. Would I be able to meet Mr. Landis?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in person for quite some time. My only contact with him is on the air. Well, sir. It’s nearly time to leave. I like to check in early and get settled. Let me get dressed and I’ll be ready to go.”
He yells over his shoulder. “Grace. Come in and entertain our guest.”
The lady entered as Campbell walked out. She said, “I overheard Greg asking you to take him to the station. That’s my responsibility. I don’t mind if you drive, but I insist on coming along.”
“No problem. He seems pretty fit for a man of his age.”
“He has his good days and bad days. He’s on meds. Dad can be a challenge at times.”
“Excuse me. Dad?”
“Yes. Greg Campbell’s my father. I moved in with him after mom passed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was heartbroken. For a while, he lost all interest in life. The radio show keeps him going. Gives him something to look forward to. You wouldn’t believe how much time he spends polishing his editorials. It makes him feel relevant again.”
Greg Campbell came back, dressed in a grey suit that probably fit him twenty years and thirty pounds ago. Now the trousers were barely held up by a tightly clasped belt and a pair of paisley suspenders. His sunken chest was dwarfed by the oversized suit jacket.
Grace straightened his tie and pronounced them ready to leave. When they got to the storefront where the studio was located, Sterling was taken aback by the condition of the building. Cobwebs littered the plate glass window and the gold lettering proclaiming the call letters was chipped and faded. Campbell’s daughter switched on the overhead lights in the corridor and walked her father back to a dingy broadcast booth. A vintage five channel Sparta mixing console sat atop a cheap metal desk. An old RCA mic was boomed over the table.
Campbell sat on a creaky faux-leather chair behind the console and shuffled through his script.
Grace said, “He doesn’t like anyone else in the room when he broadcasts. We can listen out here and watch him through the glass.”
The room outside the studio was decrepit. Stacks of old LPs, cartridges and old 10-inch tape decks, tarnished from disuse, cluttered the small antechamber.
“He’s okay operating the equipment?”
“It’s automated. The mic is remote activated and when the red light comes on, it’s live. That’s all there is to it.”
“And Mr. Landis calls in every show?”
“Like clockwork. Dad hears his voice in the headphones and responds.”
At precisely five p.m., according to the dusty Seth Thomas clock, the red bulb glowed dimly, cueing Campbell to begin.
“Good evening, this is Gregory Campbell. Welcome to Fresh Air Radio. A respite from the noise and aggrieved voices you hear on other venues.”
He went on to comment on the issues of the day, He acknowledged the views of all sides, without rancor toward those he disagreed with. To Sterling’s ears, it was a refreshing voice of moderation and reason. It was something he rarely heard on the big city stations.
About ten minutes into the program, Sterling heard another voice over the JBL monitor speakers. It was high pitched, with a pronounced Southern accent. This must be Jeff Landis, the car dealer turned tech mogul.
The two men conversed amiably. Landis spoke mostly in platitudes, giving Campbell no cause to dispute anything he said. Occasionally, he would take one of Landis’s basic points and riff on it.
After fifteen minutes, the show concluded. Sterling was dismayed that such a thoughtful program couldn’t find a wider audience. Perhaps, some broadcast exec would see his Washington Post article and offer Greg Campbell a larger platform, of which he was clearly worthy.
While Campbell remained in the booth, making notes on his script, Sterling asked Grace, “Is there a place one can hear his commentary online? I’m sure the signal doesn’t reach Washington, and I’d like to give my readers a place where they can listen to your father.”
“Let’s step outside, Mr. Sterling. Dad will be out in a few minutes and there are some things you should know.”
“Okay. I have everything I need but a little more color can’t hurt.”
They stood on the sidewalk in front of the building. The sun was setting, and the cool night air felt invigorating. In the twilight, Sterling noticed for the first time that Grace had nice features. She must have been very pretty in her day, before care and age stole her youth.
She said, “The station went dark several years ago. No one can hear my dad’s commentaries.”
“Holy sh…”
He caught himself. “That casts a totally different light on things. Is your father aware of this?”
“No, and please don’t tell him. Or the world for that matter. It’s been off the air since the pandemic. I wanted to tell you upfront, but dad was so excited I couldn’t spoil his moment. Mr. Landis was kind enough to maintain this charade for my father’s sake. There’s a modest weekly stipend, which helps maintain the ruse. I’m afraid this trip has been a waste of your time.”
“Not really. It’s great story. My readers would love it. Is there a way you could keep it from him when we go to press?”
“I’m afraid not. He reads your paper every day. Mr. Sterling, please don’t write the story. It would crush him if he knew the truth. He’s not one to accept charity, which is what this amounts to.”
“I need to think about it. It’s an amazing story with so many angles. This Mr. Landis sounds like quite a man. I’d like to meet him.”
“That’s not possible. Covid not only took my mother, but Jeffrey Landis, as well.”
“But I heard him talking to your father on the air, just a few minutes ago.”
“Artificial intelligence. Sounds real, doesn’t it? Jeff’s kids are tech wizards. They started a company with his seed money, which grew his fortune into the billions. Before he passed, Mr. Landis bequeathed that my father could keep his radio show for the remainder of his days. Here comes dad. Please don’t breathe a word of what I just told you.”
Kelly Sterling took the couple to dinner at the nicest restaurant he could find in Amherst and spent a restless night at a charming little inn before returning to Washington the next day.
He told his editor that he could not find a viable story in Amherst. He said that Campbell was deep in the throes of dementia and was completely incoherent. Nothing to see there.
The story cried out to be told, just not now. Sterling labored over the next several days, fine tuning and confirming every detail. He secured an interview with the Landis boys, promising to hold the story until Campbell’s demise. True to his word, he spiked the piece and waited.
~~~~~~
A month later, he received an email.
My dear Mr. Sterling,
I eagerly awaited the publication of your story about the old man and the sea change, but alas, it was nowhere to be found.
I did not wish to vent my disappointment to you directly. Sour grapes from a vintage long turned to vinegar. I assumed there must be many stories more worthy of publication.
Then it struck me. You discovered my secret and decided to show mercy to a hapless senior citizen. A fool who would be crushed by the revelation that all his words were channeled into a dummy load.
Yes, I caught on to the deception early on. I know that I have lost a few yards off my fastball, but I am not in la-la land quite yet. It was obvious after the plague that the station was no longer broadcasting. But for some unexplained reason, it continued to air my commentaries.
I could have blown the whistle then and there. But I realized that this fraudulent activity had a rather noble effect. For me, it kept my mind active and my skills sharp. For Grace, it gave her a raison d’être, preserving the legacy of her father after her marriage failed. It allowed Jeff Landis to live in the minds of his two boys, who incidentally, are my godsons.
So, I abide, like the Dude in that Lebowski movie. I donate the paycheck to a local food bank. I am a man of small appetites and my years in radio have provided me a generous pension. I continue to perform to a phantom audience, which I hope provides my loved ones with the same sense of purpose that it imbues in me.
I pray you will not judge me too harshly. When you reach my stage in life, you need a reason to get up in the morning. To feel you still matter, even if you are literally a voice crying out in the wilderness.
If that voice truly has anything to contribute to the modern world, it is accessible. Early on, I purchased a web domain under a nom de plume. My pieces are archived on the site.
As a good reporter, I expect you to expose the deception. Know that it will do me no harm. I will continue to record my pieces for the blog. I’ll miss speaking with the robotic Jeff Landis, but his ingenious boys find another way to keep his spirit alive in their hearts. Grace will be relieved that I am not just a senile old geezer who flushes his meds down the commode when she is not looking. Perhaps it will incentivize her to seek the male companion she so richly deserves.
All the best,
Gregory Campbell
…
Richard Neer has worked, for more than a half century, at two of the most prestigious and groundbreaking radio stations in history: the progressive rocker WNEW-FM, New York for almost 30 years, and he’s currently been on air at the nation’s first full time sports talk station, WFAN, New York, since 1988. He also co-founded the original WLIR, Long Island, the first suburban progressive rock station in the nation. Neer’s milestone non-fiction, “FM: the Rise and Fall of Rock Radio” (Villard, 2001) is the true story of how corporate interests destroyed a medium that millions grew up listening to. A successful novelist, Neer has just released “The One True Crime” (Amazon, 2024), the latest in his Riley King mystery series. To learn more about Richard Neer and listen to his reading of “Invisible Airwaves” (TALKERS, 2024), please click here.