Story code: ST-001156
Part 2: The Archive in the Closet
The next morning, the studio was quiet before the live afternoon broadcast. I went down to the equipment storage closet at the end of the hall to retrieve a replacement XLR cable for the guest mic. The closet was crowded with outdated gear, dusty analog tape reels, and plastic bins filled with old promotional materials from the station’s early days. The air was thick with the smell of old cardboard and degrading magnetic tape.
While digging through a cardboard box marked WNUA Chicago Archives, my hand brushed against a stack of glossy paper tucked between old program guides. I pulled out a heavy sheet of cardstock. It was an old promotional headshot from 1994.
A younger, smiling Arthur Vance looked back at me, sporting a denim shirt and a thick mustache. But it was the setting of the photo that caught my attention. He was leaning over a massive, complex 48-channel analog broadcast console, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a frequency analyzer in the other. I flipped the card over. The printed biography on the back read: ‘Arthur Vance, Chief Broadcast Engineer and Lead Morning Talent.’ The text detailed his five years of experience wiring station transmitters, designing custom patch bays, and teaching console routing to junior engineers. It explicitly stated he held an advanced degree in electrical engineering and was certified by the Society of Broadcast Engineers. He was not a helpless radio host; he was a fully qualified technician who had built stations from the ground up.
I took the headshot back to the control room and laid it flat on the desk next to the Soundcraft Vi3000 mixing board.
When Maya arrived, she looked even more exhausted than the day before. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she carried a thick folder of prep notes for the live show. She set her laptop down and caught sight of the black-and-white photo lying face up under the desk lamp.
She picked it up, staring at the image of her uncle soldering the console wiring. She slowly turned it over, her eyes tracking the lines of print detailing his engineering credentials. Her fingers gripped the edges of the cardstock until the paper creased. She did not speak for a long time. Her breathing remained shallow, and she did not look up from the text. I watched her thumb trace the printed logo of the engineering society on the back of the card.
‘He told my mother he did not know what an input channel was,’ Maya said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans. She looked through the double-paned glass at the empty host chair in Studio A. ‘He had me rebuild the entire routing sheet last week because he said the labels confused him. He made me cancel my weekend plans to fix a patch bay.’
‘He built WNUA’s main broadcast booth from scratch in ninety-four,’ I said, keeping my tone flat.
Maya did not look angry; she simply stared at the photo, her face set in a hard, quiet line. She walked into Studio A and stood before the host console. She touched the primary microphone line, tracing the XLR input path down to the floor pocket.
‘He spent three hours last Tuesday complaining that the phantom power switch was invisible,’ Maya said, her voice completely level. ‘He refused to record the intro until I came in and flipped it for him.’
I nodded, recalling the incident. ‘The switch is labeled in bright red text right next to the gain pot.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. She walked back into the control room, her gaze fixed on the empty studio. She carefully slid the headshot into the front pocket of her laptop bag, her movements slow and deliberate. She zipped her laptop bag shut. The metal slider clicked against the metal teeth, a sharp, final sound in the quiet booth. ‘We have a live sponsor segment in two hours. Let’s see how he handles the pre-show check without me. I am not touching the faders today.’