THE GREAT RADIO GIVEAWAY DISASTER 

 

James J. Yellen

 

 

   Every time I turn on the television I yearn for the golden age of radio. Last night for example, I was watching one of television's most popular giveaway shows. As I stared numbly at the hazy blue electronic images dancing across the screen, I saw an overweight middle-aged matron dressed in a bunny suit. She was in a desperate quandary trying to decide whether to keep the one thousand dollar bill, which she had in her hand, or trade it for the unknown contents of a box.

 

     I couldn't help but remember back to the days of radio giveaway shows, and what I remember most is how my father was a sucker for them. If there was a radio show that gave the listeners a chance to make a buck, my father was in there pitching for some of that loot.

 

     For example, there was a time when Dad would spend entire evenings writing jokes on postcards to be sent off to "Can You Top This?" a humor show that paid listeners for sending in funny stories that they could use on the air. A friend of Dad's from Teddy's Tavern had picked up a cool one hundred bucks in this manner and for months afterward my father tried to collect some of that free loot. Once a week Dad would stop at the post office on his way home from work and pick up twenty-five cents worth of penny postcards. Then, in the evening, after the kitchen table had been cleared, he would pull out his dog-eared copy of "1001 Funny Stories and Jokes for All Occasions" and go to work. This book, which he had won at a wheel of fortune booth at a church picnic, was his main source of material for the jokes that he submitted. It was a mild form of plagiarism but totally justifiable since the only other jokes Dad knew were ones that could not be written down and sent through the mail.

 

     My father's lack of success in that endeavor did not discourage him nor dampen his enthusiasm for radio giveaway shows. One time he enlisted the aid of the entire family in writing letters to the Mystery Walking Man contest on "Truth or Consequences." This was a contest in which listeners were asked to identify a famous person from only his footsteps plus a series of inscrutable clues. For a full week we all spent each evening addressing envelopes until our hands became palsied.

 

     Ralph Edwards, the "Truth or Consequences" host, had had several similar contests previous to this one. There was the Miss Hush contest and also the Mrs. Hush contest. My father claimed that he had known the correct identity of Mrs. Hush, Martha Graham, the very first week of the contest.

 

     "I would've won!" He repeated for weeks to anyone who would listen. "If only they had called me. I knew that Mrs. Hush was Martha Graham right from the start. I would've won!" He wasn't about to let easy money slip away this time. This time he was inundating Ralph Edwards with entries.

 

     "It's gotta be J. Edger Hoover." he had insisted during the early weeks of the Walking Man contest. Presumably he had arrived at that conclusion from a careful scrutinization of the incomprehensible clues. But when a man from Sundance, Wyoming guessed Mr. Hoover and was informed that he was incorrect, Dad hastily made a reevaluation and concluded that the mystery personality had to be Fred Allen.

 

     The rules of conduct for Saturday nights, "Truth or Consequences" night, in our house were firmly set forth and strictly enforced. No one, absolutely no one, was permitted to use the telephone during those crucial thirty minutes during which Ralph Edwards might call us. Any incoming callers were to be quickly and firmly informed that the line was to be kept open. One Saturday night my Dad's sister, our Aunt Martha, called long distance from upstate New York during the forbidden time to tell of the impending marriage of her daughter, my cousin Beatrice, to the son of the owner of the local feed store. My Dad became increasing more agitated each time my Mom would say, "Oh how nice." as Aunt Martha rattled on about each detail of the upcoming nuptials. Finally Dad reached his exploding point and snatched the receiver out of Mom's hand, told Aunt Martha that he would call back tomorrow and hung up.

 

     Every Saturday we would wait anxiously for Ralph to identify the contestant that he was calling, and every Saturday we were disappointed when our phone failed to ring. It worked out for the best since even if Ralph had called us, we would have only been further disappointed to be informed that the Walking Man was not Fred Allen. When a woman from Chicago correctly identified him as Jack Benny, my father was quick to comment, "That was my second guess!" He had missed by the skin of his teeth again.

 

     But despite the big prizes offered on the other shows, my father's absolute favorite radio giveaway show was "Dr. I.Q." Each week on this show, Dr. I.Q., the Mental Banker, would give a dozen or more eager members of his studio audience the opportunity to go home with a fistful of silver dollars. With his crew of roving assistants, the Doctor would ask questions of members of the audience offering them a given amount of silver dollars as a reward for a correct answer. Usually, of the dozen or more persons queried per show, only two or three would be able to answer correctly and leave with the loot. The remainder generally failed to give any response at all, preferring to admit that they don't know the correct answer rather then chance the possibility of being embarrassed from coast to coast by giving an incorrect guess.

 

     The action on "Dr. I.Q." was fast and furious and invariably predictable.

 

     "...And now to Ed Rhymers on my LEFT in the balcony!"

 

     "I have a gentleman, Doctor."

 

     "Eleven silver dollars to that gentleman for the correct answer to this question." At this point the Doctor would ask his question.

 

     "Ah...ah," says the gentleman.

 

     "Five seconds, please," prods the Doctor.

 

     "Ah...ah," repeats the gentleman.

 

     "I'm going to have to call time," warns the Doctor.

 

     "I'm sorry Doctor, I don't know," the gentleman meekly responds.

 

     "Oh, I'm so sorry," laments the Doctor, "I think that you'll find that the correct answer is blah-blah-blah."

 

     Now came my favorite part of the whole show. At this point the pace would quicken and Dr. I.Q. would go into his machine gun delivery.

 

     "...But a box of Dr. I.Q. candy bars for you and two tickets to next weeks show at the Cleveland Orpheum featuring Humphrey Bogart and Mary Astor in the Maltese Falcon. And now to Charlie Lyons on my RIGHT downstairs!"

 

     When those contestants said, "I'm sorry Doctor, I don't know," my father would bounce out of his easy chair and shout, "The idiot! Why doesn't he take a guess? What's he got to lose? STUPID IDIOT!" It would especially incense him when he knew the right answer. "Geeze, I knew that one," he would often vociferate pounding the top of our Atwater Kent.

 

     But there were no silver dollars for knowing the correct answer while sitting at home in your parlor. And that's why it was such a big event the day that Dad opened his morning newspaper and saw the advertisement saying:

 

     "DR. I.Q. COMES TO NEWARK. Dr. I.Q., the mental banker, will broadcast live from the Newark Palace Theater, Friday May 6. All are invited to take part in this greatest of all giveaway shows. FREE ADMISSION."

 

     This was the chance that Dad had been waiting for, and he instantly made up his mind that he was going. For the next two weeks he was a different person. Whereas before he would skim the newspaper, seriously reading only the sports page searching in vein for some good news about the New York Giants, now he was carefully scrutinizing every printed word. Many times in those two weeks he would excitedly slam the paper down onto the kitchen table exclaiming, "Here's one that they might ask...Donald M. Nelson was just named to head the War Production Board. They might ask that."

 

     Several evenings he spent all his time studying my one volume desktop encyclopedia, a Christmas gift from Aunt Martha that previously went ignored and unused.

 

     "Here's something I didn't know," he commented on night. "Did you know that the principal export of Bolivia is tin?"

 

     In a short two weeks, my father became a veritable walking information machine, able to easily name the capital of South Dakota or the world's largest salt-water lake. It reached the point that the rest of the family avoided conversation with him, fearful that we might be asked to name the capital of Peru or the principal export of Mongolia.

 

     He worked himself into such a state of euphoria that when the eventful day came and I whined, "Can I go with you, Dad?" he good naturedly said, "Sure you can come. It'll be educational."

 

     It was a half-hour drive from Athenia to Newark, and we arrived at the theater a full hour before show time. We parked the car and quickly took our places in the line that was already circling the block. Almost instantly other eager faces filled in behind us until I could barely see the end of the queue. I stood silently until the doors to the theater were finally opened and the line started to inch forward. I could tell that my father was giving his newly acquired storehouse of knowledge one last inventory, and I didn't want to disturb his concentration.

 

     In a short time we arrived inside the theater where the scene was mayhem. Greedy silver seekers were racing up and down the aisles elbowing each other in an effort to get to the best seats. Rather than risk suffering bruised ribs, Dad and I settled for two seats toward the back on the left side of the balcony. We could barely see the stage.

 

     Finally the show went on the air, but Dad and I paid little attention to the Doctor. Instead, our focus was on Pat Hill as he rushed to and fro in front of us selecting contestants. Pat was our connection to Dr. I.Q.

 

     Then it happened. As a thin woman downstairs was trying to name the new Secretary of War, by father suddenly jumped out of his seat. Pat Hill had tapped HIM on the shoulder!

 

     "Would you like to be a contestant?" Pat whispered to Dad.

 

     "Sure!" Dad answered, his voice cracking with anticipation.

 

     "You'll be next then."

 

     I couldn't believe it! My father was going to be on the Dr. I.Q. show. We waited anxiously as the good Doctor finished with the thin woman, then we heard his voice ring out, "...and now to Pat Hill on my LEFT in the balcony!"

 

     "I have a gentleman, Doctor." Pat Hill announced in his best official radio announcing voice.

 

     My father was standing next to Pat and he smiled down at me. The gentleman was him.

 

     "I have seventeen silver dollars for that gentleman if he can give me the correct answer to this question. We all know that the U.S. Army Military Academy is at West Point, and that the U.S. Naval Academy is at Annapolis, but for seventeen silver dollars, can you tell me the location of the U.S. Air Corps Academy?"

 

     I watched as Pat Hill shoved the microphone in front of Dad's face, waiting for his response. I waited too.

 

     Silence.

 

     "No prompting, please," the Doctor warned the audience.

 

     More silence...then, "Could you please repeat the question, Doctor." It was a smart delaying tactic. This way Dad would get more time to think of the right answer.

 

     "Certainly," said the doctor condescendingly, and he repeated the question.

 

     "Five seconds, please," egged the Doctor.

 

     Come on Dad. Take a guess. You've got nothing to lose.

 

     "Five seconds, please," warned the Doctor again.

 

     Nothing. Come on Dad. Take a guess.

 

     "Time is almost up," the Doctor pleaded.

 

     "I-I'm sorry Doctor, I don't know."

 

     OH NO!

 

     "Oh, I'm sorry. I think you'll find that the correct answer is Randolph Field, Texas. But a box of Dr. I.Q. candy bars and two tickets to next week's..." I didn't hear the rest. My father slumped down into his seat as Pat Hill bolted off in search of his next victim. I wanted to say something like "Good try" or "That was a tough one" but I could tell that Dad was in no mood for words of consolation from a fourteen year old. He remained stone faced for the rest of the show, not even flinching when an usher in a frayed, tacky uniform unceremoniously dropped the box of candy bars into his lap.

 

     When the show was finally mercifully over, I found that I had a hard time keeping up with Dad as he hastily scurried back to our car. He kept furtively glancing around as if not to let anyone on the street recognize him as the man who didn't know the answer to the Air Corps question.

 

     As we drove home, I was dying to eat one of the candy bars in the box that was lying between us, but I dared not speak a word.

 

     When we arrived home we were eagerly greeted by my mother who was quick to innocently inquire, "I listened to the show. Did you get a chance to answer a question?"

 

     I had foolishly opened my mouth and was about to verbalize the truth when I heard Dad say in a loud clear voice, "No, they didn't even come near us." He was glaring straight at me and the message was coming through loud and clear. If I wanted to keep my two arms and two legs intact, it was best for me to keep my trap shut.

 

     From that day on, the only time that we were allowed to listen to the Dr. I.Q. show was when Dad wasn't home.

 

     "I don't know why your father hates that show," my mother would say. "I think it's educational."

 

     It was an education for Dad and me.