CHAPTER 12 The Giant Rats Of Sumatra

I moved back in with my folks that spring of 1962 and began to plot my radio career in earnest. They were surprised at my decision but not overjoyed, having saved for many years for my college education. I was sure enough of my choice to advise my father that he should take the college savings and use it for travel, investment or whatever he valued most. He seemed to appreciate the idea. For my part breaking into the radio business was both easy as pie and hard as hell. My first opportunity was filing a phone report of a fatal accident. It was picked up by KFJZ and broadcast state-wide on the Texas State Network. It was easy as pie. Getting a real radio job was hard as hell. I spent the next three months on my motor scooter systematically canvassing every radio station in Dallas and Fort Worth for work. I had no resume' or any real background. "You gotta HAVE a job to GET a job" I was told over and over. Toward the end of the summer I was blessed. A tiny station in Grand Prairie between Dallas and Fort Worth had just traded hands and the manager had an opening. We discussed the idea thoroughly and I was given the opportunity of a hands-on training position. I would be allowed two weeks to make or break. I broke. My first production was over two and a half minutes. It was epic but was supposed to be 60 seconds, maximum. I was burdened with "mike fright", a fear of speaking on the air. I could run a barely adequate DJ show but when I opened the microphone to speak, I would choke up and stumble over my words. Operating the equipment was by direct instruction a few times, and good luck. It was like being asked to climb into an airplane and fly it, with no experience. We parted company at the end of the two week period and I was back on the streets again. At least I had a pay check.

Radio gets in your blood. Fortunately, I had been blessed with a very good voice and had spent weeks at college straightening out the kinks of my Texas accent. There is something magical about communicating with several thousand people (or at least more than ten) while being hidden away like the Wizard of Oz. I concentrated on landing a job at my hometown radio station, KFJZ. Something should be said here of the kindness of those people. I was an insistent pest, if friendly. The kindness and understanding of people like Porter Randall, Bob Barry, Brice Armstrong, Dick Mock and others deserve much more space here than this one paragraph. For weeks I spent hours on the phone with the announcers. I cajoled, pleaded, groveled and insisted until I was given a job on the FM station, KFJZ-FM. For almost four months I was a robot; changing records and playing commercials. I finally became bored enough to overcome my mike fright and let my confidence develop. I had mastered the mechanics of radio. The equipment and my voice had become my tools in trade. Boredom set in and while answering the Dallas request lines, I met Carol, the girl who was to become my first wife. Requests are always a hassle but this particular girl had a way about her. I teased and cajoled her to stop calling and finally we got into an argument. That led to dates, and you can figure it out from there.

The AM station KFJZ-AM was where the action really was. It was becoming a powerhouse rock'n roll station of the times. I was given a chance to work weekends and even though it meant a seven-day work week, I grabbed it. "Big Girls Don't Cry" by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons was my opening song as a real radio DJ and I sailed into the show forthwith for about fifteen minutes before the Hot Line rang. I had forgotten to read the log. We were supposed to be carrying a baseball game. One with big money attached. Ooops. I managed to "fake it" for several more weeks until someone in the accounting department noticed my time sheet had too many hours. A week or so later, I was let go.

KTER in Terrell, Texas was my next stop. It was about thirty miles east of Dallas and the site of the major insane asylum in the area. I almost joined them. I hired on as News Director and took the first apartment within my skimpy budget, in the back of a huge old house. I should have shopped. My youth and inexperience had led me into an old, shabby place that would depress anyone. It had the feel of a crypt but it was a place where I could eat, sleep and store my things. One dark and stormy night I was awakened about 2AM by loud, unintelligible voices in the room. Whatever was going on, I wasn't at all ready for it. Thunder crashed outside and lightning threw weird shadows from the old lace curtains on the windows. With each flash the room was bathed in an eerie green glow that made my stomach wrench in terror. The voices followed each flash of lightning and the glow became brighter, fading ever so slowly. The voices were chanting something in a language I had never heard. I pulled the covers over my head and broke into a cold sweat. I got a grasp on my fear and tried to reason the whole thing out. It took more than a half-hour while the storm raged outside. The voices stopped. The lightning and thunder faded. I finally pulled the covers down and looked around.

The green glow was coming from my FM radio tuner dial. With each flash of lightning it illuminated the room, far brighter than it was supposed to. I reached over to turn it off. It WAS off. I looked at the amplifier. It was plugged into the tuner and it too, was supposed to be off. I finally got a clue at the next flash of lightning. The voices had been coming from my headphones, hanging just above my pillow, on the headboard of the bed. Fists and teeth clenched, I sprang from the bed and turned on the light. I was ready to confront the possibility that I had died and gone to hell. Of course I was not all that far away from the biggest collection of crazy people in North Texas. Maybe they were out?

I was alone. As the storm began to move on, the lightning flashes had less effect on the FM radio. I unplugged it. Silence. I slept fitfully for the next few hours before dawn. The morning was glorious and clean. I threw open the doors and let the fresh air clean the room. My spirits thus reinforced, I plugged in the FM radio and turned it on. The lovely sound of KVIL-Dallas came into the room, giving me hope of a brighter day and an undamaged FM radio. I inspected the wiring carefully and discovered that the antenna wire which had given me such great reception was connected to what I had assumed to be an old "dead" circuit wire or ground. I followed its path through the ceiling and decided to step outside and see where it went. Up on the roof directly above my room, the wire followed a route that led to an old-fashioned lighting rod on the top of the house. It was complete with a huge old glass condenser that looked like a giant light bulb. What had apparently happened was that the contraption had served as both a ground and antenna for my FM system. Had I installed it with the power plug reversed, none of the terror of the previous night would have happened. The voices I had been hearing were partial voices - vocal modulation peaks of a conversation between airline pilots whose radio frequency was adjacent to the commercial FM band. The lightning rod condenser had been acting as a tuner for the FM. I accepted that as reality and resolved to put the incident in my past. I never forgot the lesson in wiring.

KTER was boring. We read obituaries as though they were headline stories. This radio station had one real claim to fame though, that had become legendary in the radio world several years before my arrival. There was an ethic of the time that was a holdover from World War II. It was even a part of the examination for a radio license and part of most radio station's work policy agreement. It stated that the announcer on duty was to NEVER leave the control room unattended, except to use the bathroom. It was the result of wartime fears of radio stations being taken over by spies or other invaders. It demonstrated common sense that applied to other situations as well. KTER at that time aired a popular religious transcription every Sunday morning. Transcriptions were gigantic records, about 18 inches across and they played for about a half-hour each. One of the announcers at the station (who later became a locally famous politician) had made it a habit to "cheat" and stroll over to the local cafe for coffee while the transcription played. During this time he could enjoy 25 minutes of coffee and conversation, returning to start the next transcription on the half hour.

One fine Sunday morning he was repeating this routine and had just left the front door when the record began skipping. He didn't hear it, but the rest of the town did - as one listener called another to have them tune in. The preacher on the record was establishing his sermon theme for the day, loudly exhorting his congregation and listeners to make the correct choices in life. "You CAN go to Heaven" he yelled, "or you can go to HELL!". Somehow there was an error on the transcription. It could have been a grain of dust, perhaps a small scratch or a speck where the Devil had directed a buzzing fly to deposit its eggs. Whatever it was, it sounded like a microphone switch being opened with an audible "click" when the record was played. Perfectly edited by Fate, the record sent the message on the air to many hundreds of regular Sunday morning listeners; "You can go to HELL!" (click) "You can go to HELL!" (click) "You can go to HELL!" (click) "You can go to HELL!" (click) "You can go to HELL!" (click) "You can go to HELL!" (click) ...and it continued for a full 25 minutes while the Announcer On Duty enjoyed his coffee. It is said that upon his return, he went through Hell.

After a couple of months of obituaries, club announcements and music that was far too mundane to enjoy, I was surprised with a wonderful diversion. Parked directly across the street was a marvelous old school bus that appeared to have escaped from a circus. Emblazoned on the side was a carnival sign; "DANGER! Giant Man-Eating Rats of Sumatra!". I was the first to take the tour for ten cents. In cages on either side of the center aisle of the bus were five or six rodents about the size of a opossum. They were well cared for but stunk nonetheless. They were almost tame but the carney who ran the operation made a big show of fighting back the monsters by banging a stick on the cages and yelling like a lion tamer. It was hilarious and he knew it. His wife poked her head out from the rear half of the bus which had been converted to living quarters. She couldn't help it, but she looked like a rat with long stringy grey hair and eyes that testified to the life she lived. This indeed, was the most frightening aspect of the bus containing The Giant Rats of Sumatra. The Carney and I exchanged glances. We shared twinkles in our respective eyes. I decided to do a news story.

Stretching a microphone cable from the remote system in my car, we did an epic tour of the bus with loud bangings and yells. He explained on the air how the rats sometimes bit the toes of sleeping soldiers stationed on the beaches of Sumatra and ate the bodies of those who had died. He showed me scars on his hands where supposedly, he had been attacked himself. He cautioned listeners to keep their hands away from the cages and advised us all to proceed with caution while on the bus. All this for ten cents. It made a heck of a story. It got me fired.