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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 19
The dark was deep and smooth like velvet and angry at
me like a cat who thinks you're stepping on her tail!
Contrary to what you might think, werewolves are not
greatly fond of the dark. Night, yes. But there's
always a glimmer of light at night, even if just from
a handful of dim stars scattered across the sky. This
elevator, however, was so black that I couldn't think
of anything except that it was so dark I couldn't see.
After a moment or two, I began to feel extremely
uncomfortable. I could sense, maybe smell, the
presences of J.D. and Amanda near me regardless of how
scared I was, but I couldn't pinpoint where they were.
Long ago, I'd realized that most animals couldn't
tell the direction of an odor...just that it was
usually carried with the wind and anything you smelled
was usually upwind. J.D. smelled very old, but this
smell of ancient age was covered to some extent by the
tart smell of shaving lotion. As for Amanda, I
couldn't quite tell how she smelled. I kept thinking
I would recognize her odor in just a moment, but I
couldn't.
"You got us into this mess. Get us out," said J.D.
"I don't know how," I said. "In movies, there's
always a trapdoor of some kind in the ceiling and the
hero crawls through and goes for help. I can't see in
all of this dark, but before the door closed I noticed
there was no trapdoor in the ceiling of this
particular elevator. So much for movie heros."
"Does he have to howl so loud?" Amanda said.
"Bust the door down," J.D. said.
"Okay."
I tried to get a fingerhold in the crack of the door,
but there wasn't space enough for my fingers. Then I
threw my shoulder against the metal. I would like to
believe that I put a huge dent in the surface of the
door, but that may be just wistful thinking.
In frustration, I let out a groan.
"Stop that howling!" said J.D.
"I wasn't howling," I said.
"That was, indeed, a howl."
"You go right ahead and get it out of your system,"
Amanda told me, patting me on the back. "Just warn me
first so I can hold my ears."
I guess I must have groaned again, because I heard the
voice of Doris outside in the lobby.
"Go get help," I told her. "We can't get the elevator
door open."
"Shut up. Let me do the talking," J.D. said. Then,
in a fairly loud voice, he said: "We're trapped in
here."
"The power has been shut off," I explained in spite of
J.D.'s demand that I keep quiet.
"You have a dog with you in there?" asked Doris.
"No," I said.
"Yes," said J.D. "And, unfortunately, it doesn't obey
orders very well. Probably not housebroken either, so
I would appreciate it if you'd hurry."
"I thought I heard a dog barking earlier," said Doris.
"And just few moments ago, I heard this awful howling.
That's how I was able to find you."
"So much for finding us," snapped J.D. "Now get us
out of here before this dog goes nuts."
"I'm not even close to going nuts," I told him in a
fairly quiet tone. "You don't want to be around me
when I really get crazy."
"I would prefer not to be exactly close to you right
now," J.D. said.
"Leave him alone," Amanda told him. She patted me
again.
"Thanks," I said.
"She can't understand you," J.D. said in a very
patient tone of voice. "No one can understand you.
You're barking. Or something that's close to it."
"You seem to be able to hear me."
"Yes, and I can understand you, too. I don't know
why, but I can understand every bark."
That surprised me. For a moment, I found it difficult
to even think. I guess I'd assumed that I'd changed
back to my human shape.
"Bark? Like woof, woof?"
"Yes," J.D. said.
"Oh, god! What if Doris sees me like this?"
At first, I was terrified. However, I suppose I must
have a fiendish streak in me because I immediately
thought that, now, all of my troubles about explaining
things to her would suddenly be over. You know,
Hello, honey, I'm home, your basic everyday giant
shaggy dog.
"She's not going to see you, per se," said J.D.
patiently. "All she's going to see is a huge dog, and
from what I noticed when we had some light, a very
huge and quite ugly dog."
Almost immediately, someone began banging on the
elevator door. But that was ineffective and soon
someone yelled at someone else to get a crowbar. A
few minutes later and the door opened at least an
inch. Without thinking, I reached into the crack with
both hands and pulled the two doors apart.
There was Ed Esposito, a crowbar still clasped in his
right hand, and a couple of uniformed police officers
along with Doris, senator Bangor O'Connor, and Doris'
mother Jennifer. One of the police officers carried a
large flashlight. I found the light comforting.
"Thank god that door gave way," said Esposito,
"because I don't think I could have forced it open
with this crowbar."
"Luck," said the senator. "I've always been lucky
about such things." And, in spite of the tense
situation, he let out a rather pleasant laugh.
Perhaps he was as nervous as I was and the laughter
was a way of expressing himself. Then I realized that
he was staring at me with an amused expression on his
face.
"We're so glad to see you," said Amanda. She
immediately went over and hugged Doris just as if
they'd been old friends for years. Jennifer also gave
Amanda a hug, then whispered something in her ear that
I couldn't quite hear.
"My, what a pretty dog!" said Doris.
"Somehow," said J.D. with more than just a touch of
sarcasm, "I knew you'd say that. This is one of my
pets. Don't touch him. Fleas."
"Lier," I said. But I suppose everyone thought it was
just a dog barking. Doris' mother Jennifer stared at
me a little hard, but then shook her head slightly as
if she couldn't quite make up her mind. I could tell
that Doris wanted to rub my ears; the reason is that I
felt like having them rubbed. I'd never had that sort
of feeling before.
"Where's Chuck?" asked Doris. She peeked inside the
elevator as if hoping to find me there.
"He'll be along later," said J.D. "Right now, we've
got a more serious matter at hand. Braun, the
director of this chicken coop, and his girlfriend
Gertrude. They're somewhere in this building. And
extremely dangerous. And probably heavily protected."
"Ravens, I assume?" asked the senator.
"Precisely," said J.D. "But these may be more than
just ravens."
"I believe I understand what you mean," said the
senator. "A gentleman named Dawson is having a great
deal of trouble killing ravens down below although he
seems to be holding most of them at bay. And, my god
but there are a great many of them!"
"Too many," said J.D.
"Follow me," I said and raced for the stairwell.
"The dog may be able to take us to Braun," said J.D.
"I hope. If his barking doesn't scare Braun and
Gertrude away first."
"Did you see that? Cute dog," said Esposito close
behind me. "Someone has trained it to open doors."
"Yes," said Amanda. "He's rather unusual in many
ways. A very surprising animal."
"Some dogs are just brighter than others," J.D.
remarked. "This particular dog, however, is the
reason we got stuck in the elevator. He has
absolutely no horsesense."
I plunged down the stairwell, closely followed by
Esposito and his two buddies and the others. A moment
later, I had to slow down and wait for them to catch
up. Not because of any great sense of caution, but
because I couldn't see in the dark. I ran back a few
steps just to make sure they hadn't deserted me.
Esposito was now carrying a flashlight as well as one
of the other officers.
"What an intelligent dog!" said Doris. "He waited for
us."
"Not at all," protested J.D. "This dog is afraid of
the dark. That's all."
"One would think you aren't particularly fond of your
pet here," said the senator.
"Right!" said J.D. with his characteristic snarl. "I
hate dogs and cats. Gerbils, too. And fish. And I
absolutely detest ravens."
"I get the idea," said the senator with a chuckle.
The noise going down the stairs was like a roar of
footfalls. I wanted to whisper to them to be quieter,
but was afraid that my barking would only add to the
noise. So, I kept quiet and trotted down the rest of
the steps more slowly.
We soon reached the ground floor of the hotel where
the stairs opened directly into the lobby. Light
dribbled into the lobby through the windows from
streetlights out in the parking lot, but even this
small amount of light was comforting.
"Not here," I said. "Down there."
"My canine friend seems to think that Braun and his
girlfriend are down below in the basement," said J.D.
The senator scratched his head. "Do we dare go down
there?"
"Not without more light," said Esposito. "We checked
earlier with Nevada Power. The main electrical switch
is down in the basement. Someone must have shut it
off."
"It will be daylight in another hour," stated one of
the police officers.
J.D. coughed, his usual method of seeking attention.
"I don't think we can wait until daylight. No telling
what they're cooking up. This Braun guy is really bad
news."
"I agree with my new friend here," said the senator.
"It's probably now or never."
Outside, I could hear the deafening roar of something
like a small cannon. And between the roars, a
screeching noise the sent a chill racing up my spine.
Then I heard a man scream in terror.
"He's not using the bullets," I told J.D. "Someone
has to go outside and tell Dawson to use the bullets
he made especially for me. With the gold.
Otherwise...."
"That dog barks too much," said one of the police
officers.
"I agree with you," said J.D. "Would you run outside
and tell Dawson--and tell him firmly--to use the
bullets he made for Chuck?"
"Gladly," said the uniform. "All of this prowling
around in the dark is too much for my nerves. And
that pet of yours isn't helping matters much."
J.D. turned to Esposito. "Maybe you should go, too.
This is not going to be a pretty fight."
Esposito stared at J.D. for a moment as if seeking to
find out what was really going on, then immediately
ordered the other police officer to go out and help
Dawson.
"I owe Chuck one," Esposito said. "I'll stay."
"What if I told you that some pretty horrible things
may happen down there? May, in fact, have already
happened."
"I've never run from a fight in my life," Esposito
said, "even though I've felt like it many times and
probably should have run like hell once or twice."
"Same here," said the senator. He slapped Esposito on
the back.
"Come on!" I said and stepped into the dark stairway
that led to the basement.
A few minutes later, I was wishing that I'd fled with
the two police officers.
At the end of the flight of steps was a door, but it
was open so that ravens could come and go. The room
beyond the doorway was also pitch black. And the
stench coming from the room below was so foul and
putrid that it hurt my nose!
The werehrabans attacked as soon as we were halfway
down the steps. A flood of black poured out of the
dark with razor-sharp beaks and beating wings. I was
immediately engulfed! For a split second, I had the
overwhelming urge to run for my life! But I also
realized there was no escape. To even attempt to flee
would mean death. Not only for me and J.D., but
everyone else. Better to die fighting. I leaped
through the doorway and began to swing wildly with my
fists.
Esposito was right behind me, swinging the flashlight
with his left hand and a nightstick with his right.
J.D. partially collided with me as he leaped into
action off in the gloom. By then, however, I was too
busy to notice much for a moment or two. Slowly, as
my eyes adjusted to the dim glow created by the
flashlights, I saw what the ravens had been doing.
Eating. Several ravens were still pecking at
carcasses lined on shelf after shelf on the far side
of the room. Bodies of the dead were stacked like
books!
Other ravens who'd evidently already fed perched on
the edges of the shelves, eyes glowing blood red, as
they watched the battle, waiting for their chance,
perhaps, to enter the fray! Literally hundreds upon
hundreds of the demon creatures waited. And, although
I fought with a ferocity I'd never known before, a
ferocity born of desperation, we were slowly being
overwhelmed. We didn't have a chance against so many
of the creatures. Especially since the moment you
knocked one into a feathery heap on the floor, it
shook itself savagely and quickly sprang to life again
and attacked with even greater viciousness!
The senator fought his way into the room, swung a
chair at something, then dodged a winged demon that
darted at his head like a bullet.
Once, in spite of straining every muscle in my body, I
was knocked down by a mass of birds that struck at me
from every direction. Somehow, in spite of the weight
and their constant pecking, I managed to struggle to
my feet and continue the battle. Already, however, I
was bleeding at several wounds. Other birds
constantly pecked at these wounds in an effort to make
them larger. I didn't know how much longer I could
last. And I knew that Esposito and the senator were
also suffering from wounds although the senator was
still swinging that chair about as hard as he could.
The nauseating stench was also taking an effect on me
and the screeching was so deafening that I lost my
sense of balance and bounced into one of the shelves.
The sight of a body, holes where eyes used to be, an
arm gnawed to the bone up to the shoulder, a leg
gnawed in places, scared me even more and I ran
halfway back to the doorway before forcing myself to
turn and fight again.
Then it slowly dawned on me that a great number of the
ravens were crashing into each other or flying head on
into a walls. Five or six lay stunned on the floor.
As I watched, one raven did a cartwheel in the air as
it collided into another raven, then half floundered
in the air before accidentally getting in the way of
the senator's chair.
I heard him yell something such as, "Good work!" and
canted my head to see who he was talking about. His
wife Jennifer stood with a flashlight in her hand
directed at the ceiling so that it would reflect light
hither and yon. She seemed to be in a trance, her
eyes closed. As far as I could tell, she wasn't doing
anything.
"It's not the woman," I heard something scream above
all of the melee, "it's the girl. Eradicate the
girl!"
Whoever it was continued to scream about the girl.
Doris, however, was casually standing at her mother's
side and anytime a raven got too close would brush it
aside with a ballpoint pen that she used now like a
rapier, now like a baseball bat. Most of the time,
the raven flinched as if slugged by a real baseball
bat in the hands of someone like Babe Ruth in that
movie about his life and she was hitting homeruns,
too! When she jabbed at a bird, she didn't actually
hit it, but the results were the same. Some of the
birds didn't even get close to her.
A few of the ravens flew at Amanda, but somehow seemed
to miss her completely. She stood there, as if
bemused by it all, and watched with some concern
showing on her face, but also a strange amused
expression.
Just then I noticed J.D. plunging headlong across the
room in the direction of the screaming. One of the
ravens whirled about his head, trying to peck at his
eyes. J.D. ran as hard as he could, his arms covering
his head. As he ran he yelled something to Esposito
about the lights. But Esposito was occupied with two
ravens trying to peck at his eyes. He was swinging
his nightstick at them, but not doing much good until
Doris and her mother walked over to him. Then, as if
by magic--and, come to think of it, it probably
was--his nightstick began to strike the birds. He
couldn't seem to kill them, but they fell dazed to the
floor and had trouble using their wings to fly for a
moment each time he landed a blow.
Suddenly, many of the ravens in the room spun around
in the air and some of these flew directly at one of
the walls of the room. They hit the wall and fell,
dazed, to the floor. Some of them found it difficult
to get to their feet. They kept slipping about on the
floor as if it were greased.
The ravens that did manage to get airbourne seemed
confused as if they didn't know which direction to
fly. Several actually flew into the wall again and
this time couldn't rise, as if sucked dry of energy,
and lay on their side screeching in terror.
Then, J.D. reached his victim. I hadn't noticed him
amidst all of the black ravens. In his black suit,
Braun blended in and was virtually invisible. But I
guess J.D. had spotted him and realized that Braun,
most of all, had to be eliminated.
They went together like two great warriors, J.D. in
that stiff motion that was characteristic of him, and
Braun in a smooth motion that was more like oil
flowing into a troubled place in the road.
Braun emitted a horrible screech . And I thought I
heard J.D. laugh, but I was probably mistaken. He
leaped at Braun and fastened his hands around Braun's
throat. But Braun merely grabbed him and tossed him
aside like a broken stick. One raven raced through
the air at J.D.'s limp form, aiming for his eyes.
Gertrude!
I sprang to his rescue, but more than a dozen ravens
pounced upon me. I grabbed two of them and squeezed.
I thought I'd broken their necks but no sooner than I
tossed them aside than they immediately shook
themselves and leaped through the air at me again.
J.D. raised a hand to defend himself and the raven
that was Gertrude richocheted off before spinning
around to attack again. By now, however, J.D. had
climbed jerkily to his feet. She quickly changed into
human form and picked up a pencil and tried to jab him
with it. Failing that, she changed back into a raven
and darted at his ears. This, she could not do very
well because J.D. and Braun had become locked up.
Without my realizing it, that had become the only
battle in the room. All of the ravens had fled to
perches along the shelves. They watched with steely
red eyes while Braun and J.D. tangled and untangled as
first one got the upper hand in some wrestling hold
and then the other overcame that hold and took the
advantage. Gertrude was floundering around in the
air; she seemed to want to fling herself at J.D., but,
like many of the other ravens, had become confused and
often lost her sense of direction. Once, she even
brushed against Braun and only averted pecking at him
at the very last instant.
Doris and her mother appeared to have something to do
with this. I found it difficult, though, to figure
out exactly how they did it. Jennifer remained
standing, poised like a statue, with her eyes closed.
Doris had grasped the amlet of her necklace with one
hand and her other hand held onto the hand of her
mother. The senator stood beside them, the chair on
the floor, his hand resting on the back of the chair
as if tired and needing it for support. Then, with a
fond glance at the chair, he let go of it and placed
his hand on the shoulder of his daughter and he, too,
closed his eyes in concentration. I stared at him,
half in disbelief, half in awed wonder. Esposito was
nowhere in sight. I searched quickly among the
shelves of half-eaten bodies, but he wasn't there
either. And I couldn't leave to help him at the
moment; J.D. was engaged in a much more important
battle.
And the battle raged furiously from side to side of
the room. Once, they collided with a shelf littered
with bloody arms and legs. A hand, half eaten, fell
to the floor and caused J.D. to stumble. When he
stumbled, Braun grabbed him around the throat and
tried to choke him to death. But that didn't seem to
bother J.D. He grabbed Braun by the hair and pulled
his head so far back that Braun let go and struggled
to force J.D. away.
This time, they careened into a chair and smashed it.
Braun seized upon the opportunity and picked up a
broken leg of the wooden chair and stabbed J.D.
through the chest.
I let out a scream of rage, though it may have sounded
like a howl to everyone in the room, and ran over and
pulled Braun off of J.D.'s body and tossed him away.
"I'm not dead, dummy," J.D. said. "Pull out the stake
and help me to my feet."
The broken leg of the chair came free with a savage
jerk. I flung it under one of the shelves. But I
didn't have time to help J.D. to his feet. In midair,
Braun turned into a raven and whirled to attack. Like
the other birds, he immediately lost his sense of
direction and flopped against a cadaver that had
fallen to the floor from one of the shelves. However,
in less than the time it took to grab my breath, he
changed back into human form and leaped at me.
I was astonished! Braun was extremely strong! It had
been a mistake to think of him as fat. He was huge
and blubbery--which made it difficult to find a
handhold on his body--but he had the strength of a
whale. I solved the blubber problem, though. I
grabbed him by an arm and flung him against one of the
shelves. Pieces of arms and legs spilled everywhere
from the shelf! A head whose ears had been eaten away
rolled across the floor and stared up at me. That
scared me even more than Braun.
Once again, Braun changed into a raven momentarily,
then changed back into human form. It became like a
chess match. I'd throw him aside and he'd immediately
catch himself in the air as a raven, then leap back to
combat in human form.
Gertrude, after floundering around as a raven, picked
up the idea and became human, if you can call it that
because her hair was in tremendous disarray, her
makeup askance, her face was bruised in spots. She
appeared to be some friendish clown until you noticed
her eyes; they were violent red and full of death.
She found the piece of broken chair and plunged it
into J.D.'s leg. I heard him scream in pain. Then I
heard him scream again as the lights came on.
Every raven in the room--and there must have been more
than three or four hundred of the black, feathered
demons--raced for the open doorway. But Doris and her
parents were still creating a problem and the birds
flapped about in frenzy, bumping into each other, some
falling to the floor.
Then I heard Dawson's gun roar out like a burst of
hard thunder. And, of top of that horrible noise, the
screeching of ravens as they began to die.
Braun, in desperation, pulled the stake from J.D.'s
leg and attempted to stab him again in the chest.
Gertrude had a hammer lock on his head from behind,
pinning him down like a target. Braun pointed the
stake like a spear and charged with a piercing scream
of anger across the room.
I yelled at Dawson to shoot Braun and his demon
girlfriend. But, of course, Dawson wasn't about to
shoot anyone human and didn't realize yet that they
were, in fact, dervishes. Besides that, he probably
thought I was just barking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the necklace
with the Anasazi symbol around Doris' neck. She may
have thought the symbol carried some kind of magical
power, I don't know. I thought it was the gold
itself. I ran and grabbed it from her neck, the
necklace snapping loose in my fingers.
She stared at me, a shocked expression on her face.
But I didn't stop to explain. I ran over and crammed
the medalion into Braun's mouth just as he plunged the
stake directly into J.D.'s heart!
Dawson's gun exploded once again off to my left. More
ravens fell from the air onto the floor. Again,
Dawson fired. And again. It literally rained dead
ravens! Soon, the floor was covered with blood from
dying and dead ravens. It was a strange color, more
greenish than red.
But the ravens that weren't dead--and the rest of
us--watched as Braun strangled, if that was what it
was, on the necklace, the bright gold chain dangling
from his mouth. It wasn't a very pretty sight. He
still had the stake in his hands, the end jammed into
J.D., but Braun wasn't thinking about anything at the
moment other than intense surges of pain that wracked
his body. His face was violent blue, his eyes sparked
with red fires, his body was twisted with convulsions.
Slowly, as we all stared at him, he crumbled to the
floor, his empty suit billowing around him, dust
squirting into the air and drifting down.
Gertrude, seeing her lover die, changed into a raven
and flew wildly at J.D., but was just in time to fly
into another blast from Dawson's gun.
With a couple of more gunshots, all of the ravens in
the room were dead.
I knelt by J.D's dying form. He lay on his back. I
tried to pull the stake out. But J.D. knocked my
hands away.
"It's not the stake, puppy. It's the light."
"Cut off the lights!" I yelled, unaware that no one
could understand me. "Hurry!"
"Not the room lights, puppy. Dawn."
J.D.'s eyes sought the window.
For the first time, I noticed sunlight just beginning
to break through a dusty basement window.
He was breathing hard. That surprised me because I
wasn't aware that he even breathed. All of a sudden,
I realized that I didn't know the slightest thing,
really, about vampyres. But none of that mattered;
here was a friend, maybe the only friend I'd ever had,
and he was suffering terrible pain. I thought I
noticed tears in his eyes, but that didn't make sense
to me because I knew that J.D. wasn't the crying type.
He shouted something at Doris. I didn't understand
the words because maybe I was crying a bit myself, but
she ran quickly to the side of J.D. and knelt down
beside him. He was sprawled on his back amidst pieces
of arms and legs, his hands glasped about the end of
the stake protruding from his chest. His head was
turned and his eyes glued on the basement window,
watching the tiny rays of sunlight just beginning to
creep through.
"Maven or whatever you are, meet your boyfriend Chuck,
your basic everyday sort of werewolf or whatever he
is," J.D. said.
Doris stared at me for a moment. I found it difficult
to look her in the eyes.
"I should have realized...."
"Hush," said J.D. "I haven't got time for all that
nonsense. Something very interesting is going to
happen to me finally...my own death. I've always
wondered what it would be like. I expected at the
very least a band playing a rousing John Phillips
Sousa march. I would have enjoyed that. Of course,
you puppies don't realize who Sousa was."
"Stars and Stripes Forever," I said. "The movie based
on his life with Clifton Webb and Tony Curtis."
"Are you sure this is...?" Doris glanced from J.D. to
me.
"Yes, it's him," said J.D. "You'll have to take my
word for it at the moment."
She reached out to place a hand on me, but J.D., with
a sudden burst of energy, knocked her hand away. His
hand went immediately back to the stake driven through
his heart.
"Don't touch him in public. He probably sheds anyway.
When you place a hand on him and rub his ears or
something, I have a hunch that more than likely he'll
change form. No more giant ugly dog. Forever."
"Forever?" she asked.
"Listen close," J.D. said. "There are a lot of
changes coming down right now. Maybe even a new
world. Once you marry Doris, there will be enormous
changes in your life, Chuck. She has a weird effect
on people who're not necessarily good. In the
vernacular, bad people get very unlucky. In your
case, Chuck, I suspect you won't be a werewolf
anymore. But I don't know what you'll become.
Something else. Braun had trouble figuring Doris out.
Can you imagine his surprise at your children! But
those kids will probably surprise the hell out of
everyone. Don't worry about it. I think you two are
going to make a lovely couple. Strange, but lovely
with very weird kids. And very rich. I've made Chuck
my heir."
He shuttered as if from thinking about the kids that
Doris and I were going to have. But actually it was a
dying shutter. For a ray of sunlight touched him just
then and there was a slight puff of noise and his
clothes, just like those of Braun a few moments ago,
collapsed on the floor.
"Let's get out of here," said the senator.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
February 23, 2004
We've traveled a long road from there to here.
And
many of us have experienced bumps along the way. But
as Charles Fenno Hoffman says, "Yet many a gallant
spirit would...Give half his years if he then
could...Have been with us at Monterey." Our Monterey
was radio. Although I was more observer than
participant, I, too, faced a little of the "deadly
drifts of fiery spray" that radio men and women met
heads-on almost daily. Not as intense. Nor quite as
deadly. Yet, I've been grateful for my opportunity to
have been "at Monterey."
My son Andy is an adjunct assistant professor of
English at UNLV this semester and I presented a guest
lecture in his English 102 course on Friday 13. I
talked on the kind of "bottom line" approach necessary
in the competitive business world of today. Yet you
and I have literally operated under those conditions
for countless years. We had to produce. We had to
win. There was little room for the weak, the
incapable, those who could not perform at an
extraordinarily high quality level. I noted a few
things during that class. First, I no longer have the
gusto--the stamina, perhaps--that I require of myself
for professional activities. Especially teaching.
Second, I mentioned several people along the way: Don
Imus, Bob Pittman, Jim Gabbert, the Magnificent
Montague, Jack Thayer. I had to explain who these
people are. And were. A couple of students raised
their hand in regards to Imus. But only a couple.
All of the people that I mentioned are literally
ancient history. The gods that they once might have
been they are not anymore. And, of course, that
applies to me as well. Once in the long ago, I was a
keynote speaker at a convention here in Las Vegas on
stage with Vince Wasilewski, president of the National
Association of Broadcasters, and Miles David,
president of the Radio Advertising Bureau. I can only
assume that their names, along with mine, are
disappearing into that great fog of history. Hey, I
was on a committee a few years ago that helped gain
UNLV a new campus library. A beautiful, modernistic
structure today. No one remembers that endeavor of
mine and others either. Neither students, nor
faculty, nor university administration.
We come, we do, we go.
But I was a little sad the other day when I learned
that Rick Dees is no longer on KIIS in Los Angeles.
Carson Schreiber,
carsonschreiber@socal.rr.com, was
kind enough to send me a photo of the gathering on one
of those last days of Dees on the air. Dees did well
in Los Angeles for more than a decade. Yet, in days
to come, few will remember...and then, no one will
remember at all. My son John also phoned from Los
Angeles about Dees. John thought that KIIS management
wanted younger demographics. Guess no one targets the
mature demos anymore although I believe quite firmly
that Dees more than likely appealed to everyone, not
just the demos projected by ARB or whomever/whatever.
Truth is, the rich experience of a mature personality
is evidently persona non grata in Los Angeles these
days. Pity. Does the personality who replaced Dees
remember Watts? The last earthquake? The previous
mayor? The last rain? Personality radio seems to
have died somewhere along the way. Rather, perhaps,
filth is associated as being "personality." And roots
in a market no longer matters. American roots must be
in virtually the same discard pile.
When we all go, as go we must, who will remember the
early Elvis syrup commercial in Louisiana that Col.
Tom Parker tried to keep off the air later, but which
was broadcast for years? Who will remember Eddie Hill
on the late-night show on WSM in Nashville who used to
say "I'm going to chew tobakker and run up the wall?"
Who will remember Tom Clay doing his radio show from
high atop a billboard and stopping traffic for miles?
Who will recall Pat Patterson, Raleigh, NC, or Bill
Randle, WERE, Cleveland? You and I, the leftovers,
are all that keeps these memories alive.
Who will remember how surprised Rocky G of WWRL in New
York City was when he discovered the Righteous
Brothers were white? I still chuckle to myself every
time I remember.
Don Keyes,
keynote@comcast.net: "We oldtimers are
keepers of the flame and in that capacity I must chide
you on your opening statement in the article on RDN
today. I was the first National PD for Gordon
McLendon from 1957 thru 1966 when I left to buy my
first property in Canton, Ohio. Bill Stewart followed
in that job for a while, but was soon replaced by Ken
Dowe. Stewart's main contribution to McLendon was
when he came in as KLIF PD in 1954 or 55 and did a
remarkable job. I was working the all-night show
during that time and can well remember how we
absolutely dominated Dallas radio. Just for the
record."
Also just for the record: When I interviewed Gordon
McLendon in Dallas, circa 1978, he told me that Don
Keyes was the best radio man who'd ever worked for
him. But who will remember this in days to come?
Khan Hamon,
khamon@satx.rr.com, still remembers Bill
Stewart. "I first met Bill Stewart in 1964 at WKDA in
Nashville. He was hired by the station manager Jack
Stapp as a consultant for the station. He came in,
monitered the station and had a critique meeting with
all the DJs. I was very impressed with his knowledge
of buzz words. His suggestions were straight out of
the McLendon handbook. Keep it tight and bright, etc.
He made us all feel good, took the money and went back
to Dallas. A few years later I was out of a job,
called Bill and he flew me to Dallas for an interview.
He hired me as program director at WYSL in Buffalo,
NY. That was June of1967. His instructions were to go
up there and get things straightened out and he would
bring me back to Dallas at KLIF. I said OKAY! I
never saw Bill Stewart again. He would come to
Buffalo, and nobody at the station would ever hear
from him. We knew he was there because of the bar
bills, but he never darkened the station's door. A few
months later, I learned he had left McLendon and taken
my old job in San Antonio. And, I was stuck in Buffalo
at WYSL. Fortunately, thanks to a great staff of DJs
at WYSL, including Tim Kelly, Lou Kirby, Sean
Grabowski, Bill Day and Danny Sinatra, we made that
loser station #1 in Buffalo with a lot of hard work
and a more-music format. Bill Stewart called me after
the Pulse came out and asked...'How did you do it?'
My reply was...'I learned it all from you in 1964,
Bill...just keep it tight and bright'. I do not
discount the possibility that Bill Stewart maybe once
in his life may have displayed a grain of talent, but
to include him in the same catagory with the legends
of Top 40 radio such as McLendon and Storz is
unfounded in my first-hand opinion. An interesting
sidebar...after Stewart left McLendon that year
(1967), a memo came down from Dallas that Gordon
himself would be acting national PD and all promotions
should be approved by him. I was planning to run a
contest at the station in Buffalo and tracked McLendon
all the way from Dallas to Sweden over a period of
several days. I finally talked to his secretary,
Ursela, and she informed me that Gordan's instructions
were...'Make sure you're right, then go ahead and do
it'. Pretty damned good advice from the master...and
it made WYSL #1 in Buffalo in 1967."
Thanks for the information, Khan. I'm glad to know
it. But, hell, I'm a sentimental old fool and I think
I'll stick with my own evaluation of Bill
Stewart...and not just because I knew him fairly well
but because I knew both the good and the bad. As did
quite a few others who were mutual friends, I should
point out. Jimmy Rabbitt once told me that he had to
put Stewart to bed one night because he'd been
drinking. Small wonder. I knew many with that
problem. The pressure of the business, I guess. And
his only daughter recently discovered she had a half
brother in Atlantic City from a previous marriage.
But I heard time and time again from others that
although Todd Storz and Gordon McLendon may have been
geniuses--and I believe this assumption is 100 percent
accurate--they wouldn't have been the successes they
were without the help of Bill Stewart. It was said of
Bill Stewart that he took their wild ideas and made
them practical. This is how I wish to remember Bill.
But, of course, we all have different views of just
about everything in radio and most of these are valid.
Depends on the person and the experience, I guess.
And that's probably one of the reasons radio was so
very, very great during those years. I shall always
believe, however, that Bill Stewart played a vital
role in the original development of what we know as
Top 40 radio and that it happened in Omaha. Though I
wasn't there, I was told this by a great number of
radio men who were there--or knew this for a fact--and
whom I respected.
Memories! One funny memory that I have of you, Khan,
you weren't even there. I spent three or four minutes
introducing you to a bunch of radio guys at a
convention in Atlanta or Miami...telling everyone
about the great job you were doing programming in San
Antonio...you nodding and smiling courteously...and,
as everyone drifted away a few minutes later, you
leaned over and said, "Thanks, Claude, but I'm Buddy
Blake."
Russ Simpson, 65, Vancouver Island, died Jan. 29, I
learned this past week from Steve Simpson, his
brother, steve.simpson@get-id.net.
Russ worked in the
states as well as Toronto and Vancourver during his
radio career. Cancer. Also heard from Al Vanik,
avanik@aloha.net.
Another one gone.
About a year ago, I found a listing of disc jockeys on
the Internet. It lacked luster, to say the least.
And George Wilson, whom I consider one of the very
best radio men who has ever lived, was not mentioned.
I pulled what I could from memory and sent it forward.
What I wrote, of course, did not do George Wilson
justice; he is much greater than I could recall
impromtu like that. The website said it would take a
few weeks for it to appear. I don't know if George
made the list; I cannot even remember what list nor
how to find it. Regardless, such a list of radio
people demands more permanence. Greater scholarship.
Greater legitimacy. When I go, my own website--what
you're reading now--will no doubt follow immediately
afterwards. Gone!
Isn't it a pity the National Association of
Broadcasters, now that they like program directors and
disc jockeys (I remember all too well when they
didn't), doesn't start a databank of information about
disc jockeys and program directors? List their real
name, place and date of birth, their professional
name, the call letters and cities where they worked,
all redeeming features. Their jobs at these calls,
i.e., disc jockey, music director, program director,
general manager. Then, at the end in due time, a
condensed version of their obit. Don Imus is
virtually famous at the moment. Ten years from now
who will remember that he ran an Elridge Cleaver
lookalike contest when he worked in Lancaster,
CA...that he also worked in Sacramento, at WGAR in
Cleveland? But I worry more about the quickly fading
history of such as Tommy Carl (Dr. Tom Durphy), Harry
"Mushmouth" O'Connor, the disc jockey Jim Reeves,
"grandfather" Ken Knight, Johnny Borders, Billy Bass,
Charlie Walker when he jocked in San Antonio, the
tall, tan Texan Rudy Runnels, and oh so vastly many
more. I could list pages upon pages of names that I
knew. And one day before long there will be no one
left to remember them at all.
OTHER MATTERS
Kent Burkhart,
RADIOKENT@aol.com: "Reference your
Monday's e-article. Betcha' didn't know this: You
wrote about a couple of stations for which I worked.
I was the night time d.j. in New Orleans at WNOE for
Bill Stewart when the battle was won. When Bill went
to Omaha he hired me for afternoon drive at KOWH, and
I was the d.j. on the air that crazy Treasure Hunt
afternoon reading clues as to where to find the
treasure. I watched from the KOWH penthouse as the
drivers followed my clues driving reckleslly to the
treasure location. A couple of good memories in my
career."
Great, great, great radio lore, Kent! Thank you.
More lore? Just received an email from Bill Mouzis,
BMouzis@aol.com, regarding
the birth and creation of
"The History of Rock and Roll," the 48-hour
documentary produced by Ron Jacobs and Bill Drake and
syndicated virtually around the world about 35 years
ago. Bill was the production engineer on the
documentary.
Bill wrote the email for Don Barrett,
db@thevine.net,
for, I suspect, his LARP.com website; I just received
a copy and feel that I'm not at liberty to print all
of it here. So, for the full email I guess you'll
have to contact Bill or Don if you can't tap into it
on the website. Great stuff in this thing.
Fascinating! I am immensely grateful that Bill shared
it with me. Don't miss this information! Con it out
of Don or Bill if you can.
Also received an article about music written by Don
Henley sent to me by Steve Meyer as well as Bobby Vee.
Thanks, men. Just FYI, Bobby Vee has a website you
should check out now and then; it lists where he's
going to perform. When George Wilson and I caught his
show down in Laughlin, NV, we had a blast. Don't
think I could ask for two better friends.
Pat Walsh,
pwalsh@aristotle.net: "Having been in the
hospital for eight days I missed the opportunity to
send you this the day it was published. Even though
there are 10,000 morning radio personalities in this
country, being on top for 20 straight years is an
acomplishment in my way of thinking. If you agree you
might want to drop Bob Robbins a congratulatry note or
something. In a business where change is constant this
is kind of refreshing. The part of the column shown
below is about a third of Leroy's regular Sunday
column."
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette featured a column by
document by Leroy Donald, to wit, "The just-released
Fall 2003 Arbitron Radio Market Report shows that Bob
Robbins, the disc jockey at radio station KSSN-FM
95.7, has completed 20 consecutive years as the
most-listened to radio personality in the Little Rock
market. This information comes from Pat Walsh, local
guru of the electronic media, who constantly looks
into such facts. Walsh said he based his information
on the fact that, as a radio-station operator and
later as a media consultant, he has ratings reports of
one sort or another from 1959 through the current.
Walsh reports: 'In every one of the four books per
year for the last 20 years, Robbins has had more
listeners to his program between 6 and 10 a.m. on the
Monday-through-Friday rating period than any other
on-air talent in the market. For 80 consecutive books
he has had more cumulative audience for the 6 -to-10
a.m. Monday through Friday period than anybody else,
bar none'. Walsh notes that in the early years the
market was surveyed only once per year, then went to
two rating periods per year, then to four."
I don't have an email address on Robbins to
congratulate him, so I think I'll just email Leroy
Donald, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette,
leroylero@aol.com,
and thank him for writing about Robbins. And just
perhaps I'll mention that the legendary Mitch Michaels
is moving back to Arkansas. Now there would be one
heck of an interview!
Yeah, I realize that not a heck of a lot of people
remember Mitch. Just me and Don Graham, I suppose.
We come, we do, and we go. Of course, Mitch ain't
gone yet even if he has moved back to Arkansas.
Coming soon to
www.claudehallonline.com, a new
music-industry novel.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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