Studio Audience

RADIO

By R. J. HICKS

I HAD never realized the comic possibilities of names until I happened to turn on the radio the other day and got a quiz program. The announcer, after a

brief genuflection in the direction of the sponsors, urged a Mr. and Mrs. Wilson to step up to the microphone. They did so; then; —

ANNOUNCER (with a premonition of ecstasy burgeoning in his voice): Mr. Wilson — what’s your first name?

WILSON (bashfully): Warren.

ANNOUNCER (voice rising): Warren! Warren Wilson!

(Great applause and some laughter.)

Hullo, I said to myself, this is something. ANNOUNCER (rather archly): O.K., Warren, good for you. Where you from?

WILSON (still bashful): Brooklyn.

ANNOUNCER: Brooklyn!

The audience screamed. Some, from the sounds, were already rolling in the aisles.

ANNOUNCER (rounding off general merriment with a creamy chuckle straight out of a realtor’s property box): Brooklyn, eh? Brooklyn! How long you lived in Brooklyn?

This wowed them. They really roared. In just under a minute this miracle man had reduced those present to a state of happy prostration. And at 8.31 A.M., E.S.T., too.

Mr. Wilson’s answer was lost in the uproar, but the announcer kept kidding right along.

ANNOUNCER: HOW long you been married?

ANSWER (from Mrs. Wilson): Twenty-seven years.

That was practically the end — it was cruel. It hurt them to laugh so hard. Boy, did they laugh. But this announcer had an answer to that one.

ANNOUNCER: Isn’t that nice?

Pandemonium! No one had expected that sort of sally — it just wasn’t fair. I hadn’t expected it either. But, I hadn’t heard anything yet. Still poised and lenti1-soup-voiced, the announcer continued.

ANNOUNCER: Where you go for your honeymoon?

ANSWER: Brooklyn!

They took the roof off. They raved. They bayed. They stomped. It was sheerly terrific. The announcer came right in on the tail of this noise, and there was something about a surprise prize which consisted of guessing how many men called Jones there were in the U.S. Army. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson both guessed (Mrs. W ., 44,000; Mr. W., 9000) and then the announcer threw a wicked one at Mrs. Wilson.

ANNOUNCER : If you were facing north and made a three-quarter turn to the left, followed by a half turn to the right, which way would you be facing?

MRS. WILSON: East.

ANNOUNCER: NO, West.

But it didn’t matter — she got a prize just the same. And while she was trying to make up her mind what to pick, Mr. Wilson murmured something to her. Quick as a flash the announcer rapped out; —

ANNOUNCER: Say. who’s boss in your family?

MRS. WILSON: I don’t know.

ANNOUNCER: I know!

That set the audience off all over again. They loved it. They ate it up.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went away with their prizes, to be succeeded by a young lady named Lorraine Hestler.

ANNOUNCER (with luscious premonition): Where you from, Lorraine?

LORRAINE: Brooklyn!

ANNOUNCER (rising to the occasion): Brooklyn!

Hysteria.

ANNOUNCER: Say, Lorraine, what color is that dress you’re wearing?

LORRAINE: Peach.

ANNOUNCER: Well, it looks peachy on you!

Applause. Not only is this man a regular guy, hut he’s a wit.

ANNOUNCER: HOW old are you?

LORRAINE: Eighteen.

ANNOUNCER (drooling, in a nice way): Eighteen! Are you engaged?

LORRAINE: Yes.

ANNOUNCER: Well, it’s a nice dress to wear to a wedding. What’s you first name again?

LORRAINE: Lorraine.

ANNOUNCER (taking a chance on duplicating a former triumph): Oh, isn’t that nice!

He’s justified. The audience still loves it.

ANNOUNCER: Are you here with a friend?

LORRAINE: Yes.

ANNOUNCER: What’s her name?

LORRAINE: Elaine.

ANNOUNCER (rocked): WELL! Elaine and Lorraine!!!

The audience, temporarily sobered, applauds solemnly and prolongedly. There’s a certain mysticism about this sort of coincidence.

ANNOUNCER: NOW, Lorraine, you’ve got to complete

some pretty tough similes. “As brown as a —”?

LORRAINE: Berry!

ANNOUNCER: Good, very good. And “As white as

—"? LORRAINE: Snow!

Pandemonium renewed.

ANNOUNCER: What’s meant by the saying, “It isn’t the heat, it’s the humidity"?

LORRAINE: It means you feel kind of hot and sticky. ANNOUNCER: DO you like the humidity?

LORRAINE: NO.

ANNOUNCER: Neither do I!

Shrieks. The audience had fancied itself surfeited, but this crack got it weak and red-eyed again.

The allotted fifteen minutes had almost run out, and with a last few formalities the program was done. It left me thinking.