In the summer of 1959 when I was seven, my mother took me on a trip east — to New York, Hartford and Boston in that order. The idea was to sight-see and introduce me to relatives. I guess she thought I was old enough to see just what kind of family I was a part of.
The week in New York, we stayed at the Taft Hotel on Seventh Avenue between 50th and 51st Streets and did touristy things like riding the Staten Island Ferry and visiting the Statue of Liberty. One morning, my mother announced we were going to go to Rockefeller Center, walk around for a while, then take in a matinee of the movie that was playing at Radio City Music Hall. It was The Nun's Story starring Audrey Hepburn. If you ever decide your seven-year-old deserves a good beating but wish to avoid corporal punishment, make him sit through The Nun's Story, instead. Whatever it was he did, he'll never do it again.
Before we got to that, as we wandered through Rockefeller Center, a polite man approached us. He explained that he was recruiting audiences and that he could arrange for us to get a free tour of the NBC Studios, see one of our favorite game shows done live and (he emphasized the "and") take home a prize. All it would take was about two hours of our time. My mother motioned to me and said, "I thought you had to be a certain age to be in the audience for a TV show."
I guess they were desperate for warm bodies that day. He looked me over and said, "Yes, well, usually but he seems like a well-behaved lad. I can arrange for special tickets so he'll get in." My mother decided we could catch a later show of The Nun's Story and asked if we could see them do Treasure Hunt, which was then a popular NBC game show starring Jan Murray. The gent scanned his clipboard and said, "I'm not sure if there are any special tickets left for Treasure Hunt. They'd have to tell you upstairs."
He was probably lying to us. He probably knew darn well there were no tickets of any kind left for Treasure Hunt. His mission was to get us upstairs where we could be diverted into some other show that was hard-up for seat-fillers.
The next thing we knew, we were getting a quick mini-tour of NBC, conducted by a cheery tour guide who showed us almost nothing but kept encouraging us to ask questions. I did and she couldn't answer a one of them. Then we were at a high desk — these are images I remember — where another cheery person informed us that they couldn't get us into Treasure Hunt but we could see Concentration. We liked that show too…and what the heck? We were already there and it was free and that show gave out prizes to the audience, too. So we were handed tickets and directed to a line of other folks who'd been conscripted from the street.
There, we waited for what seemed like days. Minutes you spend waiting seem like days when you're seven. I was bored silly until, suddenly and without warning, Jan Murray came by. He was wearing a loud checked sport coat and I think he was out there to apologize to people who'd been waiting in another line to see Treasure Hunt and didn't get in. But then he came over and shook some hands in our line and I got to meet him.
I had met TV stars before. The lady who lived next door to us back home was on an ABC series then but this was different. She was like family and Jan Murray was a person who, insofar as I was concerned, existed only on television. He was also male and funny and charming and he made a big impression on me. I never wanted to be on TV but I do vaguely recall a little wish-dream that struck me at that moment. It had to do with people being as happy to see me as everyone was that day to see Jan Murray.
Then Mr. Murray did something amazing…even magical. Now, you have to remember that this show was done live. As he did it on stage, it was broadcast simultaneously to much of the country. There could be no delays in starting.
The stage manager came out into the hall to fetch him and to say, "Jan, three minutes," meaning, "Get your ass in there, fella. The show's about to start!" Jan nodded and continued greeting people in line and signing autographs.
Then it was "Jan, two minutes." Jan acknowledged the time and went right on signing his name on whatever scraps of paper people could come up with.
Before you knew it, the stage manager was saying — with great desperation in his voice — "Jan, please…one minute!" Jan told him not to worry, he'd be fine…and went on signing and shaking hands.
There was a black-and-white TV monitor on a stand in the hall. Suddenly, it was showing the opening of Treasure Hunt, the opening that America was watching. The announcer was about to introduce Jan Murray and Jan Murray was still in the hallway signing autographs for tourists! The stage manager was pleading but Jan, with no ruffled feathers, merely told him to relax. Then he thanked us all again for coming, turned and walked into the studio —
— and five seconds later, walked out onto live television!
I saw this. I saw this with my own young eyes. A human being in full-color who was three feet from me turned, walked through a portal and emerged on live, black-and-white television.
It still gives me a little chill to recall it. That, folks, is magic.
I had not quite gotten over it when, maybe fifteen minutes later, we were herded into the studio where Concentration was done and seated in bleacher-type seats. Ours were way over on the end and from where they stuck me, I could see absolutely nothing of the area where the host and players would be. I could see about a third of the big Concentration game board and that was about it. This was not because of my lack of height back then. It was because of all the lights and cameras and equipment in the way. Kareem Abdul Jabbar would not have been able to see anything from where they put me. I ended up watching the whole show on one of the monitors and thinking, "Gee, I could have seen exactly the same thing at home without waiting in that line, plus I could be eating cookies."
To further diminish the experience, the show's regular host Hugh Downs was off that day and someone else (I don't recall who) was filling in. Because he made his entrance after we sat down and exited before we left, I never saw him except on the monitor.
We'd been promised prizes and usually in the world of game shows, the word "prize" suggests large amounts of cash, household appliances and vacations. In this case, it suggested one tiny, travel-size tube of the white Vaseline® brand petroleum jelly. As we filed out, an NBC page handed one to each of us and even the adults were audibly disappointed. The next day, I saw them for sale in a pharmacy and they were 39 cents, which wasn't much of a prize even in 1959. I'd been expecting a new Chevrolet and a case of Turtle Wax…although come to think of it, maybe Turtle Wax is the white Vaseline® brand petroleum jelly.
All in all, it was not the most memorable part of that trip to New York. I think the most memorable part, not counting Jan Murray ascending into the airwaves before my very eyes, was after The Nun's Story when my mother, partly by way of apology, took me to the famous Automat restaurant. I liked that. That place was kind of magical too, even if no human beings walked from reality right onto a TV screen.