At the Back Door

Steve and I were in the middle of a shift change at KEKA. Our sister-station, KFMI, was on an automated reel-to-reel system with pre-recorded voice drops, so we we’re the only two in the building or scheduled to be there at that time.

A sudden rapping at the back door alerted us that someone else was at the station. Steve walked to the door and reached for the knob.

For me, time appeared to slow down at that moment. I had the thought: don’t open the door — but I was too late to say anything.

As soon as the door moved away from the frame, a man pushed his way into the building. He was swinging a large butcher-knife wildly through the air.

In a matter of seconds he had cut Steve in the arm at least twice. As he continued to press into the station he yelled something about getting Satan off the radio.

Steve in the meantime, slipped past the attacker and rushed out side into the parking lot. The intruder turned as if to give chase but instead he jus’ stood in the doorway.

That gave me time enough to pick up one of our three tele-type machines and slam him in the head with it. He dropped like a bag of wet cement and rolled down the ramp that led up to the backdoor.

Grabbing the knife, which he had dropped, I turned and walked back inside to the control room. There was nothing but dead-air coming from the speakers as I pushed the microphone button to calmly say, “If you’re listening right now, I need the police at the station on the end of G Street. One man has been stabbed and another man has a serious head injury.”

From there I went outside to find the assailant trying to pick himself off the ground. I gave him a swift, vicious kick in the ribcage, which dropped him to the asphalt once again.

In the distance I could hear sirens, so I knew help was on the way. I located Steve, who was hunkered down behind his truck, and started first-aid on him.

Both the knife-welding man and Steve were taken to the hospital, while I filled out an endless stream of police reports. I did this while I returned the station back to its normal music-intensive format.

A couple of days later, Steve returned to the station with a few hundred stitches in his arm to show-off to co-workers.  As for me, I got a $350 bill for the repairs needed to the tele-type machine I had used as a bludgeoning device.

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