Off The Night Shift, Out of Left Field

The capture of Radovan Karadzic a few days ago propelled me back a decade and a half to some darker times writing about darker things.

To me, people in general (yours truly included) have always seemed like mediocre Triple-A players. They sometimes throw bad enough curveballs or knuckleballs that mesmerize or better yet, sedate one into not even taking a swing, but instead stepping back and shaking his head at the futility of it all.

The day I decided to leave the newsroom and journalism altogether, I composed a short but fair-enough letter of resignation, which I circulated via (rudimentary, internal) electronic mail to everyone first thing in the morning—Big Brass included. I didn’t expect much from anyone (as I often do not), but I thought of a handful of writers who’d stick their heads into my cubicle and at the very least give me a parting, verbal Charlie Horse. Or maybe a literal kick in the arse, Eastern European style, as that was the area I covered with regional and international pieces. By three in the afternoon, an hour short of my scheduled departure, no one had said anything. I was only slightly surprised, but mostly relieved, really. There wouldn’t have to be any words or answers to questions about the future, my career, etc. And so I fine-tuned a piece on the Srebrenica Massacre, on which I’d been working for a couple of days, proofed it one last time, and let it go through to the Managing Editor. It was the last time I hit “Send” on one of my stories, and felt quite un-burdened about all of it. Not melancholic, not sorry, not weepy…just un-burdened; like one who takes off a heavy rucksack which had been breaking his back. The remainder of my chunk of attention span in the newsroom was taken up by coverage of CNN and personal fascination with Vernon Wayne Howell’s (aka David Koresh) fiery demise in Waco, Texas.

At four sharp I picked up the little personal junk I had, stuffed it into my messenger bag, and started to high-tail it out of the newsroom. No regrets. Never any regrets. A few steps from reaching the door I was held up by a firm, calloused hand on my shoulder. I turned to face my antagonist. I almost visibly gasped. It was Kes, the insufferable shite of a man who helmed the Eastern European Desk–my home during my fraudulent stint as a journalist. Indeed. The same diminutive bete noire that had made my life (and others’) hell every minute of every hour of every shift the previous twelve months.

What was said doesn’t much matter now, although the sincerity of the good-natured and complimentary words that came out of that man’s mouth would’ve melted even the hardest of hearts. We spent quite some time shaking hands and patting backs right there, in the middle of everything, under everyone’s watchful gaze—a very surreal experience. Here was the ogre who had tormented me and soured me forever (even to this day) to the field of journalism and reporting on wars or anything else in general. Here was the nemesis with the Napoleonic Complex whose demeanor, attitude, working style (if he ever had one), and human relations were so inept and obtuse and combatant that the stress he had caused was probably responsible for the inertia that propelled me into chronic insomnia to this day—sixteen years removed from the experience. Here was the monster…doing a complete and utter 180, shaking my hand with such sincerity and warm-heartedness that it threw my trusty “People Shit-Detector” into a dizzying tailspin.

And that was that. At the end of it all, he turned and walked back into his dark, lonely cave and transformed himself into that creature which most of us knew him to be. And I walked out into the early October crisp, late-afternoon sun, unemployed, no prospects for much of anything in my life—personal, professional, or otherwise—yet feeling good and proud that a year of walking the conveyer belt of the newsroom was in the end appreciated by one editor: the one least likely to enjoy much of anything in this world. Curveballs and knuckleballs. All coming out of left field.

Bye, Tim

In 1994 I was hired as a sound engineer for Tim Russert’s CNBC (cable) show. It was a one-on-one program, unlike his already-popular and industry renowned Meet The Press on NBC, which tended to feature several hard-hitting politicos at a time. His cable show mainly dealt with artists and writers and sometimes politicians, but usually he kept it to more unique guests, since his Meet The Press was already steeped in that necessary evil we call politics. I was lucky and went on to be promoted, and directed The Tim Russert Show for a while, until I decided to exit the television business in 2000. I won’t go on too long here; cable and news networks have been running packages on Tim’s life and his fairness and greatness and integrity as a journalist ever since his un-timely death yesterday afternoon. I cannot be more eloquent than some of the things I’ve seen and heard and read about his life. I got a phone call from my mother, in Washington D.C. with the terrible news while I was watching the France-Netherlands match at a pub. And then, later, I received a phone call from my ex-wife, also, who knew how much Tim meant to me. He was one of the few men and women in the business whose integrity surpassed everything. He was fair but he demanded your best. And all of us on his crew gave it. We knew Tim personally. I knew his son Luke had big dreams of playing baseball. The last time I saw Luke, he was thirteen years old. Yesterday, I found out Luke and Tim had just returned from a trip to Italy–a college graduation gift his family gave to him. I had only one chance to work with Tim’s wife, celebrated writer and journalist and frequent Vanity Fair contributor, Maureen Orth. She was a guest on Chris Matthews’ show. I couldn’t gauge her; she was too guarded. But I figured if a man like Tim would marry her, then she probably was his complement.

One quick story about Tim. I was directing one Friday afternoon and his guest for the entire hour was Norman Mailer. Tim’s questioning style, also on display in Meet the Press every Sunday, is brilliant. He softens you up with fundamental queries, then out of the blue BANG! He’ll lay one down that’ll baffle the living hell out of you. For most of the Mailer interview, Tim lobbed softballs. As the last segment was coming to a close, Tim brought out the big guns: “Of the eight children, six wives, and thirty-nine books you’ve published, which was the most difficult for you?” Mailer hemmed and hawed and laid down some spiel about how each achievement or aspect of his life has had its own challenges and rewards. But that was it. Tim got the knockout with a flash hook that came out of nowhere. The Kid from Buffalo KO-ed the Heavyweight pugilist from Jersey. Afterwards, as we all shook our heads at how brilliant that question was, he got on the phone in the control room with his wife, Maureen, and I heard him quietly tell her: “I think I may have gotten Mailer finally flustered.” And he had. It was something Gore Vidal and Janet Flanner together couldn’t do in ‘71 on the Cavett show.

And so it goes with the great ones. They step out of this crazy race at the most inopportune times. For us, I mean. We are selfish like that. We want these people to outlive us. People like Tim Russert give me hope. And that’s saying volumes, if you know me. It really is. I miss him. Since I left, eight years ago, he was the only one I kept tabs on and still thoroughly enjoyed watching. I was looking forward to his analysis during this election season. These are politically exciting times for people like me–something that doesn’t come along too often. Tim and his low-tech writing board would have fit perfectly into this monumental presidential race we are about to have. He is missed by many more than he or his family thinks. Bye, Tim.

(WordPress will not let me insert a photograph into this post. If you don’t know who he is/was, you can Google his name)

The Pretenders

–What kind of name is that?
–It’s a good name. Old school.
–His name is Shirley.
–That’s right. Old school. It’s what they used to name boys back then. I know a Tracy, too.
–What, like…Spencer?
–No, Tracy’s his first name.
–It’s strange. Shirley. A man.
–He’s the father of that Maury guy. You know Maury? With the shit TV talk show?
–Yes.
–That’s his father.
–Shirley?
–Yea.
–Jesus, he must be…what…
–Ninety-three.
–Jesus.
–He’s been writing baseball for over seventy years.
–Jesus.
They stood out in the newsroom, behind the thick glass, and drank their coffees and looked in on the editorial meeting in Ratner’s office. Gollust had his shirtsleeves rolled up and a pen clipped to the breast pocket. He was going grey at the temples. They both liked Gollust as managing editor. He was an old fashioned writer from Cleveland who’d done a couple of decades with the Plain Dealer before coming out to the coast. He very much dug Thurber and always liked to talk about Sherwood Anderson:
–Died of peritonitis after swallowing the toothpick of his martini. Chee-rist!
Gollust ran a great newsroom. He literally stood the entire time in the middle of the giant space, and thumbed through interminable, inky copies of the Times, the Post, the Wall Street Journal, Plain Dealer, Christian Science Monitor, Washington Times, the Chicago Tribune, the Philly Enquirer…it was endless. All the while he’d be cleaning up  copy or sending it back with his trademark baseball notes: “foul ball, you’re behind the count one and two” or “bunt! bunt! bunt!” Gollust loved his Cleveland Indians.
–And what in hell kind of name is Herb Ratner. Herb. Like what? Rosemary? Dill?
–It’s short for Herbie or Herbert.
–Old-school name, right.
–Listen, you hang around here ten more years, they’ll make you bureau chief. They’ll send you out to China or Latam.
–Ten years?
–You’ll be the youngest bureau chief in the entire service…
–Ten years.
–It’s nothing. Look at Ravi or Andrei. They’ve been here writing on this desk for two decades plus. Three, I think, for Ravi.
–I don’t want to be them. I don’t want to be Shirley Povich.
–He writes about baseball, for chrissakes. He’s famous. He goes out to the Old Ebbit Grill with fucking Larry King. Plays canasta with the Capitol Hill boys every Friday night. The hell’s so bad about that?
–I mean Ravi. Andrei. I don’t want to be here chewing on some goddamned tea leaves all day and smoking Dunhills.
–You wouldn’t. You’d be bureau chief.
–I don’t want that.
–You don’t want anything that’s hard. You just pretend you do.
Gollust looked out into the newsroom through the thick glass and motioned for them to come in.
–We all pretend.
–What do you think they want?
–I don’t know.
–That CN you wrote on the FMLN in Salvador really tickled Gollust, you know. Maybe they’ll give you some kind of award or something.
–Yea. A plaque.
–Maybe they’ll give you that post in China.
He laughed.
–Let’s go already, they’re waiting.
They went for the almost transparent door to Ratner’s office.
–Hey listen, I heard Naifeh is running Assignments now. For Asia and Africa.
–This isn’t going anywhere…
–Did you hear what I said? About Naifeh? Besides, it’s a good exercise in dialogue. In conversation.
–Yes. What do you think they want in there?
–Slow boat to China. Or? A plaque. Or? The plague.
He laughed.