Office Christmas Parties

One of the pleasures of working at New York magazine in the 1970s (and there were many) was the annual Christmas party, held in the editorial offices on the third floor at 755 Second Avenue. That was a comfortable setup for the edit and art departments. New York published weekly, except for a double issue the last two weeks in December. That week without a press deadline was liberating, and the staff reveled in the temporary stress-free period. We could work ahead to prepare for the new year, and then willingly stay late to enjoy the party in New York's city room layout. 

In the festive spirit of the season, we even tolerated the presence in our midst of the Mad Men and Mad Women of the advertising sales offices from the second floor. You see, a few of them would have sold out the editorial in a New York minute for a sales commission. I remember one rep who brashly and unashamedly offered to write capsule restaurant reviews (for publication!) for potential clients she was soliciting. She saw no conflict of interest there, only a fatter paycheck for herself.

It was not uncommon for Mayor Ed Koch and Representative Bella Abzug to join us. One year, Paul Newman showed up. To this day I cannot hear a Johnny Mathis Christmas song without thinking of my former colleague Merry Clark, who at the party one year ruefully told me about the moment she realized that Johnny was not singing to her. When I reminded her of that not too long ago, she said, “He’s still not singing to me!”

In 1976, New York published “Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night,” by Nik Cohn. In December 1977, the film Saturday Night Fever, based on Cohn’s story, opened. That same month, at our office Christmas party, the art department was turned into a disco, complete with strobe light and dry-ice-making fog. Taking a turn on the dance floor with the lively artists of editorial was an even livelier pair of roller-skating monkeys. I never learned who invited them.

In the course of one of those late-night Christmas parties in the office, one booze-fueled contributing writer had a memorable close-up encounter with the magazine’s copy machine. I wasn’t an eyewitness but I did see the evidence in the form of a stack of black-and-white reproductions that Around Town listings editor Ruth Gilbert kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. As it turned out, it wasn't all that memorable for the contributing writer, who had a hazy recollection of the party. Days later, his anxiety was not assuaged by reassurances from Ruth and Merry that nothing had happened. The incident would later be rewritten by New York contributing editor Tom Wolfe in his novel The Bonfire of the Vanities.

Christmas at Condé Nast

After I left New York in 1979 for Condé Nast Publications, the venue and the atmosphere for the party changed. Every year, about two weeks before Christmas, the chairman, S.I. Newhouse, invited the company’s officers and the editors in chief and publishers of each of the Condé Nast magazines to a private lunch at the Four Seasons restaurant. A highlight was the heartfelt and gracious speech by S.I. in which he expressed his gratitude for the efforts of all those assembled. One year, CNP president Steve Florio passed along some inspirational words spoken by his grandmother, he told us, before she passed. “Tropo duro,” he said she whispered to him on her deathbed. “Stay tough.”

I loved working at Condé Nast. I was given a raise every single year for over 20 years. Not once had I ever asked for one. How it happened was, my boss, executive vice president John Brunelle, would call or drop me a note during Christmas week. “Are you in the office tomorrow?” he would ask. “Stop by and see me. I need to talk to you.” The talk would be to inform me that I was being given a raise.

John passed away earlier this year. What a patient and understanding boss he was, and what a forgiving and unforgettable mentor and gentleman he was to a young editor.

In 1983, when I was in the process of selling my first house and closing on another, I was informed that Condé Nast historically, if not publicly, made available loans to its editors and publishers. I went to see John. After I sat down in his office, he pressed a button under his desk to release the door held open by a magnet. I felt like I had entered Ali Baba’s cave. I asked him about the possibility of securing a bridge loan.

Without hesitating, he said, “Sure. How much do you need?” When I told him $19,500, he asked if it would be convenient for me to pick up the check the next morning. All that was required of me was my signature acknowledging receipt of the check. There would be no interest on the loan and no payment-due date. “Pay it back when you can,” John said. That was typical of my relationship with him. The few times I met with John in his office over what I perceived to be a press emergency, he listened carefully, quickly assessed the situation, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s all going to happen,” he said cheerfully, taking a puff on his cigar.

It’s all going to happen? I repeated to myself. Yes, and it’s all going to be bad, I thought. But it never was. Much later I realized what he meant by that. He had complete confidence that I would take whatever steps necessary and spend however much time and effort it took to avert the crisis. He was right. Years later, at a retirement party thrown for John at Michael’s restaurant in New York City, I mentioned the meeting and John’s calm response to my agitation to his wife and daughter. “Oh, he was always telling us that, too,” they said.

Surprise Package

One year at Christmas, in 1992, I received a most unexpected package: a gift-wrapped bucket of caramel popcorn along with a genial note and a standing personal invitation to meet from the Cleveland Browns’ coach at the time, one Bill Belichick. “Thanks for thinking of me [with a copy of Street & Smith’s Pro Football edition],” he wrote. “Please give me a call if you are in or around the Cleveland area; the Browns facility is but a mile from the airport.” He enclosed his business card and closed with “If there is ever anything I can do for you, I hope you won’t hesitate to call.” I wonder if that invitation still stands.

Oh, What Fun It Is...

Teaching the first grade this week, I was reunited with the kindergartners I had tried to instruct a year ago during a time when their regular teacher was serving grand jury duty. It was a mostly exhilarating albeit somewhat exhausting experience to drop in again and be surrounded by so much youthful innocence and unbridled exuberance. I can report here, non-judgmentally, that a few of the students remain frightfully antic and blithely indifferent to rules about classroom decorum, diligence, and the collaborative requirements of education. 

Declan informed me, "I only want six things for Christmas."
"Underwear, socks, and what else?" I teased him.
"No, toys," he said. "But I'm getting my dad one thing: beer."
"A can of beer?" I asked.
"No, a six-pack. I mean a 12-pack."

Anthony told me, apropos of nothing, "In France, Santa gets wine and cheese as a snack, not milk and cookies."

Devin explained that he was leaving for Florida on Friday but that Santa had been advised to leave gifts for him at his grandma's house in New Jersey.

Last year I was introduced to Olivia, who made her presence felt immediately in a big way. On one unforgettable day in November, Olivia made a quick bathroom visit before we headed down the hall to the Veterans Day assembly. Soon after taking her seat on the gym floor she rose to inform me, "I didn't wipe myself good." As an editor for 34 years (and a parent), I had a lot of experience with juvenile behavior and cleaning up messes. This, however, was unprecedented. Thankfully, an aide overheard Olivia's confession and stepped up and redeemed me.

Fast forward to today. During the course of the morning, the diminutive but hungry and hypochondriacal Olivia was at my desk continually--not continuously (it only seemed like an unbroken run of appearances). Shortly after 9 A.M. she inquired how much longer it would be until lunchtime. That was followed by complaints about her health (she was fine) and her classmates, her plans for Christmas, and a brief unsolicited history of her parents' employment, including a parenthetic note that her father was usually less busy than her mother. As often as she materialized in front of me, I patiently reminded her to go back to her desk. 

By the end of the day, Olivia had heard enough from me. After my final admonishment to her to focus on the assigned task, I overheard her say to her table mates, "Mr. K used to be fun, but now he's pushing us to work to the limit."

I almost felt like a real teacher.

Randee

In this the holiest week on the calendar for many faiths that believe in the resurrection, I thought of a friend who passed away this year. I knew the late Special Ed teacher extraordinaire Randee Gerson only through the West Ridge Elementary School, yet I considered her a good friend. That might seem ironic, considering we never did any of the traditional things that friends do. I never shared a meal or even a cup of coffee with Randee, never bought her a drink, never gave her a ride, never ran an errand, never did a favor for her. How I wish I could go back now and do all of those things for her. How I wish I could see her smiling face welcoming another day at school and inviting me to share in the excitement of education.

Randee did plenty for me, though. She trusted me with her students, and I took that responsibility very seriously. I was able to see firsthand the work (and the miraculous results) and the preparation that went into that work, and I was determined never to let her down for the faith she showed in me. Randee was an inspiration.

I came to West Ridge late in life as a substitute teacher (with no experience in the front of a classroom) after a 35-year career in journalism, and joked with Randee that as an editor I was not unfamiliar with childish behavior, incoherence, difficult personalities, and temper tantrums. What Randee was able to accomplish was no joke. She went about the task of teaching her students with grace, class, humor, infinite patience, and enthusiasm.

You could not help but be infected by her passion for the children. I often told her that I marveled at the cheerfulness of her students. That was no accident. Randee made school fun for them. Those were children with special needs who spent a large part of each day under Randee’s care, and it was one of her special gifts that she was able to reach out and connect with them and to make each day for them so positive.

Randee imposed structure for the students with an indispensable classroom routine that accounted for every minute of the school day. She had a large display—I called it the “Big Board”—in the front of the room with the daily schedules for the students. Looking at it, you could tell at a glance what subject was being taught in each period and when the students were to leave her class for basic skills or to rejoin their homerooms for library, music, art, world language, or gym. After the day's announcements and the pledge of allegiance, there was a brief morning meeting, which included the calendar and social conversations at a round table with the students about their lives.

I came to appreciate how beneficial that routine was to the children. It gave them a clear, stress-free outline for their day as well as encouragement and self-confidence for their efforts and the incentive to work hard and to try to do their best. Randee’s students, though, like students everywhere, knew all the tricks in the playbook on procrastination when it came to completing their assignments. When the morning meeting was over and it was time to start the lessons, I typically would sit one-on-one with one of the young boys while the teacher’s aides worked with the other children. I’d check the previous night’s homework (usually a worksheet for spelling and another for math) and then apply a sticker and/or a star from a scented marker. No one ever turned down a sticker, although there was the occasional internal debate about which sticker the student wanted and which “flavor” of marker he favored on that day. 

“Mr. K, can I get a drink?”
“You just got here.”
“I’m really thirsty.”
“Go ahead.” 
But as he made to leave the classroom and head for the hallway, I’d point to the fountain in the sink.
“That water’s no good,” he told me. (This was said by every student in every school about every classroom’s water.)
I relented.
Having apparently quenched his thirst in the hall, he returned.
“O.K.,” I said. “Let’s get started on our spelling.”
“And then we’re done?”
“No.”
“Why (said so plaintively)?”
“Because it’s only 8:50.”

After a page of work, he’d ask to use the bathroom (Randee set a limit of two morning bathroom breaks) and then take a circuitous route to the boys’ bathroom. I watched him from the classroom door as he walked down the hall. He’d turn around and wave to me.

Finally, back at his desk, he was almost ready for another worksheet. 
“Mr. K, can I get a tissue?”

Blessedly, the box of tissues was nearby.

“I’m ready now, Mr. K.”

“You have to wash your hands.”

So, he went to the sink in the rear of the classroom, where he washed and dried his hands. Rather than deposit the paper towel in the wastebasket, he’d back up and attempt to shoot the wadded-up ball into the basket. It flew a few inches and came up feet short. Retrieving the towel but not getting any closer to his target, he’d shoot again.

“Just dunk it in the garbage,” I finally told him.

To be clear, it was impossible to be mad at him because he never had a bad day and was never not cheerful or respectful. That was the atmosphere Randee created for her students. The other boy in the class, a year younger, was equally innocent and winning. When I would sit with him for his lessons, I’d model the worksheet, starting with my name at the top.

“Now, don’t write ‘Mr. K.’ on your paper. Write your own name.”

He’d smile slyly, waiting for me to notice that he had written “Mr. K” on his worksheet, and then erase it and write his own name. His routine then closely resembled his classmate’s.

Randee never failed to thank me for filling in for her weekly while she underwent chemotherapy or radiation treatments. Believe me, for as hard as I tried, I could only be a pale imitation of Randee. I always told her that her gratitude was misplaced, that it was like thanking me for liking ice cream or playing basketball. It was a privilege to stand in for her. James M. Barrie wrote, “Nothing is really work unless you would rather be doing something else.” I could not imagine Randee doing anything else. Such commitment! Such selfless dedication! Up until her last day in school she was ever solicitous of her three special students and of trying to ensure that their needs would be met during her absence.

At the funeral service for her there was a reference to Randee’s cooking. All I knew about that was that Randee, in the course of preparing her students in real life skills (which included lessons on healthy and balanced eating choices), frequently prepared food for the students in her classroom. One day it was pancakes; another time it was banana bread. Once, when I was subbing for another teacher, she asked me if I wanted a grilled cheese. “Sure,” I said. At lunch, she delivered the sandwich.

At the service there was also mention of Randee’s leadership. My family and I were the beneficiaries of that leadership. My daughter delivered twins on April 25. So excited was I that from the hospital that morning I sent text messages to four people: my three sisters--and Randee! She responded immediately with warm wishes, and followed up on April 29 with her own text, which typically revealed both her kindness and attention to detail. The text read as follows (with her emphases): “Quick question. If your daughter was having something made for her new little angels, would she write CHARLIE or CHARLES on the item and, of course, PAIGE?” 

What Randee did was to mobilize her closest friends at school and purchase very personalized gifts for my new grandchildren. Upon presenting the gifts, Randee told me, “A lot more people wanted to chip in, but I told them they needed to buy their own gift. What was I going to do…collect 10 cents from each one?”

Randee was the first person who read the book I wrote last year about my transition (and continuing education) from journalism to elementary school, and rendered a generous review. She told me that she used to read chapters in bed at night, occasionally giggling at passages. “What's so funny?” she said her husband, beside her, asked. “Never mind,” she told him. “You wouldn't understand. Go back to sleep.”

Randee understood what her students needed. She and I shared an affection for the predictable behavior of one of them, a charming and ever-ebullient fifth grader. Numerous times throughout the course of every day, he would interrupt his lessons and sing out, “Mrs. Gerson (or Mr. K), how are you?” If you did not respond promptly, he would repeat the question. I always responded, “I'm fine” or “I'm good.” That was immediately followed by his second question: “What about me?” I sent Randee a message in June when she was in Sloan to see how she was feeling. “What about you?” I asked. One of the very last messages I sent her was to say jokingly that I had the title of my autobiography: What About Me? Randee wrote back, “Haha love!!” 

I knew Randee’s condition was terminal, but I was hoping and believing that she would rally and that I would have a chance to buy her that cup of coffee, to do a favor, to tell her how much she meant, and to say goodbye. I’m so sorry I never got that chance.

There is less joy this school year for Randee’s colleagues and students. The educator Henry Adams wrote that a teacher affects eternity because you cannot measure how far her reach extends. I know that Randee’s influence will live on long in the many lives she touched. Rest in peace, Randee.

Not Mean Enough

Uncovered from the two-week-deep miasma of fetid Super Bowl coverage was the scrap of promotional news of the reunion this weekend between former Pittsburgh Steelers great Joe Greene and the boy, Tommy Okon, who famously offered Mean Joe his bottle of Coke in the commercial that aired during Super Bowl 14. 

It should be noted that Roger Staubach, born on this day in 1942, was the original choice for the Greene role. The Heisman Trophy winner in 1963 and the Super Bowl MVP for the Dallas Cowboys in 1972, however, projected the wrong image.  

“Somebody asked me about that and said that I turned it down,” Staubach told me, “but that’s not the case. I would have loved to do it. Some creative guy must have evaluated the concept and said, ‘Hey, we need a mean guy. It would be better to have Joe Greene than Staubach because Staubach’s a nice guy.’ 

“It probably made more sense, gave a more cuddly feeling to it, to have this big old tough football player give his jersey to this little boy. It turned out, I guess, it was the right decision, but I would have loved to do it.”

Derek Jeter in the Headlines

Fully a year after he retired, in which time he never made headlines for any sordid behavior, Derek Jeter in typical understated manner announced that he would marry his girlfriend Hannah Davis. Jeter never revealed much about his personal life during a distinguished playing career with the Yankees, and unlike many of his contemporaries, he never made the game notes or the back pages of the New York tabloids. For example:

·      He never deflated anything but his own ego.

·      He never “liked” something on Instagram while sitting on the dugout toilet.

·      He didn’t promise to make America huge again.

·      He never bro-hugged Jerry Jones or Chris Christie.

·      Carlos Gomez never suggested to him to play the game the right way.

·      He didn’t check himself into rehab before the playoffs.

·      He didn’t break a teammate’s jaw with a punch or drive 100 miles to beat up a coach.

·      He never guaranteed a victory.  
He never called in sick with a migraine after partying the night before and playing golf in the morning.

·      He never called “game” after a winning hit.

·      He never threw a jagged bat barrel at Mike Piazza.

·      He never carried an unlicensed handgun in his sweatpants into a nightclub and shot himself in the leg.

·      He didn’t need to rehab by playing catch or throwing on flat ground.

·      He never found fault with his jersey.

·      He prized family time but didn’t oppose family leave.

·      He never issued a self-serving statement about acting in the best interests of the game.

·      He never kicked anything to the curb or threw anyone under the bus.

·      He didn’t pronounce nuclear as “nuk-u-ler.”

·      The calorie cap never came into play with him.

·      He never hired Isiah Thomas.

·      He never pointed to heaven, pounded his heart, or emitted a primal scream after reaching base.

·      He never had to testify before Congress about steroids or HGH.

·      He never buttfumbled the ball.

·      He didn’t name any children “Apple” or “Blue Ivy” or “North.”

·      His obliques were not hidden beneath layers of fat.

·      He didn’t need an afternoon off after a night game.

·      He never uttered “Thank you for axing” during a postgame press conference.

·      He didn’t drink beer and eat wings in the dugout when he wasn’t in the lineup.

·      He never uttered the obtuse “I get it.”

·      He never dated a Kardashian.

·      Fireman Ed never led an insipid chant of his name: “J-E-T-E—JETE! JETE! JETE!”

·      He never jogged a double into a single.

·      He wasn’t a self-styled thought leader.

·      He never bit an opponent on the shoulder during a game.

·      Jay Bilas didn’t talk about Jeter’s length.

·      He never grew a mullet or rocked a comb-over.

·      He never referred to the “changing landscape of sports.”

·      He never belittled the inane questions asked by sideline reporters.

·      He never spoke about himself in the third person.

·      Cameron Diaz didn’t feed him popcorn at the Super Bowl.

·      He never forgot how many outs there were in any inning.

·      He never proclaimed anything “off the charts.”

·      Stephen A. Smith didn’t dare warn Jeter not to make an enemy of him.

·      He never postured or preened.

·      He never explained anything by referring to his DNA.

·      He was never heard to utter the nonsensical “intrical.”

·      He never went off the chart or the mythical grid.