UNOFFICIALLY SPEAKING IS:

  • The Memoirs of an Amnesiac (with apologies to Oscar Levant)
  • Personal reflections on friends, acquaintances and others, living and dead, mostly admired.
  • (The heading above is from a weekly column I wrote over half a century ago. I've always liked the caricature, done for me by a long-departed friend, so I hope you'll excuse my vanity in reproducing it here.)

About Me

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Formal education at the hands of The Sisters of The Presentation Order, the Jesuits and the Irish Christian Brothers. Informal education through travel, as well as successes and failures as actor, director, writer, soldier, management consultant, businessman, husband, father, grandfather and all the human drama involved.

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Monday, February 9, 2009

TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR....(with Adolph Hitler's fork)

TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR….

(with Adolph Hitler’s fork)


One fine spring early afternoon in the mid 1980’s, I was at one of my favorite saloons checking with one of my financial advisors (he was pouring me a Johnny Walker Black & water), and discussing the world in general with others of his clients similarly gathered. One such was a fellow-Irishman, John Van Buren Sullivan (then retired, since deceased) who had run New York’s most successful radio station WNEW, in fact the most successful in the country, and had gone on to be the first president of the media giant Metromedia. Further in his past, he had been a WWII wartime correspondent in Europe (I forget for whom - it may’ve been Stars & Stripes) and was with the Allied forces when they entered Berlin. Jack Sullivan and I had become quite good friends over the years and I enjoyed listening to him talk about his experiences working with the radio and television people, but I was always most interested in his wartime stories, particularly the one about Hitler’s bunker in Berlin.

Somehow, Jack had managed to be among the first people to enter Hitler’s bunker after it had been uncovered and der Fuhrer’s suicide announced to a grateful world. Knowing a good thing when he saw it and recognizing the opportunity to grab a piece of history, Jack was able to make off with a doormat emblazoned with the Third Reich’s symbol (the German eagle), along with about a dozen pieces of silver flatware (knives, forks and spoons) with der Fuhrer’s initials (A.H.) engraved on each piece.

So, years later on that spring early afternoon more than twenty years ago, Jack brought a small snapshot of the doormat and one set (knife, fork and spoon) of Hitler’s engraved silver to the bar at ‘21’ to show me what he’d been talking about. First he showed me the small color Polaroid he’d taken of the mat, an eagle with wings spread and standing with talons grabbing the Nazi swastika. It was a little frightening to recall what that symbol had stood for. Then he took a small velvet pouch out of his pocket and handed me the three engraved pieces. At first I was fascinated as I handled them, rubbing my fingers over the ‘A.H.’ that had been cut into each the shaft of each piece, wondering which one of history’s most murderous henchmen might have actually used the utensils I now held in my hands. Then I felt a chill as I realized that Hitler himself most probably had held them, or even Eva Braun, playfully feeding her ‘liebchen’ a forkful of spaetzle. I gave them back to Jack, thanking him for showing them to me, and he returned them to the pouch and pocketed them. I really didn’t know what else to say so our conversation soon drifted off into other subjects.

It was getting to be about one o’clock so I invited him to lunch with me at another of my favorite places, Sardi’s Bar & Restaurant in the theatrical district, a place he had also visited many times (The media conglomerate he had run, Metromedia, also published Playbill). When we walked into Sardi’s I saw that, not surprisingly, there were several people at the bar whom I knew. In particular, Bob Freeman, a close friend and long-time drinking companion with whom I shared ownership of the far left corner of the bar. Bob was a proud Jew, I was a proud Irishman, and we regularly traded insults about each other’s heritage and the prototypical predilections of our respective tribes. After Bob embraced me (he was a larger than life, emotional man) I introduced Jack Sullivan to him. They were both about the same age and, while I was Korea, they had both served in WWII, and I was sure they’d get on together. Bob told Billy the bartender to give us both a drink and, as we waited for the largesse, I fleshed out the introductions, giving some background on the Irishman to the Jew, and vice versa. Then, as we drank, I continued my description of Sullivan’s background, finally getting to Berlin.

At this point, I got cute, too cute. I told Freeman only that Sullivan had gotten into Hitler’s bunker and taken a few souvenirs. Without specifying anything, I asked Sullivan to give me his pouch. I slid out one piece (it happened to be a fork) and handed it to Freeman with no explanation. He glanced at the fork in his hand and looked back at me with a quizzical, “So?”. I told him it was one of Sullivan’s souvenirs from Hitler’s bunker and that he should turn it over and look at the engraved initials on the shaft. When he saw the “A.H.” and it quickly sunk in as to what he was holding and who else might have held it in the past, he shrieked and threw his hand in the air, the fork flying out of his grasp and clattering across the tiled floor, startling everyone at the bar as well as those in the foyer waiting for tables. I should have known better. Just a few hours earlier, as an Irishman, I had felt a chill as I began to realize what I was holding and who might have held it years ago in 1945. Freeman, the Jew, didn’t feel a chill, he felt the flames of hell. I was stupid not to realize that my Jewish friend just might have a more troubled reaction than I did.

Not really knowing what to do, I chased down Hitler’s fork, wiped it off with my handkerchief, and slipped it back to Jack Sullivan. Even my fellow-Irishman expressed his disapproval, giving me a withering look as he placed the fork back into the pouch and jammed it into his pocket and out of sight. Sullivan’s dirty look, on top of Freeman’s fevered reaction to what I’d done, made me realize how insensitive I’d been. It had been a mere 40 years since the defeat of Nazi Germany and, while the memory of history’s most inhumane gang of bullies and cutthroats still lingered, it was more like a fuzzy daguerreotype than a clearly defined digital image. Society at large, particularly the cosseted citizens of Fortress America (including myself), was quickly forgetting that evil does exist throughout the world and, like the poor, will always be with us. And, if my behavior was any indication, so would stupidity.

Happily for me, the disapproval of my Irish friend and the disappointment of my Jewish friend were both short-lived and slowly dissipated over lunch. I insisted that they both be my guests. Sullivan was ready to bolt but acquiesced as he saw Freeman hugging me, forgiving me and reaffirming our friendship (I did say that he was a more than slightly emotional human being). The three of us walked out from the bar, leaving behind an uncomprehending bartender and his extremely puzzled customers. We were led to our corner booth and, as equanimity slowly crept back into our little group, Sardi’s linguine with clam sauce for the two Irishmen, a Chicken Salad for the Jew and a bottle of wine erased the specter of Hitler’s fork.

I often think about that day and my own insensitivity, especially as I consider the significantly increased levels of complacency and denial that exist today. Some politicians too easily brand their opponents as ‘Nazi’s’, with no recognition of what that term really connotes. There are constant reminders of evil all around us and yet we find ourselves berated by the proponents of ‘moral equivalency’ whenever we dare cry, “beware!”

Forgive me for sermonizing. What started out to be a remembrance of two old friends, an illustration of how one man’s souvenir, through another man’s thoughtlessness, can become another man’s nightmare, has somehow morphed into a diatribe. However, in the final analysis, I’m sure both my Irish friend and my Jewish friend would appreciate this Irishman's sense of contrition and might be nodding their heads in approval.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN - Forrest Tucker

GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN

(FORREST TUCKER)

In 1975, New York City was practically insolvent. In response to the worst financial crisis in its history, the Municipal Assistance Corp. (MAC) was formed by New York State to sell billions of dollars in bonds to keep the city solvent. Though I had nothing to do with the crisis, either as a contributing cause or a possible cure, I was a participant in a banking industry meeting where the city’s crisis became the focal point. At the time, I was the partner responsible for the banking industry at a major consulting firm and was often asked to speak at industry functions. I’d been invited to speak at a BANK ADMINISTRATION INSTITUTE conference in New York whose original theme (new services for consumers and corporations) was jettisoned at the last minute, in favor of the more pressing financial matters facing New York City. However, even though the focus of the BAI meeting had undergone drastic change, for some reason, they kept me on the program.

Harrison J. Goldin, the Comptroller of The City of New York, had been scheduled to lead off as the keynote speaker and I was to follow him. On the morning of the day before the meeting, I received a phone call informing me that I would now be the opening speaker as Mr. Goldin would be in a critical early morning meeting with Felix Rohatyn, the Lazard Frères partner who was serving as chairman of MAC. This was the meeting that everyone had been waiting for, where Gotham’s fiscal future might be determined. Not only was I moved up, but they also requested that I be prepared to extend beyond the 35 to 40 minutes originally allotted in the event that Mr. Goldin might meet with further delay. So, not only was I to address an assemblage of desperate bankers who would be sitting on the edge of their seats awaiting Mr. Goldin’s report on his do-or-die meeting with Felix Rohatyn, with little or no interest in what I would have to say, I might also have to do a song and dance, vamping to fill time.

I did a lot of speech making in those days, and always felt comfortable no matter what I was asked to talk about. My philosophy was that, to the extent that I was an invited speaker standing at a lectern before any audience, a majority of them had to assume that I had something worth listening to or I wouldn’t have been invited and they wouldn’t be there in the first place. But this was different. In the final analysis, whether or not I knew what I was talking about or how well or poorly I spoke was not the issue. All this audience would want to hear was Jay Goldin’s report of what happened at the mountaintop, the newly developed plan for the city’s rescue. With Goldin waiting in the wings, the only thing they’d want to hear from me would be, “And in conclusion, -----“.

That evening, rather than going home to Connecticut, I decided to stay in town to work out changes in my speech to make it more appropriate to the evolving situation. I took a room at the New York Athletic Club and spent a futile few hours trying to figure out what to do, making no progress at all. At about 9 o’clock I gave up, deciding I’d have to wing it at the meeting and it really didn’t matter anyway, and went down to have a drink in the 3rd floor grill. At this time of night, the bar was usually not very busy and there was only one other customer. I ordered my Johnny Walker Black and water, reached for the pretzels, gazed over at my bar mate and found myself looking into a familiar face. It didn’t take long to realize that it was Forrest Tucker.

It would have been difficult not to recognize him – his career included a score of movies in the 1940’s and 1950’s (eventually AUNTIE MAME), television (especially F TROOP) and stage, both Broadway and national touring companies – plus, at 6’4” or so, he was hard to miss.

We introduced ourselves and started talking just as any two members of a club might do. He was older than I and quite famous in his own right, so early in our conversation I addressed him as Mr. Tucker. He shushed me and said, “Just call me Tuck, ..…like all my friends do.” When he found out I lived in nearby Connecticut, he asked me why the hell I was staying here at the club and not at home with my family. I explained the whole speech business and his reaction was simple. As close as I can recall his words and his tone of 30+ years ago, his advice went something like this.

“Just do what I do. When you’ve got an audience that ain’t listening, there ain’t much you can do. You can’t change the script, you can’t talk faster, you can’t talk louder. You just talk softer so they got to concentrate harder to hear you. And if they don’t even try, fuck ‘em, they don’t deserve you anyway. Say your piece and get the hell out of town.”

When I finally stopped laughing, I asked him why he was staying at the club. He explained that he’d just that day wrapped up rehearsals for the National Company of the Tony Award and Pulitzer Prize winning drama THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON and would be leaving late tomorrow to start touring the country. He didn’t particularly like hotels and, besides, here at the club he couldn’t get into trouble. If he were out drinking in public at some bar or other, there was a good chance he’d attract attention and either do something unwise or, more likely as had happened to him several times in the past, be accused of doing something he hadn’t done. There was safety here in the all-male NYAC.

So, we spent the next two hours drinking and talking, and I found him to be a delightful companion, not at all impressed with his own celebrity. It was a rambling conversation, with my asking him about the people he had worked with (Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Hepburn & Tracy, et al) and while I only remember sketchy details about what he said, I do recall that he didn’t have a nasty word to say about anyone. As it approached 11pm, I made my excuses. I had to be up early to get downtown for the banking conference, so we shook hands goodbye and I left my new acquaintance Tuck alone at the bar, never expecting to see him again. I could not have been more mistaken.

The next morning I did my thing, made my mostly original, inappropriate for the occasion, only slightly altered speech as if nothing else mattered, recording it for later transcription. I also tried Tuck’s approach of speaking more softly but that didn’t seem to make any difference. After about 30 minutes of torture, my deliverance arrived. I caught sight of the event coordinator standing with Jay Goldin off stage to my left, and gesticulating for me to finish. I abruptly concluded my remarks, received a slight smattering of polite, though relieved applause from an audience that couldn’t have known (or cared) that I was more relieved than they. The coordinator walked out on stage, thanked me for my ‘insightful’ comments and announced that Mr. Goldin had arrived and would address the assemblage in about 10 minutes. As the audience started to take their comfort break, I began to unhook the tape recorder I had set up in the lectern. The coordinator asked me if I had a blank tape and, if so, could I leave the recorder in place so they could tape Mr. Goldin’s remarks. I had no desire to stick around any longer than necessary, just wanted to get back to my office, and agreed to leave my tape recorder for Mr. Goldin’s use as long as he promised to return it to my office within a few days.

I got back uptown to my office just before 11am and, by the time I got caught up on what I had to do, it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. I left my office and walked down to Sardi’s Restaurant on West 44th Street in the theatrical district. As I strode through the front door and turned right into the ‘little bar’, I was greeted by the bartender, Croatian Freedom Fighter Jack Custera and by most of the people at the bar. (I had been there once or twice before). Surprisingly, I was also greeted by a very tall man called Forrest Tucker whom I had last seen less than 15 hours ago. He had a flight out of La Guardia in a few hours, heading for the first city on the national tour of THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON, and decided to drop in at Sardi’s before heading out. He asked for an update on the morning’s proceedings and I told him that I followed his advice and the only thing that worked was “…say your piece and get the hell out of town.” At about 4 o’clock, we left Sardi’s together, he hailed a cab, dropped me at Grand Central Station for my commute ride home and continued on to La Guardia to catch his flight. Once more, I never expected to see him again and once more I was wrong.

Early the next morning, I flew from New York to St. Louis, to have lunch with the owner of a credit card processing company with whom I had done business over the last several years. He picked me up at the airport and, after brief tour of his new facility, drove me to a downtown restaurant where he was obviously well known. As we walked into the restaurant and the Maitre d’ enthusiastically greeted my host, I also received an enthusiastic greeting. From my left came a shout in a recently familiar voice, “Hey Jack. What the hell you doing here?” Forrest Tucker was sitting in booth against the wall, one long arm waving over his head and a big smile on his face. I tried to stay cool and nonchalantly waved back with a “Hey Tuck. Just had to get the hell out of town.” He laughed and winked and returned to his companions and I proceeded as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. My host was astonished and, as much as he tried to get me to explain, I pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

So, within the space of less than three days, I had three accidental meetings with Forrest Tucker in three different places in two cities a thousand miles apart. As he had suggested, both of us had said what we had to say and then got "the hell out of town.”