Among attributes inherited from my parents is a Bronx Irish sense of humor from dad and what I call a “sense of human” from my mother. A “sense of human” is simply compassion for our fellow Homo sapiens. I’ve made good use of dad’s gift of humor throughout my life, but need a wake-up call every now and often in the humanity department.
***
UConn, 1957. It’s the Saturday night cocktail bash of our fraternity’s big spring weekend, and everybody’s too beautiful to be true. The room fair glistens with the sheen and preen of shiny hair, chiseled features and radiantly plumed princesses.
The banter, fueled by firewater, is at fever pitch. Full of myself, near raging to be heard above the storm of cheer, I suddenly realize Peg’s no longer there beside me.
Where the hell is she?
There. In that sullen corner of the lounge. Sitting beside—you gotta be kidding—Joe Grummel (a pseudonym).
Peg Dawson, the love of my life, who came all the way from Vassar for the weekend—there beside Joe “The-Biggest-Geek-God-Ever-Made” Grummel. Who’s only a member because he’s a “legacy”: his father was a member. Who’s about 12-feet tall, with a 2-foot nose and moose eyes. Who, when he laughs, sounds like a cross between a jackass and a rooster.
Yup. That Joe Grummel. Not only that, they’re talking. Joe Grummel is actually having a real live conversation with someone. What’s worse, Peg is laughing at things Joe is saying.
Now comes the worst part. In a momentary settling of the uproar, the rooster bray of Joe Grummel’s laugh resounds the room! All eyes are yanked to the corner—my girl and the ever-lovely Joe Grummel! Shamed. I’ve been publicly shamed.
Minutes later, when she returns to my side, I ask … “Why?”
Those eyes on mine. “Oh, Bob, I had to. I looked over and saw him sitting there all by himself. He just looked so sad. So very very sad. And we were all having such fun. And then I really looked at his face. That wonderful sad face of his …
“Can’t you see, Bob? He’s so homely, Bob, he’s… he’s… beautiful. And he’s just as nice, Bob. Just as nice.”
In Japan, appreciation of the beauty to be found in imperfection is called “wabi-sabi.” It translates to Peg Dawson in English.
***
I came to New York in September 1960, having squeak-byedly graduated UConn, with a major in partying and a minor in English—and through a series of minor miracles, it’s now November 1961, and I’m newly minted administrative editor on the masthead of Harper’s, the oldest magazine of ideas, popular culture, literature and the arts in the country.
Editor-in-chief Jack Fischer created the position especially for me (“I want you to be my Thurber”: alluding to New Yorker legend James Thurber, who started out in a supposedly similar catch-all assignment called “Front Desk”).
Item 7a on my job description, “Deal with crackpots and unpromising authors,” took flesh in the person of Michael Sieniawski, a wealthy white Russian émigré to Brazil who wanted to do an article on Brazil for Harper’s.
As Fischer outlined it to me: “Your job is to let him wine and dine you and be nice to him; he has connections with the Kennedys. But ultimately, discourage him. Diplomatically.”
Here’s a speed-read of my get-togethers with the urbane, well-threaded-cologned-and-buffed Sieniawski.
First meeting: The Oak Room at The Plaza for a quick drink and then over to The Kennedy Suite at The Carlyle for a Jet Set cocktail and hors d’oeuvres soiree where everybody is parlez-ing the francais save moi.
Second meeting: Lunch with half-dozen Jet Set males arguing like Valley Girls about polo ponies at the quite exclusive Brook Club.
Third meeting: Despite the fact I’ve informed Sieniawski his article is not an immediate prospect for Harper’s, he asks me to meet him for lunch at the impossibly chi-chi Cote Basque. As we’re bidding goodbye, he hands me his card: “Come visit me, Bob. My guest. Anytime. My place… Brazilia or Sao Paulo. Both, if you choose.”
As I burst forth from Cote Basque, I see a cab easing along. Running and frantically flagging madly away, I damn near stumble over some stupid guy sprawled out on the sidewalk. But being quick-footed from basketball days, thank God, I’m able to vault the stupid bastard— just as the cab screeches to a halt! Whew. Lucky timing. Great footwork. Close-assed call.
On the way downtown, it… WHONK… hits me—like a sledgehammer.
“You jumped over that poor guy, Bob! Remember how disgusted you were when you were in that bus and saw them walking around that guy passed out in front of the public library when you first got here, Bob!? Is this what a year-and-a-half of New York has done to your sense of humanity, Bob?! Time to reclaim your soul, Bob. Time to move the hell on.”
All of which is a necessarily foreshortened way of explaining how I bit the bullet and, in a matter of three months, exchanged a possible fast-track career in publishing in the mecca of success, New York, for publishing and then advertising in Boston, and ultimately my God-intended home… Marblehead, where humanity rules.
Bob Baker is Baker Advertising, a creative and branding resource, and author of bar-style memoir, “When Life Was Wow!”
