His Honor the Mayor

Perhaps it would have been possible to cram more into the 1960’s but it would have been wasted. It was a time of extraordinary excitement for me emerging as a WCBS TV reporter in New York. The city was a magnet and a crucible with a crackling sense of excitement, a constant newness because the world came to New York. Khruschev pounded his shoe on a desk at the United Nations, Castro stayed at the Hotel Theresa in Harlem to show his solidarity with American Blacks, Leonard Bernstein composed superb music, captured the city with “West Side Story,” and hobnobbed with Huey Newton as the Black Panthers took on an urban cache and shook down the young liberal population.

John Kennedy caused many of us to soar and we genuinely thought of doing something for our country. Just about anything was possible, we believed, as Special Forces teams trained South Vietnamese soldiers to fight a perceived menace to this country. We were told that the new gospel was the “domino effect,” that if South Vietnam fell to the communists so would all of Asia.

The city had a succession of political hacks, so we were told what we needed was a young WASP with clear blue eyes which could seek new horizons. John Vliet Lindsay had class and enormous star power. The senior officers of the NYPD hated his liberal guts yet when summoned to Gracie Mansion for a party, their wives nearly swooned at his mere presence and the chiefs couldn’t wait to shake hands with this Protestant Republican who promised great things.

Gentleman Johnny took office, swore he would have nothing to do with the old apparatus, including big labor and Mike Quill, head of the Transport Workers Union, and brought the city to a standstill with a subway strike.

He wouldn’t deal with the old guard for fear of taint and they crucified him. A week into the strike I was sitting on the floor of City Hall when a haggard Lindsay walked by and said, “I see the Goddamned press is still here.” Three months prior to that he was ever available to reporters and we did well by him. Seems John V. had a larger than average Achilles Tendon and a short fuse. He finally turned to men like Ted Kheel, a highly respected negotiator, and he and others brought the strike to a close in another week. John V. had learned a tough lesson and his ego would never be quite the same.

Running New York City was every bit as demanding as running this country. I know, years later I became Press Secretary to the mayor. Anyway some years past, John became a Democrat, Jack Kennedy was murdered and the country rent the vest. I covered the story and was never the same after that.

One night two weeks after the assassination two guys were sitting in McGowan’s Off Broadway bar on Greenwich Avenue making really stupid remarks about the Kennedy family, one so vicious I knocked him off a bar stool with a left right to the jaw. He hit the partition and slid to the floor. It was out of a John Wayne movie. His partner lunged at me but Eddie Sullivan, the bartender, threw a bar rag in his face temporarily blinding him and he went down to my rage. I put him into a waste receptacle on the corner and draped his partner over it. Sullivan bought me a drink.

Anyway, I digress. Everything had changed and Johnny was trying to run a fractious city which constantly smoldered. He was losing popularity according to the polls and the same bastards that toasted the Kennedy assassination down on Wall Street were awaiting for his honor to make a speech at the Sub Treasury building where once George Washington appeared.

I don’t know how it happened but he was standing looking at a jeering crowd and I was at his side. He was stunned at the catcalls and jeers and looked at me uncomprehending. I don’t know what prompted me but I said, “They hate your guts, didn’t you know? “ Lindsay shook his head and asked, “But why? “ He looked a little lost. “You think you know this town but in many ways you are an interloper in their eyes. You didn’t come out of the streets, you didn’t belong to a gang or a parish. It’s almost genetic. You are everything they despise and secretly want. You’ve got class, they came from blue collar origins and hate your WASP credentials. Something about the ‘have’s and have nots.”

It dawned on me, as usual too late, that I was speaking to the Chief Executive of New York City, but he didn’t bridle at the remarks, looked at me closely and said, “Is that true?” I answered, “Yeah, mayor, its true, maybe someone should have tried to explain it to you before you took office but its a hard thing to communicate.” He nodded, looked at me again and turned to stare at his jeering constituents.