Parade

One of the benefits of being a reporter is the access you have to the mighty, the wannabe movers and shakers, the scoundrels, celebrities, knaves, those with a mission, or the just plain avaricious.

I knew a couple of civil right leaders who extolled insurrection during the week and cooperated with the FBI on weekends and pocketed the proceeds of the faithful and the feds. You knew of the idiosyncrasies of many on Broadway and Hollywood, and the habits of those who occupied high places. You really didn’t report on much of it because it just didn’t mean a helluva lot, nor were you interested in slipping between the sheets with sleazebags, but of course that’s all changed now.

There was a danger, then and now, of getting too close to the action and becoming a player instead of a reporter. “Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.” Anyway, Bobby Kennedy could be an entertaining and charming fellow when he so chose and he so chose on March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day, when he threw a party for every reporter and editor in New York who had an Irish last name.

One such celebration was in Charlie O’s, the watering hole for some NBC types, and it was a repast fit for Irish kings, from whom we were all descended, and never more so than that early morning bash on March 17th. There was blood “puddin,” Irish greens and bacon, “finnin haddie” and soda bread and all the free booze you could throw down your throat for at least two hours before the parade started moving up Fifth Avenue, a block away.

Last call came, Bobby was the most cherished Mick since St. Patrick himself, and we dispersed, none of us going to the newsrooms. I had called in to WCBS TV, explained that I had a severe case of “Chinese Lingvenerium” and could not possibly work that day. They weren’t fooled for a second but I had recently gotten a promotion to correspondent so I could get away with a little more crap than usual.

Anyway, no one was feeling any pain as we headed toward where Cardinal Francis Spellman was waiting to bestow his greetings and blessings on the Irish of every conceivable stripe and hue and, of course, the mayor, deputy mayors, councilmen and commissioners from every department.

Lo three blocks south there came handsome John V. Lindsay, mayor of the metropolis and about as Irish as Haile Selasie. Somehow this piece of information permeated through the alcohol. I took umbrage and thought if he could lead the parade, a bogus Mick, if there ever was one, why the hell shouldn’t I?

Just as he was about to pass my vantage point I strolled out into the middle of Fifth Avenue, took “Long John” by the arm and escorted him past St. Pat’s, Cardinal Spellman and half the Roman Catholic hierarchy, many of whom knew me. I was having the time of my life as the mayor uttered imprecations on my head, muttering sotto voce, what he was going to do to me when this parade was over. Undaunted, I continued strolling arm and arm when Fire Commissioner Robert Lowery came up, disentangled my arm from the mayor’s, and half dragged me back to where he was walking. Among other things I heard were “You crazy bastard,” and some muffled laughter. Well I liked Lowery, he had recently made me an honorary deputy chief for work I had done uncovering cheap Christmas dolls, which were, in essence, first cousin to incendiary bombs, so he was more amused than pissed.

We continued to walk north as TV cameras, including some from my own station, recorded the activities for posterity. I felt confident my station wouldn’t show my shenanigans, and the other stations would never do so for fear of showing a rival station’s reporter in the spotlight.

We started to pass the grandstand where Governor Rockefeller and Attorney General Lefkowitz stood waving to the mayor and smiling at me as I greeted them with loud huzzahs. I walked over to the governor, shook hands with him, and he laughed and shook his head, as did Lefkowitz. Having completed my stroll, I decided to continue on up to Yorkville, 86th Street, the heart of the German community, but on March 17th, a bastion for young, and frequently very offensive, Irish Americans.

There’s much I can’t remember about that day except I got home feeling like hell, my then wife was not amused and I crawled into bed. The next morning was what I expected it to be and what I so deserved. I got to the station, sat quietly in my office when another reporter stuck his head in and said, “Congratulations, you very great asshole. The boss caught your act with both the mayor and the governor and he has received some very interesting phone calls.” My tormentor laughed heartily and left me somber, still not sober, but suddenly aware of my escapades.

An hour later, Joe Loughlin, my boss, did indeed see me as I went on assignment, shook his head, smile ruefully and said, “What the hell, it only happens once a year.” I’ve always respected understanding, compassionate people.