phil.mushnick@nypost.com POST SCRIPT
How a young journalist made chief editor laugh
T
HE POST was founded in 1801 by Alexander Hamilton and in great part saved by Pete Hamill in 1993.
Let me tell you about the room where it happened.
Seeing how it was considered bad form to plot the overthrow of the newspaper’s owner from the editorial offices — and if we didn’t quickly rid ourselves of parking lot magnate and crackpot Abe Hirschfield, he’d already made it clear that he’d get rid of us — the War Room became the corner of the shortlived South Street Diner, a small dyspepsia depot — expiration dates applied to the customers — beside The Post’s freight entrance.
As we went about whatever was left of our business, we’d slip into that diner to ask impertinent questions, including, “Are we still in business?”
Hamill or fearless fellow “Don’t Tread on Me!” lead conspirator Marc Kalech, who passed in 2012, would shoot back a thumbs up or a shrug, and then it was back upstairs.
There was something hopeful, reassuring and gloriously rebellious about having Hamill, who remained editor-in-chief even after Hirschfield fired him, as our calmly defiant leader. Damn the torpedoes, and all that.
Newspaper editors often holler, curse and throw things as deadlines approach. Apologies to follow — sometimes. For Hamill, it was steady as she goes. Even with The Post on the brink, I never even saw him brood.
I didn’t know Hamill well, not in a social sense. But I knew him enough to recognize that he was special.
The longest conversation I had with Pete was in an elevator en route to the fourth-floor City Room on 210 South Street. When I entered the lobby, Hamill was already on board, but reached back to prevent the door from sliding closed in my face.
I entered and thanked him. His gesture reminded me of my first day at The Post, and I then took a shot at telling one of the greatest storytellers the story:
It was 1973, Day 1 as an 85 bucks per week copy boy. I wore a tie and blazer, which I quickly learned wasn’t a sensible ensemble for a down-and-dirty ink grunt.
I was sent with a hand truck to pick up a bundle of the latest edition from the presses on the ground floor. I was to distribute them to different departments.
As I returned to my copy boy station, the elevator opened to reveal the Post’s famous, liberal-minded owner Dorothy Schiff and her Dapper Dan chauffeur, Everett, holding her precious Yorkie, Suzy Q. Wow, Day 1!
TV viewers thought the Mrs.
Pynchon character played by Nancy Marchand in “Lou Grant” was inspired by Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham, but that Yorkie clinched it — she was Dolly Schiff.
As Schiff, Everett and the dog were about to enter the elevator, Everett ordered me out. Huh? Get out? “Mrs. Schiff rides alone,” he said.
I was livid and humiliated. Still am. But I obeyed. Not much severance for half-a-day’s employment.
But this paragon of all-embraced virtue treated her dog with greater regard than her employees.
Later that week, the Times and Post reported that Mrs. Schiff had been feted at a dinner in tribute to her humanitarianism.
I told that story to Hamill, wrapping it up as we entered the City Room. He nearly fell flat laughing. Man, that felt good. I’d scored with Pete Hamill.
Hamill died Wednesday at 85.