Brisk Walk And Brusque Talk (July/August 1992 | Volume: 43, Issue: 4)

Brisk Walk And Brusque Talk

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Authors: Gene Smith

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July/August 1992 | Volume 43, Issue 4

All this happened thirty and more years ago, in the late 1950s. I was a reporter on a New York paper working on what was called the lobster shift. That meant we came in at one in the morning and left at eight. Somewhere there is somebody who knows why the lobster shift was called the lobster shift, but I have never met that somebody.

One morning, around five, the night managing editor told me Harry Truman was spending the night at the Hotel Carlyle on Madison Avenue. “He always takes a morning walk around six. Go up. Maybe he’ll say something.”

“Okay.” Truman had been out of office for years. His historical ranking was very low—China lost, inconclusive Korean War, inflation, corruption, Reds in the State Department. I did not agree with the general view. I had always admired him.

In the hotel lobby I saw an Associated Press reporter known to the world as Joe Schroeder. That was not his name. Hearing me fumble around in German with somebody once, he had informed me that his real name was Josef Schenkendorff or something, but that no one could pronounce it, not even his wife, and so over the years he had become known as Joe Schroeder even though he still officially kept his name. Some years ago I saw his obituary in The New York Times . He died as he lived—Joe Schroeder.

We chatted. The elevator door opened. Former President Harry S. Truman emerged. He was beaming. We went up to him. He greeted Schroeder by name; Schroeder had covered many of these early-morning walks. He beamed at me. He was wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit. He had a cane. His thick glasses made his eyes seem enormous. I had never seen eyes made to look so gigantic. His teeth appeared to clack around in his mouth when he spoke. I had read about this happening in novels about real rubes but had never actually seen it.

We went out into the street and over to Park Avenue. It was getting light. There was a silent drizzle. There was little traffic, mostly off-duty cabs. Not infrequently one would slow down and a voice would yell, “Give ‘em hell, Harry!” Truman always waved at the driver. We came to a red light. A born New Yorker, I started to cross. Truman’s cane shot out and rapped me on the shins. I stopped. Walking behind, Schroeder bumped into me.

“We’re gonna wait till the light turns green,” Truman said. “I don’t care if you boys get wet as hens. When I go, you go. You trail after me like dogs after a bitch in heat.”

I had been born during the Hoover administration, and the only Presidents of my conscious lifetime were Roosevelt, the man at my side, and the current holder of the position, Elsenhower. Would such phraseology characterize the Hyde