Taxi ! Taxi !!

Pete Philipps

— April 8, 1957. The date probably doesn’t mean anything to anyone alive on that date, but for me it was—and remains—hugely memorable. That was the day I started to work as a copy boy on The New York Times. The thrill of being hired by the preeminent newspaper in America is hard to describe. My mother finally had bragging rights about her first-born; my friends were impressed; and the neighbors on either side of our row house may well have concluded that I was good at something besides sitting on the porch. Best of all, I became an instant celebrity at every party I attended. 

On the one hand, being called a copy boy, the lowliest job in journalism, offended me. (Thankfully, the label has since been discarded.) I was no longer a boy, having earned a BA in economics from City College and served two years with the Army in Germany. On the other hand, working at the Times felt as if I had acquired the holy grail. And so I went about my duties in hopes that by keeping my nose to the proverbial grindstone would one day land me a job as a foreign correspondent.

I started out in the editorial department, which took up an entire floor of the old Times building on West 43^rd Street. It was there that the editorial writers had their offices. My first task every morning was to walk around with a shopping cart filled with newspapers (there were then seven dailies) and distribute them among the various offices. I made the same round throughout the day, distributing the mail, galley proofs, and the afternoon papers. I rarely got a thank you, and don’t remember ever being called by name.

After two months I was transferred to the Sunday department. Moving from the top floor to the eighth felt as though I had gone up in the world. The Sunday Department produced, among other special sections, the Magazine and the News of the Week in Review. It was headed by a notoriously tyrannical editor named Lester Markel, whom no one—not even his deputy— dared call by first name. Always nattily dressed, Mr. Markel took of his jacket only when he was on one of his frequent tirades. We all lived in constant fear, including his three secretaries.

Contrary to what I had hoped, working in the Sunday Department was more of the same—with some outlandish extras. One of my duties was to buy coffee and lunch for the staff. Fortunately, I had spent two summers waiting on tables in a children’s camp, so I had the necessary experience. I also had to run private errands, none of which were remotely related to journalism. These included purchasing a replacement guitar string for an editor’s son, and taking another editor’s nephew to the Statue of Liberty. One writer had the unmitigated chutzpah to send me downtown to pick up a “package” that turned out to be a window air conditioner. 

Another one of my more unpleasant responsibilities was to take attendance every day at 11 o’clock, and to do so surreptitiously. Those missing were usually to be found sleeping off their hangovers in some remote corner of the building. Even more demeaning, I had to hail a taxi to take Mr. Markel home whenever it rained or snowed.

It happened, most memorably, one cold and blustery Christmas Eve. I ran myself ragged, up one street and down another, but there simply were no taxis to be had. After about twenty minutes I returned to the building, drenched to the skin, expecting that by this time Mr.Markel had managed to get a taxi. No such luck. Instead, I was met by a colleague who said that Mr.Markel was “mad as hell” and still waiting in the lobby.

I resumed my hunt until I finally saw an elderly woman about to open the door of an empty taxi in front of the Port Authority building. In my desperation—and to my ever-lasting shame—I pushed her aside, got into the taxi, and gave the driver the address of the Times. Damned if I didn’t get there too late: Mr. Markel was gone.

The next business day I was called into his office. I walked in fully expecting to be fired. To my surprise, he said he had heard what had happened, asked me how much I had paid for the taxi, and reimbursed me on the spot, without a word of recrimination. Relieved though I was, until I left the Times for another job, I became a nervous wreck whenever the weather forecast predicted rain or snow.