Late one Saturday afternoon, a telephone on the city desk rang, and when I picked it up it was an official from the Federal Aviation Agency, calling from his office at what was then (because John F.
Hathway to do, because as the low man on the paper’s reportorial totem pole I never worked on a story significant enough to require his involvement.Īt the time, Newsday did not publish on Sundays, so as low man on the totem pole I worked Saturday afternoons and nights, because if a story came in then I could put the information in a memo and leave the actual writing to the real reporters who came in on Sunday. He was so angry to find me there that during my first weeks on the job he would refuse to acknowledge my presence in his city room. I was hired as a joke on him while he was on vacation. We were never sure if he had actually graduated from, or even attended, college, but he had a deep prejudice against graduates of prestigious universities, and during his years at Newsday had never hired one, let alone one from Princeton, as I was. He wore brown shirts with white ties, and black shirts with yellow ties. His head was shiny bald except for a monklike tonsure, and rather red- very red after he had started drinking for the day, which was at lunch. He was a character right out of “The Front Page,” a broad-shouldered man with a big stomach that looked soft but wasn’t. In 1959, when I went to work for Newsday, on Long Island, the paper had a managing editor named Alan Hathway, who was an old-time newspaperman from the nineteen-twenties. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
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