THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, June 14, 1996 TAG: 9606140731
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: 54 lines
Just a whiz of a young reporter was talking with me the other day at the Democratic convention in Hampton when he said, abruptly, ``Do you mind?'' and reached over to straighten my coat collar.
No, of course, I didn't mind. People are always tidying me up. Anything that will help another Toulous-Lautrec is fine by me.
It brought to mind a boss on a newspaper in New York, tall, thin, effortlessly elegant.
When we crossed paths on the elevator, coming to work, he'd tighten my tie - I never want to expend more than a glance of a morning at the apparition in the mirror - or adjust a cuff, then nod.
A grand way to start the day, for me anyway.
It reminded me of Napoleon, meeting some of his battle-worn troops. One young fellow, exerting all his strength to stand straight, caught his eye.
``You're wounded!'' the general exclaimed, touching his wrist.
``Nay, sire, dead,'' the boy replied - and toppled.
My commander in New York was quite erudite; he chose words as carefully as ties; you felt better just seeing him - and it was all I could do to keep from tumbling in the floor, exclaiming, ``Nay, sire, dead!''
He'd have caught it, but most of the others in the elevator would have been aghast.
Nevertheless, ever after one regrets failing to follow through with such a kinetic conversational response.
Just the other day a colleague a third my age - everybody is young these days, the darndest thing! - was talking with me about the lure of newspapering, and I remarked it was all I could do, anyway.
Whereupon she said - being witty and always unsparing of the truth about everything, including herself: ``You could join a circus!''
I waited for the kicker.
``You already have the clothes for it,'' she said. ``You wouldn't need costuming.''
``Nor any makeup,'' I said, seeing where she was headed.
``Not with that nose,'' she agreed.
``How about a wig?''
``Nor that either,'' she shot back.
``It comes naturally,'' the clown replied.
As it did, working for the Richmond News Leader, an afternoon paper, which meant arising in a hurry in the dark and putting on odd socks, a mismatch that didn't escape sharp-eyed friends.
Before snapping a celebrity's picture, photographer Jim Netherwood would turn to me and order: ``Pull up your pants cuffs!''
Then nod, satisfied.
A year or so ago, arriving for work, I met a photographer.
``Odd shoes!'' he shouted.
Things don't change, no matter the age. by CNB